“All right, everyone!” Tybour’s voice rang out across the Resting Room, firm and clear. “Time to get up! Let’s get going!”

The loudness of Tybour's call to action was muted by the kreleit of the room. Like light, the metal refused to reflect sound as well.

The quiet whisper of breath was replaced by the rustle of movement—people rising from their pallets, rolling up bedding, murmuring to one another in hushed voices. In a matter of minutes, the entire group had gathered near the far door.

Rishmond found himself standing just behind Bantore. The big fox-man turned to him as the crowd settled in and spoke.

"You're a good man, Rishmond. I believe in you."

Rishmond blinked in surprise as Bantore turned back to the Tybour at the head of the group.

“We’ll return here for breakfast after we’ve visited the Shrine,” Tybour said. “It’s not recommended to go in with a full belly.”

Elder Geriswald slid forward and pushed open the door. Like the one they’d entered through, it rotated silently on a central axis.

And then the world exploded.

Magic surged into the room like a tidal wave.

Rishmond staggered, nearly falling. The return of magic wasn’t gentle—it was overwhelming, blinding. It was like being yanked up from underwater and slammed into the sun. All of his senses blurred into one—sight, sound, smell, taste, touch, all tangled together in a single radiant confusion.

He thought he still held Cantor and Illiar’s hands. They’d taken hold before the door opened. But even that wasn’t certain now.

Everything was light. Color. Pressure. The world sang—and the song was too complex to hear.

Then: a voice.

Tybour.

“Close your eyes,” he said, low and steady. “It helps. Just listen to my voice. Breathe. Through your nose. Slowly. Let the rest pass over you. Don’t try to hold it—just... let it roll off. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Rishmond focused. Not on the light, not on the roar of sensation, but on Tybour. On the rise and fall of his words. He pulled in a long breath.

He felt Cantor’s hand—tight, almost painful in its grip. Then Illiar’s—warmer, steadier, but no less tight. Real. Grounding.

The noise began to recede, little by little. His knees didn’t buckle, though he was surprised they hadn’t. His eyes were still shut, but the panic was fading.

Then: a thought, uninvited and strangely loud in the quiet he was trying to rebuild.

I felt Cantor’s hand first.

He had no idea why that thought came, or what it meant. Only that it had arrived, and it stayed.

“Rishmond?” Illiar’s voice was right by his ear. Close. Worried.

He opened his eyes.

Green light poured through the now fully opened door. People were already moving through it. Tybour stood just ahead, turned back to check on him. Cantor and Illiar still gripped his hands. Both were watching him closely.

“I’m... I’m good now,” he said. His voice sounded odd, like it came from behind stone or water. But he was still standing. Still breathing. And now—now the roar of magic had quieted to a distant hum. A song behind the walls of the world.

And what lay beyond the door was calling.

“I’m good,” he said again, stronger this time. “Let’s go. I have to see what’s on the other side.”

He grinned.

Together, they stepped forward and crossed the threshold into the Shrine.

The green light of the glittergreen crystals illuminated the entire cavern.

The soft yellow-white glow of the God-lights—present, still burning—was utterly drowned out by the overwhelming radiance of the crystal. The glittergreen pulsed from the walls, the ceiling, even the floor, which was laid with large, polished slabs of the glowing stone. It shimmered beneath their feet, a smooth path leading several yards forward toward the edge of a vast chasm.

There, a thick green mist hovered and rolled like a living thing—stirred constantly by a gentle breeze that blew across the chamber and swept over the edge. It smelled faintly of clean stone and something sharper, metallic and sweet at once.

Rishmond’s eyes were drawn upward.

Two long, black ladders descended from the ceiling—metal rungs reaching all the way to the chasm’s lip. The old method, he remembered. The way the Gods had once climbed down into the mine before the elevator.

But it was what lay beyond the chasm that stole his breath.

Glittergreen crystals burst from the far wall in chaotic splendor, half-shielded by a waterfall that tumbled endlessly down the cliff face. The water glowed green where it passed near the stone, casting the mist in a curtain of shimmering light.

The sight was unreal. A glowing green veil of water falling into a bottomless void, framed in crystal.

Rishmond could hardly move.

And then—

“Accept your purpose. Help us. Bring back order.”

The whispers slithered back into his thoughts—stronger now. More intentional. As if the Shrine itself were speaking directly to him.

He turned, instinctively seeking out Tybour. But the First Mage had already crossed the open floor to a cluster of low, backless benches arranged before a stone promontory.

