The day started early. Well, it always started early in the life of a slave, but Ani couldn’t help feeling that today it started just a little earlier than normal. He’d had the dream again. The night was always shortest when he had the dream. He couldn’t recall exact details—it was more like feelings. Words didn’t quite describe them but they kept the boy going. The future would be better. It had to be.

He didn’t have it too bad, he knew. He’d been fortunate in his owner and caretaker: Watto. Because of Watto he lived with his mother in a small den-like flat. His eyes shot open the second her hand didn’t touch him. She wasn’t there. This was the second day. He got up and got ready. That’s what a slave did. He knew she was alright—he knew. He hoped. He’d watched his mother prepare his food so often it didn’t take long to figure what to do. He ate then left.

He lived in the slums. A town made up from apartments for slaves. The families that lived in the slums were the more fortunate of the slaves. There were some who lived in cages; while others  had to sleep outside. But those in the slums were the privileged. They had semi-decent jobs and never had to go out into the desert. Mos Espa was a dangerous place but not nearly so much as the Dune Sea. The slums were on the east side of the of the city which was also populated with the well of inhabitants of the city; the slave owners.

“Morning Ani.” It was Miss Preetha, a smile on her face.

“Hi!” He smiled cheerfully. He had to. He had to be strong, for everyone.  He shouldered his pack and marched along to the shop, nodding to his friends and neighbors as he hiked along. How many others were missing? He knew that the boy from across the street, Grohan, had been taken in a raid last week. But he didn’t suspect a raid for the disappearance of his mother. His hike to the space port was a solemn one even though he wore a smile on his face.  His smile vanished the second he reached the edge of the slums. The gates were just ahead and no one liked a happy slave-boy. His pace quickened as he entered Mos Espa.

Trying not to get in anybody’s way, he tried to hurry down the street. Watto hated it when he was late. A crowd of Jawa blocked his path; they were all shouting excitedly in Jawaese. One was even jumping up and down which was a rare sight, even here. Ani flattened himself against a wall carrying his pack in by his side and pushed his way through the throng of Jawa. Everywhere he looked in fact, everyone was excited. This was either good or bad. Ani couldn’t decide.
He had to run to make it there on time.

“You’re late!” Watto shouted.

He wasn’t. Not that it mattered to Watto. If something had gone wrong he was always late. No matter what time he came in. Something had obviously gone wrong. Watto wasn’t happy.

“I got here as fast as I could. I’m earlier than I was yesterday and I wasn’t late then.”

Watto flapped his wings angrily and glared at the boy.  “We received a shipment from Mos Isla.” Watto hovered over to him, “get started, Ani!”

Ani unslung his pack and ran out the back to begin sorting through the junk from Isla. Most of it was just that and he didn’t know what Watto expected him to do with it. He threw a few spare parts into a pile every now and then. They were either things that were salvageable or items he’d strip to make something else salvageable.

Meanwhile Watto was busy talking to their first customer of the day. Ani couldn’t make it all out but he heard Boonta Eve mentioned at least twice. He’d almost forgotten about the holiday coming up. Watto flapped into the scorching desert heat to yell “We need a power converter for a Z-29 pod-racer Ani! Don’t make us wait!”

Luckily Ani was very organized and found what they were looking for rather quickly. “I need to make some modifications to it if he wants it to work.” Ani explained to Watto in Huttese.
Watto then did the necessary bargaining. He ended up charging twice what it was worth but that was Watto. When Anakin finished up the job he handed it over to Watto who handed it over to their customer.

Work made the day pass faster.  Traders and space pirates came to barter with Watto. He had the best, everyone knew. Ani couldn’t help but feel fortunate, again for Watto owning him. He was good at what he did and he enjoyed it. Fixing stuff made sense. But mostly he liked the stories and the creatures from all the edges of the Galaxy. Today was nothing new to gawk at. Not that he’d gawk anyways. Watto’d have it in for him for sure if he dared. But he was constantly amazed by the people he saw. Still he heard lots.

Boonta Eve was coming up. Which meant another Celebration. Not that the Hutts needed a reason to celebrate. It seemed to Ani that the Hutts were always celebrating now. There had been a month-long celebration that hadn’t ended a week before.  And there was a lot of talk going on about some Federation or other. There was some sort of blockade on a nearby planetary system. Not one that Anakin had ever heard of before but still it was nice to hear things.

Then suddenly Watto surprised Anakin with some more fortune. It was about halfway through the day when Watto flapped over to him. “Get out of here Ani. You’re done for the day.”  Maybe he’d be able to find his mother with what was left of the day. Ani didn’t take the time to even ponder his strange luck. He just jumped up excitedly and grabbed his pack.  “Don’t be late tomorrow!” Watto shouted as Ani hurried out the door.

Back to the slave pens he ran, his pack bouncing up and down on his back. It was hard in a street this crowded but he wanted to be sure to get home and begin his searching. He didn’t even know where to begin. He didn’t know what she did during the day. She’d never told him. They only saw each other for a few minutes in the morning and a few at night before he slept. Every now and again when Watto would send him home early she’d be there as well. But not often. And she was never for too long.

His thoughts were interrupted when he reached the slum gates. Two of Jaba’s Gamorrea were trudging into the makeshift town. Not particularly bright creatures. Instead they had been gifted with cruelty and strength. They were savage and, worse, allowed to do whatever they wanted. Anakin stood there dumbly watching the two giant green creatures sludge through the same road he walked down every morning. They were grunting towards each other and one let out a low gurgling that could only be a laugh. Another raid.

