Even so far away, the creature loomed over her, its two long, thin legs forming the backbone of its towering five-meter frame, nearly three-fifths of its entire height. The legs led to a broad, muscular torso, armoured ribs confusing the line between endo and exoskeletal as they weaved in and out of its chest. It sported many spindling arms—six sprouting from its right side and the seventh from its left. One arm clasped a massive black scythe, nearly as tall as the creature itself; the blade ended in an even longer red whip that writhed ominously in the air, almost as if with life. Another arm gingerly carried a simple grey bell, engraved with the number four. Three more arms tenderly cradled a large red egg with a fourth fondly stroking the unborn thing. Its left arm rested casually on the throne's armrest

The creature was draped in a gown of silver silk, tight at the neck and open at the chest until turning to a full dress whose fabric flowed like liquid moonlight, pooling at its hoofed feet. From the top of its body, a long serpentine neck arched upward to support a giant's skull—three black, empty eye sockets glaring out from a jagged, elongated snout lined with thick, grinding molars: this was the Mokoi Khan. The ruler known as the greatest existence of the mokoi, a being of absolute power, absolute judgment. A guide that would cast light on the murky future, whose vision would unite the fractured remnants of its people and forge them into an empire capable of ruling the world. In the presence of the Khan, air grew heavy, suffused with the weight of destiny.

This was how most thought of the Khan, as a Khan. Arete knew better; it was not right to call this creature the Mokoi Khan; it was more akin to the mokoi itself. Its existence was the mokoi, and the mokoi, in turn, were it. The Khan was woven into the very fabric of the entire continent, a presence so absolute it completed the minds and bodies of every living thing. Deeply emulsed by the soul sea, it was everywhere, everyone. Even Arete, in this moment, could feel the Khan exerting itself within her thoughts, feel it at the tip of her fingers, pumping through her heart, brushing against her lips. A tapestry of grey matter dreams. She looked at herself on the throne, at the Mokoi Khan.

The Mokoi Khan spoke. She spoke, "Stand."

That word, as if it was a declaration of the future, not conversational, but definitional, guided her body up.

The Mokoi Khan spoke. She spoke, "Come here, Arete."

Every syllable stung; it crawled through her brain, toying and dancing upon her consciousness. It seemed as if the words themselves were the key to motion, pulling her, shaping her. She was like a puppet who followed the command of their strings.

She walked over until she was next to the throne. She stood so close, that her exposed bosom was practically pressed against the creature's left arm. She stood, and it still towered over her while sat upon its throne. He locked her gaze on the being before her, but it remained focused, not on her, but on the egg it held so carefully within its arms. The skull was flat and unmoving; it was a skull with no muscle or flesh to emote, yet still, it smiled. Without a word, it handed the egg to Arete, who received it with the utmost reverence, cradling it as though it were the most fragile of treasures.

She found it nearly impossible to disentangle her own thoughts about the egg. The Khan's emotions were so overwhelming, so singular on the object, that she could clearly feel it infecting her own mind. And yet, despite the Khan's influence, she had spent decades with the egg, and perhaps, even without the Khan's influence, she would still love it.

The Mokoi Khan spoke. She spoke, "Like that egg, you are something of the utmost importance to me."

The Khan did not even acknowledge her military report; the reason was obvious. It had already known everything. The report was merely a point of show for the populace, to placate their minds in the comfort that the Khan was actively participating in the war, to veil the lie that thoughts need be turned to words in its presence. They were unaware of how entrenched the Khan's influence truly was. The real purpose of the meeting would soon be revealed.

The Mokoi Khan spoke. She spoke, "I want to tell you to stay here with the egg. I want to say that your work is over, that you can retire and stay under the protection of my amalgamation. But you are the key to winning this whole war; I have more that I need from you."

The Khan paused as a sadness washed over its hulking body. It took one of its free right arms and brushed it against Arete's soft cheek. Even through its expressionless skull, it was clear to see the turmoil swimming through the Khan's mind. It must have spent many hours trying to find any other possible way to achieve its desires, but in the end, it did not choose a different way.