Rishmond followed with his eyes.

The outcropping jutted over the edge of the chasm, mist swirling around its base. A dais rested at its farthest point—a four-foot-wide disk of white marble, set three shallow steps above the floor. The mist moved around it constantly, making the platform appear, at times, as if it floated on a glowing green cloud.

Two statues flanked the approach—one on either side of the stone walkway.

The left statue was a woman, carved in flowing robes, her hand raised in what might have been a gesture of blessing or warning. She shone gold and white, serene and stern all at once.

The right statue was male—taller, broader-shouldered, though not towering. He held a staff angled downward, and his gaze was cast slightly to the side, like he watched the horizon beyond the mist.

Rishmond stared at them both.

Gods, surely. But he didn’t know which ones. Or what they were waiting for.

The Altemen priests and guards who had accompanied them had already taken their places, forming a quiet perimeter around the shrine. Silent. Watchful. Reverent.

Without a word, Torg stepped forward.

Not waiting for instruction. Not looking to anyone else for permission.

The little golem’s heavy steps echoed softly over the polished glittergreen floor as he moved straight toward the dais. His crystalline core pulsed with contained light as he mounted the promontory alone, coming to a halt at the base of the three wide steps that led up to the circular platform.

There he stopped, gaze lifted toward the waterfall. Waiting.

Behind him, the rest of the group watched in stillness.

Elder Geriswald moved next, gliding toward the start of the promontory and taking his place just to the side of the benches. One of the Altemen approached Rishmond, Cantor, Illiar, and gently gestured them down the center aisle.

Rishmond led the way.

The three of them walked slowly, every footstep soft on the glittering stone. The weight of attention pressed against his back—the entire expedition watched, though no one spoke.

At the front, just before the steps to the promontory, Rishmond began to turn toward a bench.

But the Alteman touched his shoulder and motioned him forward.

Not there.

Here.

Rishmond was ushered to the front, to stand beside Elder Geriswald—right at the edge of the unknown.

Both Illiar and Cantor held on to his hands for as long as possible as he pulled away.

"Be careful, Rishmond," whispered Cantor as their fingers finally separated. "There's something..." 

"Yes," said Illiar in response as Cantor's voice trailed off. "Something..."

Rishmond stepped forward, away from them. Towards importance. 

Illiar and Cantor took their seats in the front row. Everyone else settled into the benches in silence, their eyes fixed on him.

Torg remained ahead, unmoving at the foot of the dais steps. As if waiting for something only he could sense.

Elder Geriswald gave Rishmond a small nod and turned toward the glowing chasm.

Rishmond followed his gaze.

And then—the light changed. 

And with it, a smell. Something sharp and overwhelmingly sweet. Rishmond couldn't identify it.

The waterfall across the chasm rippled, the smooth cascade twisting and reforming. The green glow shifted subtly, deepened, refracted—and a shape began to coalesce within the falling water.

A figure. A presence.

It resolved slowly into a form Rishmond knew.

The same face he had seen painted in the sanctuary at Rit. The same face from his vision atop the elevator: a beautiful, commanding woman with olive skin, golden-feathered wings spread wide behind her, and a mane of dark, curling hair that flowed like liquid ink.

Denisisie.

Torg bent low in a rigid, formal bow. His entire body seemed to shudder with reverence.

Gasps rose from the benches behind them.

Next to Rishmond, Elder Geriswald lowered himself in that impossible, fluid bow unique to the Altemen, his upper body bending at a perfect angle of devotion.

Rishmond hesitated—then bowed as best he could, left arm half-raised, right hand across his waist. He was late. Awkward.

But the vision in the falls didn't appear to mind.

Her voice rolled out across the chamber—not from within the water, not from the air, but from everywhere at once. A sound that was music and power and judgment all at once.

“We haven’t much time,” she said. “The barrier is thin here—but reaching through it is dangerous. It exposes Rit to many threats. So we will dispense with the formalities.”

The sound of her voice was like a wind through his bones. Rishmond straightened slowly, barely breathing.

The Goddess had spoken.

And she was speaking to him.

"Rise, children. Do not be afraid." The voice of Denisisie filled the shrine, melodious and deep, vibrating through stone and bone alike. "Your Gods have waited for this moment for a long time. Hundreds of your turns. It is time now. Events have been set in motion, and our journey begins in earnest."

Rishmond dared a glance sideways. Elder Geriswald remained bowed low—lower even than before. His forehead hovered just above the floor. That couldn’t be normal. Was this truly the Goddess Denisisie? Were they... actually speaking to her?