They turned to one of the flats at random and rushed towards it brandishing their axes. The first one to reach the door slammed his shoulder into it and with it crashed into the ground on the other side. The second jumped in and frantically looked both ways before running off to the left out of Anakin’s vision. That’s when he made his move, both Gamorrea were busy. So he made a mad dash for his home not looking back, but hoping they’d found the apartment empty.

Gamorrea were easily bored and they might only do this once if there was no reward.
Jabba had been in the city for the last month and a half. He’d celebrated by having a festival followed by some local pod racing. Nothing as fancy as the Boonta Eve Classic coming up, but pod racing none the less. With Jabba came Gamorrea. Gamorrea loved hunting easy prey. Nothing was easier than a slave. Ani new that his mother hadn’t succumbed to them. He could feel it. Like he could feel things would get better. In his gut. He just hoped his gut was right.

His mother wasn’t home. He knew she wouldn’t be. But he’d hoped that he’d be wrong about this. He threw his pack onto the blanket that was his sleeping place. Where to begin? Ani wished he wasn’t just a child. Being nine was hard. There really was nothing he could do. He wiped the tears forming in his eyes. He had to be strong. For his mother. He had to find her. Forcing himself to begin he marched back to the door. Back in to the world.

The first person he came upon who he dared ask for news was Mri from three houses down. She wasn’t much older than him and had used to play with him before turning twelve and being forced to work the hours of an adult.

“Have you seen my mother?”

“Not recently Ani. But I can’t talk. Good luck.” And she was gone.

His trek continued. He visited parts of the town that he’d never been before, to no avail. Hours passed and it was beginning to get dark. Ani knew better than to get caught outside after curfew and began racing back through the streets for his home. Again she wasn’t there. He was beginning to get worried. He was beginning to doubt his feelings. He no longer knew. He just hoped now. Everything was getting cloudy.

Anakin sat down at the table and began to sob. He couldn’t help it. For the first time in his life he really felt afraid. He no longer believed that he was extraordinarily luckily. He was just a slave. And slaves weren’t fortunate. He lost track of time sitting at the table. Waiting, hoping his mother would come through the door.

But hours passed and he was still alone. He lay his head down on his criss-crossed arms and drifted off into a troubled sleep.

He felt darkness all around him. Not just a physical darkness. But one that seemed to seep into his soul. It clouded everything. Fear poured into him like a sandstorm blurring all his other senses.  He awoke with a scream, shooting out of his seat. He was still alone. It was still night.
Better get to bed, he thought, in case Mom comes home. He emptied his pack apart from the cloak he kept inside it and then crawled under his blanket using the pack to comfort his head from the cool dirt floor. It wasn’t long before he had drifted off again.

This time it was a much different dream.  As different as night from day or heat from cold. He was bathing in warmth. He felt again as hope poured through his every fiber. It was indescribably amazing. He stood in the center of a field of white. A plain of nothingness. He could hear his mother laughing. Now she was saying something. He couldn’t quite make it out but it made him happy.

Something was happening though. She was fading away. He heard a voice he’d never heard before. “Anakin.” It just said his name. Just the once. He was filled with excitement. He couldn’t contain himself. This was it. The moment he’d been waiting for, for his whole life.

If it was possible he began to feel warmer. And the white started to change. Things were becoming clearer. Two shadow figures stood in front of him. Both were humanoid and tall enough to be grown men.  And again he was filled with a sense of knowing. He dreamed and he knew his mother was ok. He felt at peace. Something good was coming and soon too.  The shadows were the herald. He knew. He felt good. As good as he’d ever felt.

He awoke the second her hand touched him.

“I’m home, Ani.”

An ominous feeling of dread filled Obi-Wan’s mind as he watched the Neimoidian dreadnought Independence grow ever larger on the virtual viewport.

To be fair, he thought, it is in the nature of a dreadnought to inspire dread. The corner of his mouth lifted in a half-hearted smirk, but the expanding darkness in his mind threatened to crush even his indomitable good humor.

“I have a very bad feeling about this, Master,” he said, turning to the older Jedi by his side.

“Yes,” replied his friend and mentor, not even bothering to raise his eyes from the holopad projected in his lap. “This is a trap. They intend to kill us.”

“It is not that, Master. That feels…small, compared to what I am feeling.”

Qui-Gon sighed and looked up from the words and images displayed by the tiny projector hovering in the air before him. “Very well.” He closed his eyes and drew a deep, steady breath. “Clear your mind, and we will see if I can help find the source of your discomfort.”

Obi-Wan obediently closed his eyes and banished all thought from his mind. He was immediately enveloped in the warm, nebulous presence of the Force. He felt Qui-Gon’s mind–old, knowledgeable, and kind–gently attach to his own. With a small impulse, Obi-Wan expanded his presence in the ether of the Force, probing for the dark blot that represented the near and present danger of the Neimoidian trap.

As their minds brushed against the small, black anomaly, images and feelings flooded through their minds. Murderous intent, nervous anxiety, contempt, fear, aggression, and fleeting glimpses of battle, of flying bodies, explosions, and the hum of dancing lightsabers. A regrettable event in spacetime, no doubt, but not a threat to the success of their mission.