The Mokoi Khan spoke. She did not speak, "I need the Surrogate platoon to infiltrate within the nobility of Bemean. I want you personally to get close to the Duke of Payola. I want the Duke to listen to you. I want you to infect him, your tongue will be his tendons, your fist his blade, your heart his toxin. Drag his soul into my ocean. Make it hollow so his body is but a suit for you to wear. Can I ask this of you?" The Khan asked, deeply sorrowful as if its questions were not its own demands, as if her answers could possibly be her own.

Her mouth moved without her mind and she remained expressionless. Another task, another puppet. More strings tied around her fingers just to be funnelled towards that Khan. She was the craftsman who built the dolls but was denied the right to be puppeteer. Instead she was but another doll.

The Khan's hand gingerly stroked her soft blond hair. Its empty eye sockets locked with her eyes. "I am sorry that I burden you with so much, but once we do what must be done for the sake of all the mokoi, I promise that the Duke will bleed an unending river which shall drown his children for eternity."

The Khan shifted, its head lowering until it rested against her bosom. Arete did not respond to the action, though awareness flooded her, awareness of a cold breeze, awareness of a nude form. She wished, fleetingly, so fleetingly, that she could wish to dress. At least, she told herself, it was the breeze that made her think this.

The Mokoi Khan spoke once again. She spoke, "The day will come where the children will no longer need you to stop for them. The day will come when the mokoi can be free and healthy."

They stood like that for what seemed an eternity, unmoving. Arete had been planted like a tree. She wasn't even sure if the Khan was aware of the power it wielded in that silence—how it anchored itself to those around it, subtly, relentlessly. What was once a final weapon to push upon the dire and force the immediate had slowly, over the years, become a casual and near unconscious manipulation.

Perhaps the Khan was aware; maybe the Khan had come to terms with being the only being alive. Maybe it understood itself as a soul with many bodies and merely entertained the concept of individuality. Arete understood firsthand from both directions the intoxicating power of strings and the futility once one had been strung.

She had no plans of being someone else. Many of the Khan's strings had to flow through her before they translated to the Khan. She had noticed of late that some of those strings, once tethered firmly, seemed to stray, wandering to an unknown source. If she could find that source, perhaps she could uncover the key to unbinding herself.

Arete's inner thoughts were then interrupted by the intrusion of two more beings in the room.

The Khan was up in an instant, its hulking form leaping between Arete and the intruders. With a shake of its hand, the Khan rang the bell inscribed with the number four. It let out the faintest chime, the wave of sound visible through how it warped the reality around it. The path which the sound travelled was left irrevocably damaged, reality itself twisted into indecipherable knots.

The sound collided against the two arrivals. There was no effect. The warped space between the Khan and its enemies slowly untwisted back to normal after a brief pause. The Khan then noticed who the intruders were and dropped its poised arm.

"Ardor I didn't expect you to be such a sentimental. A woman, a child, and is that bell a trophy?" The intruder's voice rang out, full of mocking laughter, as she clutched her stomach in mirth. Arete looked at the two intruders. One was a tall, striking woman who looked not quite human, but certainly not mokoi. Her hair, skin, dress, and wide-brimmed hat were all an unnerving, flawless white as if totally drained of colour.

Yet it was her eyes that drew Arete's attention—her right, a clouded, unsettling red, appeared unfocused, while the right, where a white eyepatch lay flipped up, was a vivid pink eye with four unnerving pupils. The pink eye seemed alien to her, a borrowed thing in need of returning.

The other intruder was an old man, elbow crooked with the white woman's for support. The man had two sparkling blue eyes and a yellow headband that ran across his forehead.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

The Mokoi Khan spoke. The white woman spoke, "I have never seen a magical focus as powerful as this bell. It has value as a tool; I care not for trophies, especially those of human-organized events. And this is not my woman."

The white woman nodded, a look of understanding crossing her face. While all mokoi would reverently regard the Khan as an untouchable prophet or parent of the realm, this white woman regarded it with an air of casual disapproval, as if looking at a misbehaving child. The white woman smiled mischievously. "Yes, she too has value as a tool."

Neither the Khan nor Arete responded. Arete found herself strangely uplifted by the white woman's words, despite their clear insult. To be called a tool—though undeniably negative in connotation—was, in some twisted way, a form of recognition.

The white woman continued, her voice dripping with amusement. "So how has my little pet project been doing? I've noticed you've been quite busy since I let you run free from your prison."

