Aphora sat at her desk, sorting through the pile of manuscripts her commanders had brought her. Her fingers rubbed circles on her forehead as she tried to ignore the headache that was swelling up quickly. It never ends.

Things had mostly gotten back to normal in the weeks after Aphora had finally dragged the truth out of Tesha. She had kept her promise to the Fey; other than warning her commanders of the affliction that threatened their fellow colonists, Aphora had otherwise kept silent about the malady, not wanting to spread panic and distrust through the community. That didn’t mean she hadn’t taken some precautions, though.

Tesha might want to believe that any Fey who began to get sick would turn themselves in, but Aphora wasn’t that naive. More than anything else, what most people wanted was to survive. The will to live was too powerful of a motivator for many to ignore, even if their lives came at the cost of others. So she set Mullu-Lim to gather a small group of watchers to keep an eye on the Fey. Just in case.

But the majority of her attention was focused on other matters. The crops had finally come in, replenishing their quickly depleting stores. In Arallû, wherever that was, they didn’t have to worry about seasons, either. A new bounty was already sprouting in the fields. The lack of light, though, was proving more troublesome than she’d expected. The Children were used to it; her elves not so much. Used to roaming free in the forests, bathed in the light of their goddess, they found the darkness suffocating.

At first, Aphora hadn’t realized how seriously the lack of regular light was affecting her people. It was definitely not her preference, but she had the age and strength to ignore the discomfort. It was until a string of suicides rocked the younger generation that she realized that if their underground colony was going to survive, they needed a solution. Fortunately, she knew exactly what they needed.

They needed a hypostatization of their own.

If only it was that easy.

Pushing away the paperwork, Aphora leaned back in her chair as she let her eyes drift to the window. It was wide open - there was no need for glass here; the temperatures remained steady year-round, warm with a touch more humidity than she would have preferred, thanks to the vast purple sea that stretched into the uncharted depths of the caverns.

I guess I can’t put it off any longer. With a yawn, she roused herself from her seat and, slipping on some clothes, headed into the hallway. A painter was set up there, surrounded by a sea of brightly colored pigments and oils, and she paused to look at their work.

The abandoned estate had come a long way in just a few short months. The broken walls and partially fallen roof were restored as good as enough - indeed, privately, Aphora felt they were better than new. The elves were simply better craftsmen than the Fey, not that she’d say that to Tesha. But that was only the bare minimum for her dwelling; her home was the center of the elven community, at least until the temple was finished, and that meant it needed to be stunning - a symbol that the life they were building here could be just as good as the life they’d enjoyed in Sapīya.

She stopped beside the artist, peeking over her shoulder. “How is it coming, Perāh?”

The painter looked up excitedly, holding her brush frozen in position on a partially completed upper torso of a man with extremely hairy forearms. “Excellent, my lady. I’m working on a mural of our war against the Satyrs, one of our most popular stories. I’m sure it will make quite an impression on our visitors.”

Aphora skillfully hid her frown. The young elf wasn’t wrong. The story of how the elves of Yammaqom and Onkodos Laos banded together to repel the satyrs when they migrated north was indeed a popular tale with the bards. But the satyrs, like the Children, were Fey, after all, even if they hadn’t lived in the same regions for millennia. She wasn’t quite sure about the wisdom of portraying this particular legend where it might be seen.

But as she gazed at the youthful enthusiasm in the maiden’s face, she bit her tongue. Who was she to squelch art? “Just make sure you keep it tasteful, Perāh - for our fellow colonists’ sake.”

Understanding blossomed in the young woman’s eyes, and she nodded vigorously. “Of course, my lady. I’ll be sure to add a scene showing the elves and satyrs working peacefully together now.”

Brushing past her, Aphora made her way to the end of the hall, pausing before she knocked on the door. “Qas̆pahti? Are you awake?”

The rapid sound of shuffling gave her her answer. “Just give me a second, momma - I’ll be right out.”

Aphora leaned against the wall, as a bemused smile flit across her lips. When Qas̆pahti had finally awoken, the child had immediately latched on to her. Originally, Aphora had just kept her close in order to mentor the young troll in magic and keep her safe, as Kas̆dael had commanded, but Qas̆pahti had seen in her savior at the village the mother figure she’d never had. Aphora wasn’t quite sure how she felt, but she hadn’t had the heart to reject the child.

A moment later, the door was thrown wide open. Blessed with the trolls’ natural strength, the child sent the door rocketing into the wall where the handle made a perfectly formed dent.

Qas̆pahti burst through the door, wrapping her arms around the elf’s waist. “I’m ready. Are we going to train now?” Her lovely lavender hair was all-askew, sticking up every which way like the quills of a porcupine, and her all-too-wrinkled dress was very clearly the same she had worn the day before.

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Chuckling to herself, Aphora tousled the girl’s hair. “Come now, child. How many times are you going to put that same dent in the wall?”

The girl glanced over at the broken plaster and her eyes widened as she took in the damage. “Oops?” She offered. But her focus snapped back to the promise of magic immediately. “Are we going to train now?”

Aphora shook her head. “Later,” she promised. “But first we’re going to visit the temple. And,” she said with mock sternness, “before we do anything else we’re going to get you cleaned up.”

Half an hour later, Qas̆pahti finally emerged from the room. The knots and tangles of her hair were straightened, and she wore a clean, linen dress much like Aphora’s.