With a much stronger impulse, Obi-Wan set his mind to expand through the Force until his presence felt stretched to its breaking point and the ether had become thick and obscuring. At the edge of his reach, Obi-Wan brushed against a dark object so massive that it seemed the Force just outside his sphere of influence had been replaced with nothingness. His mind sought to recoil from the abyss, but Obi-Wan was nothing if not stubborn. With the unbending iron will that forever hid just beneath the surface of his jovial and mischievous nature, the experienced padawan sent another powerful surge of mental energy to shore up the limits of his presence in the Force.

Simultaneously, Qui-Gon expanded his own presence in the ether, joining Obi-Wan in an effort to push farther into the void. The more attention the two men focused on the abyss, the more it seemed to push back, exerting an unpleasant pressure on their shared energy. Probing the darkness along multiple points of their maximum limit only served to weaken their shared sphere of influence. Finally, Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon focused their shared energy into a spear of light thrusting into the unknown. Rather than illuminate their quarry, the darkness reacted in an almost sentient fashion, defending itself from their combined efforts by sending a searing jolt of pain into Obi-Wan’s and Qui-Gon’s minds. Though the experience lasted mere seconds, the agony was so great that it felt as though it lasted an eternity. The shock broke the connection between the two men, and they were unceremoniously dumped back into physical reality.

Obi-Wan came back to himself to find his hands clutching the armrests of his acceleration chair, and his mouth sore from clenching his jaw. He turned to Qui-Gon, and the two shared a worried glance. Qui-Gon tapped the biometric harness that bound him to his seat, and without a word he stood and walked over to the large virtual viewport, his arms tucked into the folds of his robe. Obi-Wan took a moment to flex his fingers and toes, and to work out the tightness in his jaw, and then he followed the Master’s example.

They stood in silence as they made their final approach to the Independence. Deep green photovoltaic plating filled the screen, all of space blocked from view by the massive starship. Measuring a full kilometer in length, the Independence was still one of the smallest dreadnoughts manufactured by the Trade Federation for the Neimoidian fleet, but it also boasted the latest in shield and stealth technology, making it one of the most persistently dangerous ships in Confederation space.

“It seems they will be putting us in one of the aft cargo bays,” Obi-Wan noted as giant blast doors parted to reveal a bustling landing deck. Qui-Gon said nothing, staring blankly at the vid screen as though it might reveal some secret to him if only he paid close enough attention. “An effort to keep us as far away from the bridge as possible, I would guess,” the padawan continued quietly to himself. He had grown accustomed to Qui-Gon’s occasional introspections, but had yet to master the art of remaining silent. “I do take pleasure in the mechanics of speech,” Obi-Wan confessed, shrugging and speaking mostly to himself.

Their little automated shuttle, operating on commands from the Independence’s flight controller, slowly crossed the kinetic force field that protected the cargo bay from outgassing. The hair on Obi-Wan’s arms and neck stood upright as the field passed through him. The idea that atmosphere and pressure were contained by an invisible energy barrier dependent on electricity, an energy source so easily interrupted, always chilled the padawan.

“Give me a planet under my feet and I shall be happy once more,” Obi-Wan muttered to himself.

“You have an uncomfortable life ahead of you if you fail to overcome your fears of space and flight, my young friend.”

Obi-Wan smiled at Qui-Gon’s comment. “I would not describe them as ‘fears,’ Master Qui-Gon,” he responded, “but as preferences. I simply prefer to be on the ground, where I am not dependent on machinery for safety.”

He glanced over to find Qui-Gon glaring at him sternly.

“Sometimes, my young friend, I worry for your future as a Jedi. Your optimism and good nature are powerful allies against the darkness you will encounter in your duties, but your flippancy and casual disregard for danger may very well be the end of you.”

Obi-Wan, slightly taken aback by his mentor’s rebuke, stayed silent until the shuttle gently touched down in the space that had been cleared for it amidst the machinery and supplies in the cargo bay. As the two men bent their knees fluidly to compensate for the small bump involved with any shuttle landing, Obi-Wan decided to attribute Qui-Gon’s stern remark to the nasty shock they had both endured upon encountering the vast and almost sentient void in the Force.

“I apologize, Master, but I am not entirely sure what danger it might be that I am disregarding. I seek your guidance in this matter.” Ever the earnest student, the sincerity in Obi-Wan’s voice must have broken through Qui-Gon’s irritation, because the older man let out a sigh, shaking his head and putting a hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder.

“Fear, Obi-Wan. Fear is the danger that you dismiss so casually,” he said, briefly squeezing Obi-Wan’s arm before lifting his hand and waggling an admonishing finger at the padawan.

Obi-Wan tilted his head quizzically and raised an eyebrow in confusion. The effect must have been comical, because Qui-Gon chuckled and shook his head once more.

“You have a question,” Qui-Gon observed, stepping away from the virtual viewport as it irised off, revealing a blank metal bulkhead as opaque as the rest of the shuttle’s interior.

“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan replied, following the older man into the shuttle’s main corridor. “We are taught that fear is poisonous, a clear path to darkness. Is this not true?”

“It is true, yes,” conceded the Jedi Master. “However, you make the mistake of assuming that you can defeat fear by ignoring it. That path leads to suffering and death, if not to darkness.”

The two men paused at the shuttle’s passenger hatch, waiting patiently for Independence’s traffic computer to clear the shuttle for safe disembarkment. Obi-Wan contemplated Qui-Gon’s words, introspectively analyzing his past behaviors and reasoning how he may have been foolishly putting himself, and others, in danger.

“How, then, shall I defeat fear, Master?”

“Again, you assume too much, my padawan,” admonished the Jedi Master. “You assume that fear is a force to be defeated. That is similar to thinking that a planetary weather system is a force to be defeated.”