The Mokoi Khan spoke. The white woman spoke, "I am merely finishing what I had started nearly two thousand years ago." The Khan heavily emphasized the time, as though the spans of centuries declared its superiority over the white woman. The white woman contemplated for a few moments. A tense silence hung as the white woman paused to consider the Khan's words.

She then moved past the Mokoi Khan, her steps measured and deliberate, and approached Arete. With a careless gesture, she reached out and took the egg, cradling it with a single hand, her grip almost dismissive.

"Is that your answer, Ardor?" The white woman asked, her voice laced with boredom as she idly rolled the egg around in her hands. Arete's first instinct was to stop the woman from touching the egg, to rip it from her hands, but the Khan’s iron grip on her mind held her in place. Any movement could provoke a deadly consequence. This tug on her string felt like the first in a long time that had been truly in her best interest. But even as that thought flickered in her mind, a deep, palpable fear began to settle over her—a fear so intense it almost shattered the Khan’s hold, threatening to break the invisible threads that bound her.

Ardor seemed concerned to see that egg so carelessly shaken about by the white woman, but Ardor did not act.

The white woman spoke. The Khan did not speak, "Even after all I have done for you, this is what you amount to? This is how you choose to answer my question?" She let the egg slip out of her hand, only barely catching it with the other. She heaved a deep sigh, then shrugged, "I don't like it, but I'll accept it. There is merit in simplicity after all. As thanks for your answer I will give you something."

The white woman turned to face the Khan. She lifted her hand balancing the crimson egg upon her palm. A crack suddenly snapped into existence, and the imprint of a shadowed hand appeared, pushing against its inner confines. Ardor moved swiftly, rushing to the white woman's side. With a fluid motion, it dropped everything, and all seven arms enveloped the egg, cradling it with tender reverence. The Khan's gaze remained fixed on the shadow working inside the egg with a blend of concern and boundless love.

The white woman spoke. "With this, we are no longer bound together; I am concluding our contract. Ardor…" The white woman stopped in the middle of her sentence, there seemed to have been the slightest hesitation, but it was rapidly suppressed, she continued. "We will leave you with your daughter. Have this tool guide us to a room, the two of us plan on staying the night."

The Khan did not respond but Arete could feel the tug of the strings in her mind imploring her to show the guests out. Arete then guided the two strangers out of the throne room and led them through the castle. Arete had to stop by an office to procure two keys for the guest rooms they would be receiving. She then led the two to their first room.

It was a large room with a single poster bed; a gigantic wardrobe stood in a corner of the room, and in the other corner, there was a long iron desk that hugged the curve of the corner. The two strangers both entered the room before Arete even managed to introduce it to them.

The white woman cusped the old man's cheeks and drew him close until their faces pressed against each other. The white woman spoke through gritted teeth, clearly in great pain. "Thank you, I needed that."

The two pulled away from each other and the white woman flipped her white eyepatch down so that only her one clouded red eye could be seen. Meanwhile, the old man adjusted the yellow headband on his head as a little blood leaked down from it. As if nothing had happened the two immediately made themselves comfortable. The white woman flopped down on the large soft poster bed, and the old man slowly limped over to a chair situated next to the desk. He spun the chair so that it faced into the room and sat on it. He pulled out a thick booklet and quill and opened to a page.

The man waited with his pen at the ready. The white woman stared blankly at the curtained ceiling, "Is your back alright? Sometimes, if you get an annoying weight on your chest, your back has to make up for it."

The old man began to scribble into his book. Arete stood there, unsure of what to do. She assumed the white woman was speaking to the old man, but leaving the room in the middle of their conversation would be disrespectful. She remained rooted to the spot, her gaze flickering between them, unsure whether she was expected to stay or if her presence was merely an afterthought.

The white woman continued speaking. "I understand that. I get quite the back aches myself you know?" The white woman sat upright on the bed and gestured to her chest while laughing. "By the way, I was curious. Do you always dress like that?"

As the white woman continued speaking, Arete’s uncertainty grew steadily, but now, she was sure the words were meant for her. She glanced down at her naked body, her thoughts turning to the question the woman had posed. As her eyes traced her own skin, she noticed something unexpected—a deep scratch running across her bosom, red streaks trailing down to her stomach. She wasn’t sure when it had happened, but the jagged mark seemed to have appeared from nowhere. Perhaps it was from one of the sharp bones protruding from the Khan's head, though the memory felt distant and unclear.

