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The rest of the Flame Tribe return to minding their own business—whatever that usually is—while Zandolph, Muirn, myself, and a handful of support cast continue our zany odyssey. The sun at our backs, we trek deeper inland through the dusty remnants of old Crulea. It's some gang we have trailing behind us. There's daft Cepheus. Grim Aquila. Big Odirrim. Auriga. Fornax. Pictor. Kalka. Young twins Haniel and Luriel. I'd describe them better if I weren't too scared to make eye contact.

“Why’s everybody in human form, anyway?” I ask as we walk.

I’d thought the place was deserted, what with the lack of giant lizards, but the locals were just being shy—and effectively blended with the landscape.

Is it a budget-saving trick? For when they’ll make the movie? Human actors are so much cheaper and faster than quality CGI these days. You can just grab random passers-by off the streets by the dozens, ask if they want to be stars, and pay them in burgers and doughnuts. There may be some casting couch time too. Then you tell everyone they’re really dragons in magic disguise—as if anyone’s going to buy that. Not even the Chinese will buy that. Or maybe they will? No need to hire a small army of concept artists either. Designing unique monsters that don’t look like ripped off from much better movies, or games, would take real time and effort. At least, it used to, before they invented machines that can plagiarize stuff with a click.

“We have twelve tribes here on this island,” old Muirn answers my question as we walk. “The Night Tribe. The Dawn Tribe. The Star Tribe. The Stone Tribe. The Land Tribe. The Metal Tribe. The Gem Tribe. The Water Tribe. The Sky Tribe. The Wind Tribe. The Storm Tribe. And, of course, then there’s us, of the Flame.”

“Cool. Which means what?”

“If we were all in our own shapes, there wouldn’t be a spot of land left visible.”

“Oh.”

A fairly good point.

“It is rather bothersome, not being able to turn your head in any direction without someone else staring there back at you. This squirrel form—”

“—Human form,” I correct Muirn by reflex.

“Was that what they were called? Anyway. Maintaining the human form is a good way to use up excess mana, while giving everybody room to breathe. So we have agreed to only show our true selves in a dire need.”

Okay, I’ll buy it. Saves me a lot of pages too.

“And has there been anyone who stayed human so long they forgot how to change back?” I ask innocently.

Ahead of me, Zandolph’s stride somewhat stiffens.

Next to me, Muirn's face twists into a very wry smile as he quickly shakes his head.

“No, no. Of course not. How could anyone forget how their own face looks? That would be rubbish. I've known no one so daft or incompetent in our long history. It is unthinkable. Hah!”

I shrug. “I don’t know, accidents can happen, even to the best of us. There come days, when we all have trouble performing as expected, especially when we need it most. The pressure does funny things to you. Upstairs and downstairs.”

Muirn laughs. “That wouldn’t be an accident anymore. One would have to try very hard to get it wrong.”

“You'd have to be braindead!” Odirrim adds from the back with a hearty chortle.

Aquila: “If I ever met such a buffoon, I’d never let them forget it.”

And Cepheus: “There'd be no end to all the laughter!”

“The whole island would know before the day's end.”

“Not knowing how to turn back—hahaha!”

“Imagine being stuck looking like a squirrel forever!”

“My worst nightmare!”

“Hahaha!”

“Hahaha!”

Zandolph stops in her tracks, spins around and explodes in a mushroom cloud of rage.

“—SILENCE!”

The line of walkers reflexively ducks low as a broad wave of lively fire and heat sweeps over our heads. Grinding her teeth, she then turns forward again and strides angrily down the dune side.

I pat my head. Man, I think my cowlick got singed.

“W-what got her upset…?” Muirn whispers.

“Must be that time of the month,” I cover for her.

Don't want to wake the dragon.

The caravan goes on. We cross a cozy, dried up salt lake that looks like a patch of winter in the middle of the summer heat, crystallized sodium sticking up from the soil in thick, frost-white clusters. We pass by an old quarry, where the cruleans cut out ginormous blocks of quartz-rich stone to make their houses. Many ready-for-use building blocks have been left behind, and time has sculpted them from cubes to incredibly smooth spheres that balance on startlingly narrow legs. We go around a deep crater punched between the dunes, where spacetime has been fractured, gravity locationally imbalanced, and big chunks of earth levitate around, sporadically going “zap-zap”. I don't even want to know what happened there.

In another couple of hours of dusty marching, the day has turned to evening, the sun's glare cools, and we finally reach our grand destination.

What's that? Do you even need to ask?

You should've realized this without my telling, but before anything else, I need to confirm the status of the local Heaven’s Pillar. So that’s where I asked the gang to bring me. “Confirm the status”—my god, who the actual non-Klingon fuck says lines like that? But it’s what I came all this way to do, so that’s what I’ll do.

The range of basalt mountains throws a quick, round turn here, with a neat vale nestled under the curve. A series of stumpy, rust-brown mesas rises along the outer edge of the vale, and we hike up to the summit of one for a better overview of the land.

On the side, Muirn gives me a tour guide’s introduction in a booming voice.

