Dawn-Son. Harlot-Son. The Scarred Warrior. Wellworn. What did all those names mean? Was Dawn the name of a harlot? Was Wellworn an illegitimate child? ‘Scarred Warrior’ was pretty obvious, but Keon didn’t have time to dwell on the rest. His spine was about to snap. He was leaning back, marvelling at the tight knit branches holding up the crown of the giant dragonblood tree. Over the edges, waterfalls tumbled towards the surface, rushing into rivers that wound their way between the roots. He circled round slowly trying to take it all in, the branches spinning above him like a carousel. He chuckled and shook his head, then looked over at an equally enamoured Asya.

“You ever seen anything like this?” he called.

“I’ve never even left the walls!” she gushed.

“Keon Wesley…Asya Koyun!”

Wellworn stood in the midst of one of the rivers, the Millionth and Fifth standing in a line beside him. Keon and Asya glanced at each other in bewildered wonder.

“I swear we never told you our full names,” said Keon.

“You didn’t,” Wellworn replied, “But I know them all the same.”

He gestured to the running waters.

“This,” he said, “is the last chance you have to turn back.”

Keon shrugged a scoff.

“You said it yourself. Where else can we go?”

Wellworn gave a slight bow, “Well said.”

“So then, you already know what I’m gonna do,” said Keon, glancing at Asya. “I have to help my dad.”

Asya met his look, understanding swirling in her ashen eyes. Resolute, she squared her shoulders and nodded at Wellworn.

“And I have to help my family. It’s why I’m here.”

“Very well,” said Wellworn.

With an outstretched arm, he gestured for them to step into the river with him and the others. They took a spot between him and Avana.

Keon looked around as though trying to track a bee buzzing around his head.

“So, uh…what are we…?”

“We’re going up,” said Wellworn with a grin.

Keon glanced at the outer fringes of the treetop.

“How…?” he began.

“Avana?” nodded Wellworn.

She scrawled something on a sliver of parchment then held it up to the falling waters. Jonas and Zahara did the same, the others grabbing their free hands.

“I suggest you hold on,” said Wellworn, clasping Asya’s hand.

She grabbed Keon’s and nodded. He reluctantly gripped Avana’s.

Suddenly, all the air was sucked deep into his belly as he was wrenched upwards. They were soaring agonisingly fast. It felt as though his stomach would hit the soles of his feet. His cheeks flapped like wings in the wind. Spray from the waterfalls splashed across his face; and yet, the water seemed to flow around them like a gap in a zipper. He wanted to look down but feared the velocity would snap his head clean off his body. As they neared the crown, he clasped his eyes shut. All of a sudden, it felt like an elevator slowing to a stop. He opened his eyes and they peeled over the edge of the dragonblood tree, landing in the midst of a flowing river.

He buckled forward, his legs quickly turning to jelly. Glancing around, he saw that the waters of the river were parting and flowing around them, leaving a dry riverbed. Following their path back behind him, he watched them converge and tumble over the edge into a misty oblivion. They were high in the sky, basking in the light of Zaphon. Then he turned round.

They were standing by the slopes of an island in the sky. Clustered across the emerald dome were forests, rivers and rolling green hills. Lakes, rocky peaks, and fruit-filled glades. As his eyes traced the incline of the island up towards its tip, he saw that what looked like a mountain was actually a city. In the golden blaze of daylight, its silky-smooth limestone walls emitted a hazy glow. The city seemed to wind its way around a densely forested peak that blossomed out into a tall, wild tree at the top.

And there were people! Hundreds of them. He’d begun to think there weren’t any other Torchbearers in the whole of Underland! But here they were, decked in garments of various shapes, colours and flavours, a kaleidoscopic multitude. What they all had in common was the shimmering insignia of the King, whether on their backs, on their fronts, as patches on their shoulders or broaches on their cloaks.

Amidst this diversity of peoples, a distinct majority stood out. They wore wide, white hoods. In place of shawls were cream-coloured cloaks pinned at the collar with golden broaches bearing the seal of the King. The cloaks hung over one shoulder down to the knees, exposing their short-sleeved, scaled armour jackets, snow-white kaftans, and tassels. They all wore the same tassels as Shem.