"Don't think so deeply about it, it was just a joke. You almost have to feel bad for Ardor don't you?" The white woman jumped from varying topics as if continuing to talk of Arete's dress was never of any interest. The white woman slumped down and supported her head with a tired arm.

After a moment of silence, she spoke again, her voice low but deliberate. "Do you think Ardor will be happy at the end?" This time, the question was not addressed at Arete. The old man paused, his quill hovering over the page, and slowly lifted his gaze to meet the white woman’s. He adjusted the yellow headband on his forehead. here was no further exchange between them; he simply returned to his booklet, resuming his writing.

The white woman moved her gaze back towards Arete. "You look awfully cold my child. It seems that Ardor really works you to the bone, huh? What a meanie. I wonder if you would give me a different answer?"

Arete had no idea of what the white woman was speaking about. She spoke of the Khan in an extremely familiar manner though. Arete didn't think that she heard the Khan's first name throughout her whole life as many times as she heard it from this white woman. It was unsettling, this casualness, this ease with which the white woman seemed to navigate the realm of the Khan. Arete finally braved to ask. "Answer what?"

The white woman’s grin spread into a cheeky, almost mischievous smile as Arete’s question hung in the air. That smile sent a chill down Arete's spine. "A parent is stronger than a Khan don't you think?" The woman mused, her tone light, "And when you can only be one, it's best to be none, I would say." She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly, calculations clearly running through the mysterious woman's mind. "Plus, I think you could sit much more comfortably on that throne."

A primal panic surged through Arete, her breath catching in her throat. This woman was speaking of treason right where the Mokoi Khan could hear. Yet, as the thought struck her, she paused, a cold realization settling over her. She could not sense any of the Khan within her. She could not feel any of those strings. Arete turned her gaze back to the white woman, a flicker of something else igniting within her. She studied her with a newfound intensity, her mind racing as the truth began to unfurl. She had found the source. This woman—the one who seemed to stand so casually in the Khan's shadow—was the key to her freedom.

The white woman's voice oozed with feigned concern, her words carefully measured, as if speaking of something deeply troubling. "That annoying bridge separating the wealthy nobles from the rest of the mokoi is such an eyesore. I bet that thing is driving many of them mad. I would not be surprised if civil unrest, improperly nurtured, eventually reached a boiling point. But if that happened in four years, well, that would be really bad. A distraction like that could allow an invading human force to sneak a wide-eyed little saviour right into the Abyss and kill the Khan." That would be a truly awful thing wouldn't it?" Her words hung in the air, too calm for the gravity of what she was suggesting. "That would be truly awful, wouldn't it?"

A wide, self-satisfied grin stretched across the white woman's features, one so unsettlingly pleased that it sent a shiver through Arete. This woman was terrifying, but… "I'm not asking anything of you. You are but a key that opens a door. I simply ask you to think of what door you open."

She paused for a beat, watching Arete closely. "I, too, am a key; take the time to ponder over which door I open."

Arete placed her soft hand over her stomach, delicately scraping off the dried blood with her long, manicured nails as her mind raced. For a moment, she stood there, allowing the weight of the situation to settle into her bones. Then, with a quiet resolve, she walked over to the wardrobe. Her hand wrapped around the handle. It was warm. She opened the wardrobe. A series of empty hangers were strung along a crossbar at the top of the wardrobe. At the end, a single hanger carried a clean house coat.

Arete traced her hand down the fabric, it was soft. She twisted it between her fingers; it was thick, woollen. It was warm. She unhooked the clothes and draped the housecoat over her body.

Turning back to face the White Witch, she gave a soft, almost imperceptible sigh. "It would be horrible if all those things happened in four years’ time," she said, her voice steady but tinged with a quiet seriousness. "I'm sure many would consider the year 3984 the darkest year for mokoi-kind if that happened." Arete solemnly shook her head, her mind never more clear, " I'm sorry, Ms., I don't think I introduced myself to you. I am Arete, co-leader of the…. mokoi surrogate revolutionary army."

She stuck her hand out towards the white woman. The woman smiled, "I am the White Witch, co-leader of the mokoi surrogate revolutionary army."

The White Witch took Arete's hand.