“But we have defeated weather systems, Master,” Obi-Wan declared. “Many planets within the Republic have adopted weather management systems to dampen the most destructive forces of nature.”

“Ah, now we come to it,” Qui-Gon quickly replied, rising a finger thoughtfully. “Those worlds you speak of have not defeated nature any more than Jedi have defeated fear. On those worlds, the weather is managed.”

A female voice rang through the shuttle, declaring in clear, enunciated Galactic Basic Standard that the Jedi could safely exit the small craft.

“‘Safe’ is a relative term in this case, considering their plans,” Qui-Gon joked quietly in an aside highly uncharacteristic of the older man.

I must be rubbing off on him.

Qui-Gon set off down the ramp, and Obi-Wan followed closely. They were greeted at the bottom of the ramp by the translucent blue hologram of a handsome older woman, projected by a small spherical drone floating just off to the side.

“If the respected delegates from the Galactic Republic will please follow me,” said the hologram, gesturing with her hand in the direction of a large bay door directly across from the shuttle, “I will deliver you to the conference room where Captain Tukhano and Vice-President Nguwen of the Trade Federation will meet you for negotiations.”

“Is it normal for the Neimoidian fleet to employ human figures in its holographic VIs?” Obi-Wan, always curious, directed the question at the spherical drone rather than the hologram. He always preferred to deal with the source of the virtual interface, rather than the illusion the interface created.

“No, respected delegate. However, just as the Neimoidian fleet uses Galactic Basic for ship designations, for the sake of trade partners, so does the fleet carry an expansive library of VIs, to accommodate any delegates we might entertain aboard our vessels. Does this interface not please you? Another can be assumed.”

“There is no need for that,” Qui-Gon assured the drone. “Please, lead us to the conference room.”

“Of course, respected delegate,” the VI responded. The drone floated away, toward the bay door the VI had indicated earlier, and the VI moved its legs to provide the illusion of walking. Qui-Gon immediately followed the hologram, and Obi-Wan could only shake his head and follow suit. He personally would have had the drone turn off the VI, but the matter certainly was not worth another lecture from his friend about the virtue of software designed to emulate sentience.

The large bay door slid open quickly and quietly, indicative of the dreadnought’s young age and relatively peaceful tour of service. Though the ship had been involved in several trade dispute blockades, to Obi-Wan’s knowledge Independence’s main gun—the massive rail gun that ran nearly from stern to bow, necessitating the dreadnought’s length—had only ever been fired in carefully controlled training exercises. The ship’s peaceful history was reflected in the pristine conditions of its exterior and interior functions.

With the drone leading at a comfortable pace, Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon walked through a brightly lit corridor wide enough for a small speeder to navigate. The walls were smooth and gleaming, painted a glossy blue-white hue. Dark, thin sensor strips near the ceiling ran the entire length of the corridor, and likely the entire vessel, presumably allowing the ship’s security detachment to see and hear everything happening aboard Independence.

“If I may, Master—

“You are wondering how you should manage your fear, if not to dismiss it,” Qui-Gon interrupted.

“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan nodded in affirmation as they walked.

“You must first acknowledge that you are afraid, Obi-Wan.” Qui-Gon adopted the same posture and tone he used when delivering lectures at the Jedi Academy, forcing Obi-Wan to hide a smile as the older man fell into his most comfortable role, that of a teacher. “What are we taught about our feelings, our instincts?”

“A Jedi is one with the Force. As a Jedi, I must trust my feelings, because they flow outward from the Force.”

Qui-Gon nodded in approval. “Precisely. Fear is a feeling just like any other you will experience. Fear, anger, and sorrow are important feelings, Obi-Wan, because they speak to the cores of our beings. We are not machines, and we must not strive to be like machines. The Force only acts through life.”

Obi-Wan increased his pace so that he could walk beside his mentor. “I am beginning to understand, Master,” Obi-Wan started, “but what about the risks posed by these darker emotions?”

“A Jedi is not defined by his or her thoughts and emotions, Obi-Wan. A Jedi is defined by action. Admitting that you are afraid takes a tremendous amount of courage. Acting righteously and without hesitation, even in the clutches of such dark emotions, takes an even greater amount of courage. This is what separates the Jedi from the sith, and a Jedi from a Jedi Master.”

The holographic woman had stopped just outside a door set into the right wall of the long corridor, the little floating drone suspended in the air just a few feet away. The door slid open without a sound, revealing a roomy elevator car. The holographic display winked off, and the drone buzzed into the car. The two brown-robed men followed, and the door silently closed behind them. There was a short tone and a very brief, almost imperceptible jolt, and then the car accelerated upward, toward the main crew decks.

“I see,” Obi-Wan said slowly, digesting his mentor’s lesson. “Am I to assume, then, that this sort of temperance is involved in the Temple Trials?”

“That is a safe assumption,” Qui-Gon said quietly, a faraway look stealing onto his face as he stared straight ahead at the elevator door. “However, remember that the trials are unique to each Jedi attempting them. You can never be fully prepared.”

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to ask more of Qui-Gon, but the Master interrupted him. “And that is all I have to say on the matter, my padawan.” Obi-Wan swallowed his question and shut his mouth, knowing better than to press the older man any further. Absently flicking the single braid of hair that marked his station as padawan over his shoulder, the young man turned to the spherical drone.

“Independence, what information are you authorized to provide us concerning the nature of this blockade?”