Wellworn helped him shakily to his unstable feet, his throat dry as baked pottery.

“Where are we?” he rasped.

“This is the Lampstand of Ir-Salem. The Eastern Monument,” said Wellworn. He nodded to Dawit who rushed over with a freshly filled canteen.

Keon knocked it back ravenously, spilling water down the corners of his mouth. Slurping to a stop, he wiped his face and gaped at the new world swirling around him.

“Lampstand…We’re on top of the tree?”

His eyes found Asya’s, glistening as they took it all in, alive with wonder.

“Are they all like this?” he said, turning to Wellworn.

“Well,” said Wellworn with a glint in his eye, “Not quite like this one. But there are Torchbearer Encampments, similar to this, on top of every dragonblood tree.”

Keon finally pushed himself to his feet. To think, they’d passed hundreds of these trees on their travels, and all of them had Torchbearer cities on them! Then he blinked in contemplation.

“Wait…so those seven ridges we saw…those were Torchbearer Encampments?”

Wellworn nodded, solemn.

“And now they belong to Moonlamps,” Keon glanced in Asya’s direction. “What are they for?”

“Encampments are where we dwell when we’re not roaming the Lowlands; high above the influence of the Morningstars. They’re where we train, where we learn, and from whence we depart to carry out the King’s commands,” said Wellworn.

Asya gaped, first at Keon then back at Wellworn.

“We were always told Torchbearers had no outposts,” she said.

Wellworn smiled.

“There is much about us the Masabih do not know.”

He gestured for them to step out of the river onto the bank. Dawit offered Asya a hand whilst Shem helped Keon out.

“There are lodgings for all of you in the city,” said Wellworn. “You should know your way around by now. Keon and Asya, you will accompany me to the peak.”

Keon’s eyes squinted as he looked up towards the tree at the island’s tip. He turned back to try and catch Zahara. She was lingering at the back of the group, watching him go. He couldn’t quite place the expression on her face. Was that concern? Disappointment? Whatever it was, she gave him a weak smile and the smallest of waves. He returned the gesture.

* * *

As they approached the city, Keon saw that it was walled. Not a high wall, mind you. You could easily climb over it. Seemed like it was there more for decoration than defence. Who on earth or Underland would try and get up there and attack them anyway? The Moonlamps could use those flying carpets of theirs, but there was no telling whether they were capable of reaching that kind of altitude.

Embedded in the wall were three circular gates. From the midst of the middle gate flowed the same river they’d arrived on, each side bordered by a long, paved street lined with fruit trees. He traced the river with his eyes. As the streets climbed the slopes of the island, ascending in steps, so did the river; both disappearing into the forest near the tip. The city was divided into layers that rose up the island in concentric circles.

As they neared the gates, Keon noticed names engraved at the top of each gate.

Binyamin – Menashsheh – Yoseph

The smattering of people they’d seen on the way in seemed to swell in number once they reached the city. Every time one of them passed by Wellworn, they would salute with a palm to the chest and bow like Jonas would. They would see Keon, nod, and smile—then their eyes would fall on Asya. Some grew wide with wonder; others narrowed with suspicion. She looked as if she’d expected it, but it still stung, nonetheless. He’d never seen her walk with her head hung low before, as though she were trying to shrink beneath her hood. A stern look from Wellworn quickly averted their apologetic gazes, for which Keon was thankful. He wasn’t so bad after all.

It took a while, but they finally made it to the peak. It was like stepping into another hemisphere. The air suddenly grew hot and humid. Golden light pierced the canopy casting an ethereal glow across the ground. They’d stepped into a rainforest, one that had been perfectly landscaped and cultivated. It reminded him of Kew Gardens; every plant, every vine, every bush and tree displayed to highlight their unique properties.

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Wellworn seemed to be leading them on a meandering path through the forest, between hanging vines, under low branches and over glistening streams. Soon, they were climbing a winding trail that spiralled around the peak. Then it came to an abrupt end, and they were standing at the edge of a cliff overlooking the entire island. Keon cautiously approached the edge, peering over. A waterfall fell from beneath the cliff, splitting into the four rivers that flowed down each side of the city.