He risked a look around.

All the Altemen were the same—flattened in reverent silence, foreheads pressed to stone. Even Tybour had fallen to one knee, his head bowed, arms drawn close to his chest in a posture of submission.

Then the Goddess spoke again.

"Come, children. Enough. Stand. Attend your Gods, and heed our words."

Rishmond raised his head—and found her looking directly at him. The face within the cascading water smiled. Not some distant, vague smile for the masses, but to him. He felt it. Knew it.

"Wizard Rishmond," the voice said, "thank you for bringing Torg to me. And for undertaking the task to get him here. You have pleased us with your sacrifice, your dedication, your strength of will."

Movement stirred behind her in the mist. Shapes. Vague and shifting, indistinct figures cloaked by the waterfall’s veil.

"But as grateful as we are, we request further service from you, Rishmond. We need a champion. One powerful in magic and devoted in heart and soul. We have chosen to ask you: will you serve? Will you help us save Rit, Wizard Rishmond?"

Rishmond’s breath caught in his throat.

He took a step back, stunned. Her words rang like a bell inside him.

Save the world? Him?

That couldn’t be right.

“I—I’m not... I don’t think...” he stammered. “Are you sure you have the right person...? Goddess?”

There was a beat of stillness. Then:

"Step forward, Wizard Rishmond. Onto the platform. We would see you properly."

Torg was suddenly at his side. When had he moved?

The golem reached out a warm, stony hand. “Come, Wizard Rishmond,” he said softly. “Do not be afraid. My mistress needs to address you. I will be right here.”

Rishmond took his hand.

Together they stepped to the base of the dais, and Torg paused, motioning for Rishmond to ascend alone.

Rishmond nodded, heart pounding. He climbed the last shallow step.

As his foot touched the marble circle, it lit up beneath him with a soft white glow. A low hum vibrated through the stone—through him. He stepped into the center, and the world changed.

The breeze vanished. The sound of falling water ceased.

The whispering wind was replaced by a perfect, weightless silence.

He looked up.

And there she was.

Denisisie towered above him—twenty feet tall or more. The glow from the glittergreen crystals turned her silhouette into a halo of divine light. And behind her, the shadowed figures grew clearer—though still indistinct.

One, just to her right, wore a golden circlet on his brow. From its center shone a piercing white light, like a star or a flawless gem.

Rishmond stared at it, transfixed.

The face behind the light remained hidden. Still cloaked in shadow.

But the message was clear.

The Gods were watching.

"The others cannot hear us," Denisisie said gently. "They will receive their own questions. Their own instructions."

Her gaze remained fixed on him—eternal, soft, and impossibly ancient.

"For you, Rishmond, there is only one question."

"Will you accept the task we lay before you?"

"Will you travel to Bexxa’wyld, with your companions, and perform the Blessing ritual once again—to set right what went wrong before?"

Rishmond’s breath caught in his chest.

Bexxa’wyld.

The name echoed in his mind like the tolling of a great bell.

No one went to Bexxa’wyld.

Not anymore.

It was the divine retreat—the hidden, sacred place of the Gods, sealed since the Blessing. Every account he’d ever studied said the same: those who tried to reach it either never returned, or were destroyed before they reached its gates. Even mentioning the journey in formal magical circles was often considered foolish. A death wish.

And now she was asking him.

To go there.

To fix... something the Gods themselves had failed to fix?

His knees trembled.

“Goddess...” he began, his voice shaky and small. “I—”

He stopped. Gods can't be wrong, can they? They had to be this time. He had no illusion about the strength of his jzrittiah, he knew it was strong. It was his leadership, his worth he doubted. He could never rise to the level of Tybour, or even Rosa. 

He wasn't sure he could handle the power. He'd use it wrong. He'd become like the nobles in Mott. Worse—he'd become a Demon himself.

Denisisie could read his hesitation and his reason. His fear of becoming that which he feared most.

Then he tried again. “I don’t think I can do what you’re asking. It’s not that I don’t want to—I do—but... I don’t have what it would take.”

He looked down, unable to meet her gaze.

“I’m just a kid. From the Arrangement of Peace. I’m not special. I’ve never been special. I’m not like Tybour, or Rosa, or even Torg. I mess up. I talk too much. I don't always think things through. There are others who are so much more able to do what you need…”

He trailed off.

There was a long silence.