There was a brief moment of silence as the little drone presumably queried the ship’s mainframe and diplomatic parameters, and then it responded in the same female human voice projected by the VI. “Unfortunately, respected delegate, I cannot provide you with any information other than what you have already received via the short-beam briefing that was transmitted to your vessel: we believe that the ruling body of Naboo commissioned the research and development of weapons designed specifically to target Neimoidian physiology, and as such we are within legally obliged to blockade the planet until such a time as a thorough investigation has been completed.”

Obi-Wan cocked his head quizzically. “That is rather odd, considering that the ruling government of Naboo does not even have a standing military.”

“Again,” replied the drone, “I apologize that I cannot provide additional information. Your line of query is one that should be directed to Captain Tukhano and Vice-President—” The drone fell silent before it could finish. Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon shared a glance.

“I do believe our welcome has already been worn out, Master,” Obi-Wan said calmly.

“Indeed,” Qui-Gon responded curtly. “Cover yourself!”

Obi-Wan acted immediately, holding his robe up from the inside to completely cover the exposed parts of his body just as the little drone self-detonated. The small explosion rocked the elevator car, and flames hungrily clawed at the flame-resistant robes of the two men to no avail. Obi-Wan, more attuned to the Force than his Master, had also instinctively pushed at the drone with his mind as it had exploded, deflecting shrapnel that would have otherwise shredded the two men.

Coughing as acrid smoke replaced the flames in the car, Obi-Wan bent forward to check on Qui-Gon, who had been closer to the floating sphere when it had exploded.

“I’m fine,” Qui-Gon choked out amid wretched coughing. “Though I am certainly getting too old for this sort of thing,” he added.

Obi-Wan chuckled as he straightened out and used the Force to press the black smoke up against the car’s ceiling. “Well, that was not very nice of our hosts,” he observed, taking note of the extensive damage dealt to the elevator car. The once immaculately smooth, white walls were now warped and peppered with dozens of holes, some as big as a human fist. The largest hole had even managed to puncture all the way through the car, revealing the rapid vertical ascension of the elevator in its shaft. Obi-Wan redirected the smoke, forcing it out of the hole he had found.

Another explosion, this one from outside and above, rocked the elevator car, forcing Qui-Gon to his knees and almost doing the same for Obi-Wan.

“Plan B is to drop us down the elevator shaft?” The padawan was incredulous.

“It would appear so, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon responded, placidly composing himself on the floor as though he was about to meditate. “You may want to sit down for this,” he added.

Obi-Wan dropped to his knees beside the Jedi Master just as another explosion from above shook the elevator car violently. There came the screeching of metal on metal, like the dying groan of some massive metal creature, and then Obi-Wan’s stomach seemed to jump into his throat as the car tore free of its cables and plummeted down the shaft.

The elevator fell uninhibited for only a few seconds, and then Obi-Wan felt their wild descent slow, then stop. Qui-Gon’s eyes were shut as he focused on holding the elevator in place with the Force.

Obi-Wan stood again and took two steps toward the car’s door. He placed both hands, palm-first, on the cool surface. With a thought, the padawan pushed on the door, channeling the Force through his hands. The door bulged outward with a metallic squeal, but Obi-Wan could feel the object resisting his efforts, the natural tendency of solid matter to retain its shape. The padawan concentrated harder, and the door burst away from the elevator car with a loud clang, smashing into the nearby shaft wall before dropping away out of sight.

“We need an exit, Master,” Obi-Wan called over his shoulder as he peered out of the gaping wound he had created in the elevator car. He looked down, but could not spot an access hatch; when he turned his head to look up, he could just make out an opening in the shaft where two Neimoidian security officers were frantically reloading their large shoulder cannon. Stretching his right hand out of the the car, Obi-Wan reached out with his mind and grasped the two unfortunate officers, imagining them in the grip of his fist. With a sudden jerk of his hand, Obi-Wan wrenched the hapless Neimoidians from their perch and down into the shaft. Their screams were cut short when their bodies crunched sickeningly against the top of the elevator car.

Obi-Wan grimaced at the sound and cast a glance back at Qui-Gon. The Master was looking at the younger man disapprovingly, with a raised eyebrow. “I am sorry, Master,” Obi-Wan apologized. “I just didn’t think that our little vehicle would do well against another blast from their cannon.” Qui-Gon just shook his head, closed his eyes, and continued to Force-lift the elevator car. Shrugging, Obi-Wan turned back to the open doorway to watch the elevator shaft seemingly fall away as they ascended.

They reached the open hatch above, and Qui-Gon held the car in place while the two men disembarked. They found themselves in another white corridor, similar to the one the drone had led them through, except that approximately one hundred meters from the elevator shaft the corridor branched into another at a ninety degree angle. As Qui-Gon took the lead and walked toward the branch, the elevator car left to scream down the shaft, a squad of fully-armored Neimoidian shock troops poured out of the adjoining corridor.

With their glossy black military-grade exoskin covering them from head to toe, including the varied skull ridges that protruded from their heads like ceremonious antlers, the squad resembled a swarm of very large, bipedal beetles. Their musculature was accentuated and enhanced by the biotechnological armor they wore, adding a distinctly threatening characteristic to their appearance. All of the soldiers carried the latest model of the Trade Federation’s most popular heavy assault blaster, and several were already raised and poised to fire upon the Jedi.