“Much better,” Aphora smiled.

Heading to the stables, she lifted the girl up on her great stag and, hopping up herself, they set out for the temple.

The child chatted ceaselessly the entire way there. Aphora tried to pay attention, but her thoughts were consumed with the enormous task that lay ahead of her - establishing a hypostatization of the goddess that would provide the light her people craved. Fortunately, there was no need for her to do anything to keep the conversation going, aside from the occasional muttered “uh-huh” and murmur of agreement.

The Children of St. Martin already had their temples set up. Since they’d resettled the ruins of a former colony, it had been a simple enough matter to simply repair those their predecessors had built. The elves, on the other hand, had no such good fortune; there had been no temple to Selene in the ruined city and for the first few months, the more pressing needs of food and shelter had had to be attended to first. It was only now that the building had begun.

As she rode into the construction sight, she could tell how much progress had been made in a short time. After much searching for a suitable location, they’d settled on a raised plateau a few thousand feet outside the city’s walls. Its location was no problem; assuming they survived, Aphora felt sure it would not be long before the city swelled to include the temple.

The plateau was genuinely beautiful, a raised peninsula that jutted out into the lavender ocean. White, chalky bluffs rose a score or so feet above the sunless seas, offering a breathtaking view of the faintly luminescent waters that surrounded it and the many large and wondrous fish that swam beneath its crystal-clear surface.

If they possessed any earth mages, the temple would have been already constructed. But the elves had long ago come to realize that ice could be almost as useful in carving monumental blocks from their quarries and sliding them into place. Though it had been little more than a week since construction began, the foundations were already laid. There were even a few stubby pillars beginning to rise from the chiseled stone.

Torin was already there, bent low over a table with a handful of the workers, but he waved her over as soon as he saw her. “My lady, I wasn’t sure if you were coming today.” As she hopped off the stag’s back, he saw the child behind her. “Ah, and the young mistress. Have you been practicing your spells faithfully?”

The girl waved back eagerly as Aphora lifted Qas̆pahti off the giant stag. With the young Gemlirian under her aegis, none of her elves had dared to mistreat her. But she knew there were far too few who viewed her kindly. Torin, though, made a point of being friendly with the girl, which she much appreciated. It wasn’t the child’s fault, after all, that she’d had the misfortune of having a troll for a father.

Qas̆pahti rushed over to stand beside the old elf. “Yep, I’ve been practicing lots and lots. See!” Lifting her hand, she started to form a spell. Essence gushed out of her, quickly transforming into a slim, watery blade whose edges oscillated back and forth with exceptional speed. The blade lasted for about a second, before dissolving into a mass of water that landed on the elf’s shoes with a splash.

“Crap,” the girl complained. “I managed to hold it for a lot longer than that the other day!”

Torin smiled indulgently as he shook the water from his feet. “Well, you’ve clearly improved. The last time I saw that spell, it was more a dagger than a blade.”

The girl brightened immediately. “That’s true - it has gotten a lot longer. Maybe if I keep at it, I can make a blade as long as Namûtu’s girgal.” Her enthusiasm faltered as some of the workers glared at her, upset by the mention of the Gemlirian god. “Err, just a really long sword,” she amended.

Aphora patted her shoulder fondly, not wanting the child to feel bad. “Isn’t Namûtu’s girgal supposed to be a hundred feet long?”

Qas̆pahti perked up. “Yep. They say with a single blow, he took out the whole front row of the durgū army.”

Aphora hid her smile. “Well, dear, I’m not sure how practical that would be, but you can try.” The girl nodded vigorously, her jaw set in determination. “I can do it - I’m sure of it.”

Torin cut in. “So, my lady, what brings you by today?”

She glanced at the temple rising around her. “Well it seems clear the construction is going according to schedule. What about the ingredients for the offering? Were you able to track down the list I provided?”

The old elf winced. “No. Most of what we needed we have in store, and the rest I was able to get from the Children. All but two.”

Aphora suffocated a sigh. I’m not surprised. I suppose it was too much to hope for. “Which two?” she asked.

He glanced at the girl, who had wandered a few feet away, and lowered his voice. “Well, we need the hand of a you-know-what, suitably embalmed, of course.”

She nodded slowly. “I suppose I can hunt one down.”

“You should send Mullu-Lim,” Torin immediately objected. “If a Sidhe were to come against you…” he hesitated. “Your life is too valuable to risk on this.”

“No,” she replied firmly. “Mullu-Lim’s mission is critical. If the sickness emerges in the Fey, it must be stopped immediately. I will go - the chances of encountering a Sidhe are nonexistent. What was the other ingredient you couldn’t get?”

“We need to sacrifice something called a labat-ḫurru,” he admitted reluctantly.

Aphora frowned. “A what? That wasn’t on my list.”

The old man nodded. “You’re right, it wasn’t.”

“Then why add it?”

He hesitated. “While overseeing the construction of the temple the other day, I fell asleep. In my dreams, the goddess came to me and told me if our mission was to be a success, we would need to hunt one of these creatures down, somewhere in the depths of these caverns.”

Aphora stared at the elf for only a second, before nodding in acceptance. If Torin said they needed it, they needed it. It was as simple as that.

“Well then, I guess we're going hunting.”