“Should all the Heaven’s Pillars fall, then our world itself will be lost. So we were told by Iraam, our Maker, the last time we saw him. Upon their departure, the Old Gods bestowed upon us this lofty duty, to watch over the tower of Dali-thu-Dalinnéa; to see that even if all else fails, this one beacon of hope never will. Such was to be our penance. Our way to make up for the mistakes of the First Brood, and earn back our rightful place among the created.”

“Wow.” I make sure to act impressed, to be polite.

Muirn has clearly practiced this speech a lot. No stammering. He knows exactly which parts to dramatize.

He leans over and brings his voice down. “Does it sound too pretentious, 'beacon of hope'?”

“No, no. It's just right. It's got to be a bit hammy.”

“Alright.”

He resumes again, louder,

“The duty to watch over the tower belongs to the strongest of the twelve tribes. Every year, we hold a great tournament, where the representatives of each tribe battle it out for the honor and privilege to oversee the Heaven's Pillar. Without fail, untiring, we have carried out our heavenly mission to this very day, never counting days, tears, or rivulets of blood.”

“Really, every year?” I interrupt. “Why? You're immortal, right? Wouldn't like, once every ten years be often enough?”

Muirn's expression turns awkward before he answers:

“...But then what would we do those nine other years?”

“...You don't get much in terms of entertainment here, do you?”

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

“We have a sandcastle tournament too!” Cepheus chimes in. “Who builds the prettiest.”

“Who can catch the biggest fish tournament,” Odirrim adds.

“Who spots the weirdest cloud tournament.”

“Tug of war tournament.”

“Hide and seek tournament!”

“Okay, okay!” I wave my hands to silence the support cast. “We were in the middle of a story here.”

Another word and I'm going to cry.

Muirn continues, his voice full of pride. “I am pleased to tell you that we Flame Tribe have won the watch duty altogether 14,389 times thus far. That is more victories for us than all the other tribes put together.”

“Gosh. The Pillars appeared about 17,000 years ago, right?” I ask to check. “I'm surprised the other tribes managed to win at all, with a record that overwhelming.”

The pride vanishes from Muirn's look. “Well, after our first 14,389 victories, a rule was made to prohibit lord Zandolph's participation. After that, we haven't won even once.”

“...”

So the gang just got carried hard.

“A pity!” the old dragon says. “Unlike the other tribes, we Flames have taken the task with the seriousness and commitment it commands. The others are more interested in the games than their role as guardians. They think that as long as they're on the same island as the tower, that counts as keeping watch! Ha. The young punks these days—no backbone. No principles.”

“Come on, grandpa,” Haniel protests from the back. “You have to admit standing there for a whole year like we do is really boring!”

“We should at least be allowed to move,” Luriel adds.

“They're calling us the Dunce Tribe when Zandolph's not there to hear.”

It's from one extreme to the other with these guys. Wait, they did that for 14,389 years!? Never before has winning seemed more like a loss.

“It is a duty, and a privilege,” Muirn says. “It is not meant to be fun.”

Are we there yet?

“Rest assured,” Muirn tells me. “The Night Tribe may have the watch duty this year, and be less than eager for it, but the world shall be safe. All the twelve tribes will see to it that this duty does not go unattended for a day. Behold! There it stands; the Heaven’s Pillar of Dali-thú-Dalinnéa! Tall and magnificent, as the day it was made.”

We stop on the edge of the flat top mesa and raise our gazes across the open land.

A slim canyon crosses the windswept bottom of the vale at our feet, trailing from the mountains in the left to the desert in the right. It may have been a river back in the day, but no water can be seen now. Another abandoned town has been assembled around that trailing gap. Shielded by the low ridge, the cleanly arranged city blocks, town squares, avenues, and tall mansions have kept their outlines a little better than elsewhere on the island. As if those homes aren’t really gone for good, but only veiled under a big cloth, waiting for the good days to come back with a new buyer. A bit of dusting is all they take for life to resume, though I know that's only my imagination.

On the far side of the basin, nestled by the rough mountains, I see something completely different.

An unreal structure that dwarfs the city under it.

Three grand rectangular forms join together in the middle in a steep rise, sporting a sheen closer to metal than stone. But whatever it's made of, it's nothing that exists naturally on this planet. The fangs of erosion have left no mark on it. Dust has failed to stick. The elements stand powerless before that upright, smooth form.

A magnificent tower that couldn't be produced by the pen of human or crulean architects. Something no worldly mind could conceive. An eternal testament to us lower lifeforms of the incomprehensible works of gods. Even in their absence, they flaunt their supremacy in our faces, like saying, “do better if you can”. It is every bit the wonder I imagined. It's beautiful. Powerful. Breath-taking and portending. Staggering in its...height...?

My thoughts scatter and run away from me, unfinished, leaving empty and dumb.

Truthfully, it's not exactly what I imagined.

There's something a bit off.

For a minute, I stare at the thing, trying to make sense of what I’m looking at, before I’m forced to address the so-called guardians with an unwilling question.

“...Uh, guys. Why’s it broken?”