Obi-Wan threw out his left hand and Force-pushed the vanguard violently into the nearest wall. Even with the protective exoskin, the skeletons of the three unfortunate point soldiers shattered loudly as they slammed into the wall, their shouts of surprise cut short. With his right hand, Obi-Wan drew his lightsaber, the blue plasma of the blade erupting out of the hilt upon his touch. The padawan heard the distinctive buzz of his Master’s lightsaber powering on next to him, but he did not spare a glance. Instead, before the rest of the security squad could recover, Obi-Wan Force-pulled on the next two soldiers while launching himself into the air; simple physics did the rest for him, sending him flying through the corridor towards the soldiers hurtling straight toward him. Before they could collide, Obi-Wan used the Force to push himself down to the floor, fatally smashing the two soldiers against the corridor’s ceiling. Their bodies hadn’t even collapsed to the floor by the time Obi-Wan bounded into the midst of the remaining squad.

The surviving members of the squad had finally managed to start discharging their weapons, but with Obi-Wan among them in extremely close quarters, and with Qui-Gon using his lightsaber to easily deflect any stray plasma rounds that shot down the corridor toward him, their resistance was far too weak and too late to save them. Obi-Wan’s blue saber buzzed and whirred lethally, hewing through the squad with ease. The intense heat from the plasma blade cauterized as it cut, so that by the time Obi-Wan was finished and the seven bodies of his victims lay about him in various pieces, only very little of their deep purple blood tarnished the brilliant white walls and floor of the corridor.

Obi-Wan straightened out of his fighting stance and powered off his lightsaber. He drew open his robe and placed his lightsaber against the outside of his right thigh. The electrotissue of his exoskin eagerly stretched out and grasped the hilt of the weapon, securing the lightsaber to the padawan’s side.

Qui-Gon calmly approached the outside edge of the carnage, his lightsaber already securely tucked away beneath his robe as well. Glancing around at the bodies, Qui-Gon shook his head sadly.

“Ours is a tragic task,” he commented. “Such a waste of life.” Obi-Wan nodded in agreement. “The fleet commanders should know better than to use aggression in an attempt to stop Jedi,” he continued.

“I believe the problem is that their superiors did not care for their lives,” Obi-Wan suggested sagely. “These soldiers were expendable, meant to slow us down.”

“I hope they see how little time that afforded them,” Qui-Gon said a bit louder than needed, for the benefit of whomever might be monitoring the security feeds of the corridor. “No doubt, though,” he directed to Obi-Wan more quietly, “they will continue to try. It is time to discard our outerwear, Obi-Wan. We will get to the bottom of this dispute, even if the our hosts choose the barbaric route over civilized negotiations.”

Obi-Wan obediently disrobed, revealing the off-white exoskin he wore beneath. The armor molded to the padawan’s bare skin, mimicking his musculature, the physique of young man trained for combat since childhood. The armor was about two centimeters thick, adding considerable bulk to Obi-Wan’s body. He was a small man, at a height of 170 centimeters compared to Qui-Gon’s 185, but his frame was wider and his body younger; particularly with the exoskin, Obi-Wan looked like he was built for war.

The padawan imagined the armor extending itself to cover his head and face, and the thought sent the appropriate signals to the cluster of nerve receptors plugged into the small implant at the base of Obi-Wan’s neck. The exoskin responded immediately, the bulge of extra electrotissue that ringed Obi-Wan’s shoulders surging upward, growing over his head to form a featureless mask and helmet. Millions of nanoscopic bioreceptors on the ends of each fiber of electrotissue covering his face constantly fed visual and auditory data directly into Obi-Wan’s nervous system, giving him enhanced sight and hearing capabilities.

When he turned to look at Master Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan saw that the Jedi Master was also now completely covered in armor, with the same featureless mask presented to the world. Obi-Wan briefly noted that a fully armored Jedi was likely terrifying to his or her enemies.

Let us find this Captain Tukhano and Vice-President Nguwen, shall we? Qui-Gon’s voice was projected directly into Obi-Wan’s auditory receptors via the exoskins’ ad hoc network. The Jedi turned down the corridor where the security team had come from, walking at a brisk pace.

Obi-Wan cast a glance around at the bodies and parts strewn around him. Using the Force to quickly gather his victims’ remains into a neat pile, the padawan draped both his and Qui-Gon’s large brown robes over the pile. Finished, Obi-Wan bowed respectfully toward the bodies, and then turned in a smart about-face and jogged down the corridor to catch up with his master.

This thread is going to be a tribute to Star Wars, and as such will feature many characters, plot elements, and other similarities to George Lucas’s vision of the fantastic universe he created. We do not own the rights to those things, and this will only be a work of fan fiction. This material is free to any user, we will not be using the material for any commercial purposes, and we do not endorse the use of any of this material in any commercial setting by any other user.

Also, to all the Star Wars fans out there: please don’t hate us for the angle we’re taking with this. It is simply a creative experiment to see how things might have unfolded if the Star Wars stories had taken place in a universe just a little bit more grounded in realism, with modern sci-fi technologies (things that George Lucas, through no fault of his own, could not have even imagined in the ’70s) and a much darker, more adult take on what a “galactic” war might actually look like.

We still love Star Wars! This is simply a direct product of our affection for the amazing universe that George Lucas created and allowed us to grow up with. We hope you enjoy!

I want to take this time to apologize to readers for the hiatus between posts. It’s my turn for the next post, and I have quite a bit written, but I recently went through several employment changes and I don’t have as much time to write as I used to. Nevertheless, the next post is coming, and I hope you will enjoy reading!