“Pishon, Gihon, Hiddekel and Perath,” said Wellworn, drawing up alongside him. “Those are the names of the four rivers that flow from beneath the throne.”

Keon frowned.

“The throne?”

Wellworn gestured with a wide sweep of his arm and Keon turned. They were standing beneath a tall, thick sycamore fig; the tree that he’d seen from the foot of the island. Its long branches stretched, upraised, towards the sky. Tracing the form of the tree down to its broad trunk, he saw that it opened into a cavity that radiated outwards. The contours of the trunk were twisted and bent into the form of two elaborate, preternatural thrones. Side by side they stood; their bases contorted shafts of wood that were squeezed inwards. Between the base of the thrones, a clear crystal stream flowed, vanishing into a gap in the ground that fed the waterfall.

Asya’s eyes rapidly mapped the thrones from top to bottom. Keon took a step towards them, his hand outstretched. He hesitated, glancing back in Wellworn’s direction.

“It’s alright,” he nodded, and Keon continued.

They were smooth to the touch, like freshly polished furniture lacquered in a deep brown coat. He ran both hands down the sleek armrests and up the back.

“Wow,” he said, his brow peaking.

Then his face broke into a frown and he turned back to Wellworn.

“You said ‘throne’, but there’s two.”

“Two seats,” said Wellworn, stepping forward over a stray root. “But one throne.”

“Is this something to do with the Coming King?” said Keon.

“And the Perfect Mirror?” added Asya.

Wellworn’s eyes wandered upwards, his lips pursed in thought. He stopped by the seat on the left and placed a hand on the armrest.

“This throne belonged to the heirs of Pnūmanora.”

“What’s that?” said Keon.

“You’re in it,” he replied with a smile.

“I thought we’re in Underland?”

“Yes,” Wellworn nodded. “But on the dawn of the first day, and for millennia after that, Underland was known as the Kingdom of Pnūmanora. On Earth, it came to be known by other names. The ‘Unseen’ or ‘Spiritual’ Realm. The Domain of the Air… and the Second Heaven.”

Keon’s eyes widened, shifting to look in Asya’s direction. Why wasn’t she freaking out right now?

“Nah mate…what are you saying? Are we dead?”

Wellworn raised a knee on one of the roots sticking out of the trunk and leaned on it with both arms, staring at the ground.

“Keon, up until now I have spoken to you in riddles. Now, I will speak with you as plainly as I can,” he turned to Asya. “This concerns you as much as it does him. Are you ready?”

Her mouth gaped, but nothing came out.

He smiled, warmly.

“You will be happy to know that neither of you are dead. But I’m sure you already knew that Asya. After all, you have been coming to Underland for many years.”

She swallowed and nodded.

Wellworn looked up at the sycamore tree.

“This Monument was once the throne of the First Torchbearers. A man called ‘Human’ and a woman called ‘Life.’ Or, as you may know them…”

“Adam and Eve…,” Keon breathed, staring up at the seats.

Wellworn nodded.

“A king and his queen, appointed to rule Pnūmanora on the King’s behalf. The account of their fall is legendary, but what you may not know is what happened next.”

He began walking around the tree, Keon and Asya following close behind. Carvings emerged from the cavity, engraved into the trunk. Gigantic, animalistic beasts roamed the land, each of them ridden by women decked in long flowing robes and crowns on their heads. In both arms they each carried a multitude of babies.

“As you have seen—the Morningstars take the form of great, colossal beasts. On Earth, they appeared as unnaturally tall men or beings clothed in light. Captivated by the beauty of human women, they came to Earth long ago, took wives for themselves and bore children in an attempt to establish their own royal dynasties.”

“Why?” said Asya. Apparently, this part was news to her too.

“The Morningstars saw the Earth as their birth right; an inheritance they had long been denied. And so, they conspired to seize it. It was believed that their offspring would bridge the gap between this world and your own. If they had heirs sitting on the throne, they believed could rule both worlds.