Yes. It’s busted. There’s no way around it. The titanic tower ends in an uneven, distinctly fractured crown well before the peaks of the short mountains behind it. The rest of the structure lies smashed across the vale and the ruined town in disconnected segments, still enormous on their own, but empty and cold and without purpose. The dried, shed skin of a snake.

“...No,” Muirn answers. “No, it’s not? That is how it is.”

The other dragons nod along. “Always was.”

“Always has been.”

I turn back to them, unable to hide my annoyance.

“Right as rain, huh? Guys, just how fucking stupid do you think I am? No, I’m pretty sure the legends describe the thing as ‘reaching the heavens’. That plays a rather big part in why they call it ‘Heaven’s Pillar’! Absolutely nowhere does it say, ‘reaches your groin if you bend knees’! What the hell happened?”

There’s a moment of very awkward silence and staring at toes.

“...Odirrim fell on it,” Muirn then fesses up.

“It was an accident!” the huge fatso in the back argues.

Who the hell breaks a tower of the gods “by accident”? Dragons!

The longer I spend on this island, the clearer I begin to see just how badly the gods fucked up when they made these guys.

“Why, an accident!” I repeat, not hiding it's scarcasm. “That makes it all right then, eh! Did you also forget the part about how our world ends if we lose all of them!? Sweet Mary’s tits! The Gods gave you one job, and you make 9/11 of it? And then you have the sheer gall to pretend like nothing’s wrong too? What happened to backbone and principles!? What is wrong with you?”

“The Makers never specified the Pillar must be in one piece to be protected,” Muirn argues. “It is all still there. Just...not in its original orientation.”

“But is it truly broken,” Cepheus argues, “if no observer is there to witness it and affirm the reality of its inherent condition? As long as we avert our eyes, it will remain in a juxtaposed quantum state of being broken and not-broken at once. Which is as good as half a whole, isn't it?”

That is not the right way to use the Formula of Wisdom!

“It'll stay whole in everyone's minds,” Odirrim poses, staring at me. “If nobody else finds out. If nobody tells them. If you don’t go home.”

“Um, did the big guy just throw a blatant death threat in my face?”

“No?” Odirrim denies with an innocent smile.

“No?”

Why did you intone it like a question?

“...I meant, you might have so much fun with us, you simply don’t want to leave.”

Fat chance.

This subject is starting to seem bad for my health, so let’s leave it at that.

I breathe out a very heavy sigh, then crouch to search through my bag, to bring out the gadget the geeks at home developed to measure the energy flow of the Pillars. Then I scan the ruins with it and feel very stupid, not smart, waving around what looks like an old Motorola with an antenna.

Thankfully we get results. There’s a measurable talionic flow towards the tower and an unfocused but clear reading going up to the sky too. My eyes tell the same story. Like in Nikéa, the mechanism is still doing its job as well as it can, despite the unwarranted abuse. The mystery field is working. The planet—maybe okay. Still green.

I still don’t know how Yaoldabath plans to get his mitts on the core, but it looks like I got here first. There's still hope. There are cards to play. A chance to save what's left to save from the brink of a total catastrophe.

Maybe we were too paranoid? How could one wizard possibly go through twelve tribes of overpowered monsters that are borderline immune to magic, who already know him, and wholeheartedly hate his guts? I’m not seeing it. He'd be an idiot to show his mug anywhere near the island.

Still, we should think up some measures to make the task even harder for him. Ways to hamper the use magic in the tower's vicinity? Boundary fields? No, he'd work around those. Maybe bury the remains under a landslide? We could do that, if I have the wyrms lend me a hand. But that's for another day. After all this sand and walking today, I want a bath.

“Oh well, the core’s still where it should be,” I report to the others and put the scanner away.

“Of course, it is,” Muirn says. “Who could take it? No outsiders ever come here. The rest of the world seems to have fallen under this strange misconception that we indiscriminately kill and eat them here.”

“Does that mean you don't indiscriminately kill and eat people? Because I still vividly remember how you threatened to feed me to the fish before.”

“Yes,” Muirn solemnly answers. “The fish kill and eat you. Not us.”

“We just help the fish a little,” Auriga adds.

“We're very careful with our diet!”

“There's not enough protein in your body,” Odirrim concurs with a smile. “But a shark eats you. Then a bigger shark eats that shark. And an even bigger shark eats that shark. Then we get that shark and have a feast. All thanks to you. The circle of life.”

“Can you not make my violent death sound like an episode of Blue Planet?”

“They're only fooling with you,” Zandolph interjects, annoyed by our endless back-and-forth. “We swore off killing anything that talks after...After we ended up here.”

Look who's talking.

“Elves are special,” she adds grimly, as if having heard my thoughts. “And of course we will defend ourselves if strangers come to us with vile intentions. As anyone would.”

“Yes, yes, we rather welcome non-elf guests these days,” Muirn picks up with a more casual air. “The sight of new faces is most refreshing. Alas, we hardly ever get a lost sailor nowadays. In fact, you are the first visitor we’ve had so far in the current cycle—well, the second visitor. After the other person.”

Zandolph and I turn slowly at the geezer, unsure if we just heard him right.

“What other person...?”