Mikol [sic]

It was more a beast than a man standing before him. Isryle had heard of locals protecting their lands with monsters from a distant past, but had always figured it was superstitious legends spurred by fear. The thing standing before him was at least twice his height, with arms as wide as him. It held a giant club lazily in its spiked fingers. On its head, the creature wore an ash-covered helmet that hid most of its face. All Isryle could see were the glowing orange eyes. Most of its body was covered in armor, and that which was not armored was as dark as tar. In fact, the only reason Isryle first considered it a man was the fact that it was a bi-bed wearing armor. Upon closer examination he wasn’t entirely sure. The thing tilted its head and gripped its club a bit more tightly.

Isryle lifted his hands before him, hoping the creature would recognize his sign of defenselessness. “I mean you no harm.” He spoke in a calm voice. “I’m just looking for shelter for the night, and perhaps a place to restock my supplies.” It continued to stand there, watching him. Isryle took this as encouragement and continued.  “I don’t want to fight, but if you attack me I will kill you. And, honestly, if there is one thing that I detest, it’s senseless death.” The creature made a sound that sounded like a chuckle. At least, Isryle hoped it sounded like a chuckle. It could have been a growl. “I’m going to demonstrate.” With that said, Isryle whipped his gun from his sling and shot the club out of the creature’s hand in less than a second. He kicked his spear up off the floor where he had dropped it when raising his hands in peace. Slinging his shotgun, Isryle ran over to the creature and knocked its legs out from beneath it, and jumped back before it crashed into the ground. His gun was now shoved into the creature’s face.

Its eyes were emotionless, but it moved its hands up as Isryle had before, in a display of defeat. Isryle took his finger off of the trigger and walked backwards a ways. He then slung his gun back behind him. The creature placed its left arm on the floor and pushed, allowing it to climb to its feet. Now that Isryle was so close, his neck was bent backwards as he stared up at the giant’s glowing eyes. And then they dimmed.

The creature’s chest began to split down the middle before cracking  and splitting in a flash of blinding light. Isryle lifted his arm to shield his eyes from the brilliant rays. He’d seen this before. It was as if standing before the sun. And then it was gone. He opened his eyes just as the naked man jumped out from the chest of the thing. A naked man covered in tattoos. His wounds still bleeding from the spikes he’d just removed. “That was cool.” The man said. Isryle’s heart stopped as he examined the wytch before him. It wasn’t a man but a boy. He looked no older than sixteen. Still. It was dangerous.

Isryle shoved the gun into the boy’s face. Honestly, he was terrified. Though the wytch had no stakes on him, it was always better to be safe than sorry. “Wha—what is that?” He said in almost a whisper. The boy looked just as terrified. He had his hands lifted again as if to convey his harmlessness. Isryle knew better.

“I thought you said you detest senseless killing.” The boy squeaked.  

“I’ve spent half your lifetime hunting your kind, boy. I know what your kind is capable of. I’m just looking for a reason not to kill you. Now: what is that thing?”

“I—I don’t know, to be perfectly honest.” The boys arms were still raised with his palms out as he tried inching away from the gun. “I mean, it’s been the protector of my village for my entire life. We take turns guarding our haven. Today was my first day.” He gulped as sweat poured down his brow. “Can I put on some clothes? Maybe?”

Isryle nodded, but kept the gun leveled at the boy’s nose. He crouched down and slung his pack from off his shoulder. “Crouch down with me. I’ll give you my coat. I don’t want you grabbing any of your stakes.” The boy looked puzzled, but obeyed. With his free hand, Isryle reached into his pack and pulled out his heavy desert cloak. He tossed it to the boy, who nimbly caught it.
As the boy placed the cloak over his head, Isryle turned to examine the defender of the village. Inside, he could see the spikes that had pierced the child’s body, which he assumed was how it got its power. A Weapon of Old. It clicked. He’d heard of the machines that had played a part in the war that lead to the Rending. He’d never bothered to imagine what they might look like.

The boy raised his arms again after he was dressed. “So. Can I ask you why?”  Isryle lifted an eyebrow as the boy continued. “Why have you been hunting us?”

The corner of his mouth twitched as he smirked. “That’s…mostly personal, kid. But, I’ve never been asked before. And if I’m going to kill you, I think I’d prefer you to know why. It was your people that were the catalyst for the destruction of the Old God. Your people, your machines. Your war. And now we have a demon watching over us. The new God. The Artist. Have you heard of him out here?” The boy shook his head. Negative. “Well. I work for the new God. And he wants you, some of you anyways, exterminated.”

“If he’s such a monster, why do you do his bidding?” The boy questioned.

Isryle’s face became stern. “The only way to stab someone in the back is to get them to offer it to you. The Artist sees almost all, and turns his back on very little. I’m that very little.”

“There’s more, I know it.” The boy’s eyes had narrowed. He was a good eye for a liar. “Tell me.”

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Frey.” He replied.

Isryle nodded before standing back up. “Well. When you go crazy,” the boy again looked puzzled, “I hunt you. And if you can best me, well then that will make you the End-Bringer. The one the Artist is looking for. The one I’m looking for. I want to find him. Fast.”

“Can I ask you some more questions? You seem to know a bit about us….” Isryle nodded. “Well, what do you mean by stakes?”

Isryle was taken aback. “Uh…Wh—How…” He closed his mouth and lifted his coat to reveal the spikes he had in his criss-crossed belts. He pulled one out and tossed it to the wytch. “That’s a stake. It’s what allows you to burn. To use your gift. Like in your weapon.” He said as he nodded towards the giant. The boy nodded and tossed it back to the wytch-hunter.