“Those children became the subjects of human myth. Titans. Olympians. Nephilim. Giants. We called them Mightans. For a time, they were viewed as heroes, the great warriors of old. But their immense power brought violence and destruction to both Earth and Pnūmanora. Thus, the King sent armies from Zaphon to rid Pnūmanora of these rival dynasties. On Earth, this purge took the form of a worldwide flood.”

They stopped at the carving of an immense army riding on tidal waves, their crests contorting into the shapes of galloping horses.

“So great was this cataclysm that it was preserved in the collective memories of every ancient civilisation on the Earth. The Mesopotamian Epic of Gilgamesh. The Great Flood of Gun-Yu in China. The exploits of Deucalion in Ancient Greece. The Flood of Noah in the Hebrew scriptures.”

Keon’s attention suddenly peaked, his eyes fixated on Wellworn. He seemed to react with a slight grin, then continued around the tree, coming to stop on another carving. An army of hooded men and women riding horses across the sea towards a high, mountain-shaped city. Next to it, the same army clambered over one another on a mound of bodies, arms outstretched trying to reach the shining city; now upside-down and out of reach.

“After the purge, all peoples in Pnūmanora returned to serving the King. But that peace would be short lived. The dream of bridging the gap between Earth and Pnūmanora endured, and with it, the notion that whoever controlled the seat of Pnūmanora controlled both worlds,” He pointed to the army of hooded men and women, tracing his finger along the timeline of the image. “The Torchbearers banded together, rode across the Ancient Sea of Abyssos and attempted to seize the Empyrean. In response, the King turned the world upside-down, separating the Far Reaches from the Lowlands. Underland was born.”

He turned to face Keon and Asya.

“On Earth, those events played out slightly differently.”

Turning back to the carvings, he continued.

“In those days—at the dawn of a renewed humanity—there were as yet no nations on the Earth. All people shared one language and one culture. But there were those who remembered the days of the old world. Of power. Of a semi-divine dynasty that once ruled the Earth in the Age of the Giants. The people amassed as one and conspired to recreate this everlasting empire. They built a great tower to reach the clouds, and on it, a gateway to Pnūmanora.”

“Wait, I’ve heard this story. You’re talking about the Tower of Babel,” said Keon, an eyebrow raised.

Wellworn nodded, gravely.

“To put a stop to mankind’s pursuit of self-destruction, the King scattered them, tribe by tribe. Their knowledge was divided, and their languages confused.”

Again, Wellworn circled around the trunk, coming to a set of carvings on the back. A man sat on a shining throne—sceptre in hand—pointing at a long line of shining men, kneeling before the throne. Cloaks and encrusted diadems were being laid across their shoulders and placed on their heads.

“From those Morningstars who remained loyal to the Throne, the King appointed seventy as guardians to watch over this scattered humanity. Each of them was assigned a region; the borders of their lands fixed. Seventy Princes over seventy provinces. On Earth, they became seventy gods over seventy nations.”

Keon’s eyes grew wide, and his jaw unconsciously dropped.

“Wait…” he began.

Wellworn had already moved to the next carving; multiple gigantic beasts of rising from the land with cities on their backs. In the midst was one who rose taller than the rest.

“Each Prince was entrusted with keeping the knowledge of Pnūmanora alive in the minds of mankind, forming their unique cultures in preparation for the day when the King would call them out of exile. But power corrupts. There was one among them who still believed the Earth to be the birth right of all Morningstars, and that humanity should serve them. He became known as the Instigator.

“Once bearer of the Royal Signet, he was appointed to bestow the seal of a Torchbearer on all those loyal to the Throne. Believing that man could never be trusted, he refused to seal them. Over time, he won others to his cause. When it came time to hand the nations back to the King, the Morningstars refused to let them go. And so, the King issued a decree…”

Wellworn came to a halt in front of the last carving; what looked like a Torchbearer sat upon the throne of the King, an uncountable multitude bowing before him.

“A time would come when he would seize the nations from the usurpers and give them to another who would faithfully serve the King. He would bear the Royal Signet and rule the worlds justly.”