When he looked back up, she was smiling. Not pitying. Not amused.

Proud.

A gentle, maternal warmth radiated from her—so familiar, it made something ache in his chest. Her smile reminded him of Beritrude when he’d scraped his knee and insisted he wasn’t crying. Of Cantor’s mother, who’d always made him feel welcome. Of Halmond when he ruffled his hair and called him boyo, no matter how serious the moment.

She understood.

Of course she did.

"I...I can't. I'm not good enough. Tybour would be a much better choice," Rishmond added, softer now. “He always knows what to do.”

The smile on Denisisie’s face deepened.

And then, slowly, she spoke again.

“Very well, Wizard Rishmond,” Denisisie's voice resonated with finality. “Your answer has been given, and we will all live or die by it. But in Truth, even death is not the end. Refusal for the right reasons is honor few could hold. Only one step remains before we begin.”

The soundscape shifted.

The roar of the waterfall returned, as did the ever-present whisper of wind. Voices murmured around him, low and unsure. Rishmond turned to look down from the dais.

His friends had gathered just beyond the stone benches, clustered near the statues flanking the promontory. Cantor and Illiar stood at the front, eyes locked on him, worry plain in their expressions. He offered a small, sheepish wave—hand low at his side. They returned the gesture tentatively, their hands raising just slightly.

Then he saw Tybour.

The First Mage’s face was tight. Anger? Frustration? Disbelief? Rishmond’s heart skipped a beat.

What had happened while he was speaking with the Goddess?

He started to step down from the platform—but couldn’t. His feet were frozen in place.

The voice of the Goddess rang out again, no longer gentle.

“The question has been asked and answered. Now judgment will be passed. Worthiness will be assessed. Rishmond, you shall be judged in the light of Truth. May you be found worthy.”

The stone beneath his feet erupted in blinding white light. The gentle hum he’d felt earlier became a roar—a physical buzzing like a swarm of a million angry wasps. Every sense overloaded.

The sound of the waterfall faded, swallowed by the pulsing energy. The world blurred. He smelled cinnamon, smoke, soap, pine sap, sea air, and sun-warmed grass. A thousand scents at once. His lungs burned. His chest squeezed tight, like a cantaboa had coiled around him.

Was this what it felt like to fail a Goddess?

He tried to scream. To call out to Cantor, Illiar. He would miss them most.

Toby. He regretted the way he left him behind... The horse carving. It was still in his pocket, in his pants, in the Resting Room. How would he get it back?

His vision was overtaken by light.

From below, the others watched in horror as a searing pillar of white light consumed Rishmond on the dais.

Green and gold sparks burst like fireworks through the cavern.

For a moment, they could see only a shadow—his silhouette within the column of radiance.

Tybour was the first to move. He sprinted forward, scrambling up the steps—only to slam into an invisible barrier. He struck it hard, rebounding with a snarl of fury and despair.

Inside the light, the shadow of Rishmond began to come apart.

Chunks broke away, floating upward, fracturing into smaller pieces—until nothing remained.

A final burst of blinding light—

Then darkness.

The entire cavern was plunged into blackness. Even the Altemen, whose night vision surpassed other mortals, staggered and blinked.

The glittergreen had gone dark.

The humming, vibrant pulse of lotret and lotrar—gone.

Only the dim yellow-white light of the God-lamps remained.

Tybour found his footing first. He lunged onto the platform—searching, reaching—

Nothing.

No Rishmond.

Only a faint mound of ash.

Cantor and Illiar fell together. Their scream in unison splitting the silence, "NOOO!"

"Rishmond!" shouted Illiar.

Cantor's voice broke into a strangled sob.

A breeze—steady and cold—swept the dais, and the ash scattered, falling silently over the edge into the abyss.

“No,” Tybour whispered, his voice breaking. “No. That can’t be. Not again. Not another I couldn't protect.”

He spun.

“Torg!” he shouted. “Torg, what happened?! What did she do?!”

But the crystal golem stood motionless at the base of the stairs, lightless and still. The soft glow that had always emanated from within him was gone. The flowing magic that had given him life—gone.

Just cold, inert stone.

Tybour reached for the currents of magic—his instinct, his training, his birthright as a Wizard.

Nothing.

He pushed farther—reaching into the depths of Rit itself.

Still nothing. Only the faintest echo. Like the ghost of a distant fire. A memory of power. The sea of magic that had filled this sacred place was gone.

It was as if the Gods had swallowed it all in one breath.

And with it...Rishmond.