“The Coming King,” said Asya.

Wellworn nodded.

“A child born of both worlds: of Earth and Underland. He would sit upon the throne of Pnūmanora. All who pledged their allegiance to the Coming King would bear the royal seal and become heirs with him of Pnūmanora—the Forehidden Kingdom.”

Keon’s eyes flickered to Asya. She was staring into Wellworn’s face, transfixed.

“The First Torchbearers were not soldiers. They were royalty; made to sit on this throne,” he said, placing a hand on the armrest. “Ruling alongside the King. You are members of that lost royal lineage, set free from enslavement to the Morningstars so that you may join the ranks of the Torchbearers and restore the Kingdom of Pnūmanora.”

The two glanced at each other.

“How d’you figure that out?” said Keon.

Wellworn simply smiled.

“The King summoned you, remember?” he pointed over Keon’s shoulder, “That signet you wear on your back isn’t just bestowed on anyone. It’s the seal of the Royal House, given by the Coming King to those predestined to rule Pnūmanora. You—Keon—are a king-in-waiting, just like your father.”

He turned suddenly to Asya, almost making her jump.

“And you—Asya—you broke the Chain of the Wall, setting your Mirror loose. You came here in search of Mirror Mastery, that which can only be bestowed by the Coming King. Consciously or not, you have set aside your allegiance to Almuluk and placed your hope in another. Tell me, when was the last time you checked your Kodeks?”

Her eyes widened and she instinctively pawed at her satchel. Keon’s eyes fell on the case then rose to meet hers. Looking down, she slowly unclipped it and slid the dark green, leather-bound book out of its pouch. Holding it up to the light, the golden filigree glittered, unmistakably, in the shape of a winged lamp wreathed in olive branches. The shining moon was gone.

A violent gasp shook her delicate frame and tears sparkled in the corners of her eyes. Clutching her stomach, she fell to her knees.

“What does this mean?!”

Wellworn knelt before her and extended a hand.

“That you will learn Mirror Mastery, Asya.”

She took the hand, gently rising as he led her to her feet. Her eyes never left his—and then they widened, flittering from left to right as they searched the dark pools before her. Her jaw dropped and she stared at Keon.

What was she looking at and why was she suddenly getting so emotional? He tightened his folded arms in impatience.

She turned back to Wellworn, and concern flooded her face.

“My Mirror…”

“It will be back,” he nodded, “but you will be ready for it.”

“What about me?” said Keon with a flick of his chin.

Wellworn exhaled through his nose, his lips clamped shut.

“Whether you will be ready depends entirely on whether you have stopped feeding it.”

Keon’s brow twitched.

“Feeding it?”

Wellworn slowly stepped towards him. Were his heavy boots making the ground shake or was that Keon’s imagination?

“I know it has been communicating with you through your Codex. And I know that you have been communicating back.”

“Keon…” said Asya, crestfallen.

“I told you Keon, actions have consequences here,” Wellworn nodded.

Keon frowned in defiance.

“But you said it yourself. You’ve been talking in riddles! Not one of you told me this thing would start speaking to me. What was I supposed to do?!”

“What do you think your Mirror is, Keon? It is the same voice that has always been with you. The same voice that speaks every time you think to do what you know is foolish. The same voice that told you that you had every right to hit Gabriel Reed…again and again and again. It is this same voice that told you—that all of this was your father’s fault.”

This wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible.

“How the hell do you know all this?!” said Keon, his voice shaking.

Wellworn smiled, in a way that set Keon’s nerves on edge but made his blood boil. He wanted to gouge out those dark brown eyes and stamp them into the ground. It made him hate every scar on Wellworn’s skin with a burning passion.

“I know everything written in that book,” he said, nodding towards Keon’s chest.

Instinctively, Keon fingered the satchel on his back—and it rippled.

Don’t listen to him!

“Oh, but he can’t help but listen to me, Mirror,” he called over Keon’s shoulder.

Keon’s eyes flashed wide.

“Who the hell are you, man?!”

“Who do you say I am?”

He froze.

“No…”

He shook his head, and he ran.