“I’ve never seen one. And I don’t entirely know what you’re talking about. But thanks. What do you mean ‘go crazy’?”

Isryle sighed. “I don’t know why. Perhaps as part of your punishment or maybe it’s always been so, but you wytches tend to go crazy. You hear voices. And then you go berserk. You fight, brutally. I’ve seen a wytch destroy a small army before.”

“Punishment?”

“For destroying God.” The boy fell silent after that. Isryle’s arm was getting tired from holding the gun out for so long. He lowered it. “So,” Isryle broke the silence “there are more of you in there?”

The boy nodded but remained silent, staring at the hunter. He walked over towards a large boulder and noticed Isryle tense before he plopped down, taking a seat on the rock.

Great. Isryle thought. A village of wytches. What plans does the artist have for them? Does he even care? Or is it only when they crack that he fears them? Isryle had to find the secret. It was the key to defeating the a
Artist, he knew.

“When is your watch over?” Isryle questioned.

“When the sun leaves the sky,” the wytch replied.

Isryle made his decision. “I’ll wait with you, and when I leave, I’d like you to consider coming with me.” He could teach the boy, and learn. Most importantly, if he heard God, he’d be close for the kill. No epic journey.

The boy was silent for a minute, but then replied, “I’ll go. But I have one final question. If you’ve seen one of us destroy an army, how do you kill us?”

Isryle smiled. “When fighting a crazy person, I have many advantages. The best of which is reality.”

        The dim, dying fire gave off enough light to illuminate the dark cave. This night mirrored the last one, with the obvious exception of the demon Guardian. Donovan and Sol’s temporary sanctuary had a orange hue because of their only source of warmth. He lay asleep. She sat hugging her knees. Donovan had been passed out for the majority of the last twenty-four hours. Every time the fire crackled, Sol would jump with anxiety; this night was cold despite the fire. It caused her to shiver even though the blistering sun of the day heating the surrounding desert sand and rocks. Although she was no more than three feet away from her teacher, lover, and savior, Sol was alone.

        After their confrontation with the Guardian, Sol had fallen into unconciousness leaving Donovan to make preparations for that night. He was able to carry her away some distance from their fight ground, where they both rested that night in the open desert. When sunrise came, it was Sol who got up and took charge. She nudged Don out of his sleep in order to get them out of the heat and into safety. She came to the conclusion that the best viable option was to head back the way they had come, where they knew for a fact there was shelter. What should have been around a three hour journey ended up being more around five hours due to Donovan’s tired state and that Sol had to dress the wounds that were made the night before for both the Torch and herself. Most of his injuries were actually healed by his Burning, but a few still remained that needed seeing to.

        When they got back to the canyon, the two hid in the first cave they came across. They sat near the back of the alcove and ate some of their rations. By the time they were finished, only one loaf of bread remained. Food was going to be an issue, but not one as alarming as water would be if they didn’t get out of this desert soon. 

        Donovan fell asleep after their meal and had stayed like such all day. Sleep was what she wanted – no, what she needed. That, however, evaded her like they were playing a game of cat and mouse. Thoughts plagued her mind; nothing made sense anymore. She was so sure of herself in the past, but now, she felt like a lost, frightened little girl. For some reason, this made her want to wake Donovan and leave this desert. She wanted to go somewhere more familiar, some place that felt more like home. That place didn’t exist anymore, the Artist saw to that. Just the thought of him made her shiver more. Unconsciously, Sol clenched her fists as she hugged her knees.

        Presently, the queen looked up at the cave wall opposite of her and saw something there. No, that wasn’t quite right. To “see” implies that she used her eyes; Sol felt something there. At first, she thought that it was perhaps one of the Artist’s men, or even the Artist himself, but that wasn’t the case. She felt no malice here, no animosity or even wrath. What she felt was…warm. Like something was inviting her as a friend. Come. Come, your salvation awaits, is what it said to her. It continued to say, I was made for you, and you alone. I was crafted for this day, even if neither of us knew it at the time. The mysterious forced beckoned her, and she could do nothing to ignore it.

                Sol unwrapped her arms from her legs and stood up. She turned to the shallow cave’s entrance, then stopped and looked down at Donovan; he was still sleeping peacefully. Sol didn’t feel any immediate danger in leaving him here alone for a short while, but she knew she shouldn’t stray for long. The Artist was a devious but attentive man after all. With that, the emerald eyed queen left the cave. She walked slowly, but with purpose, towards the body of water the Guardian had used as a trap. She continued on her way while feeling the wall of the canyon with her right hand. She came to a halt when she found what she was looking for. Etched into the cave wall was he words, “death will never be the end”. She traced the individual letters as if this act would reveal the deeper truths of this message. As she felt each symbol, Sol came to the realization that the force that summoned her here came from within her. Memories guided her feet here and it encouraged her fingers to softly caress each letter.

                When she was finished, Sol pulled her hand away. Her mind was flooded with the singular memory of engraving these words herself. Even though she only wrote these words four years ago, Sol reprimanded herself for being so immature.  Again, the forsaken queen felt that same mysterious force upon her. This time, however, she was able to tell that it compelled her from within; her memories were surging up again. It told her only one thing: wrong. She didn’t need it to say anymore, she knew what was wrong here. These words, they were first meant to give Sol hope, but now the hardened woman looked upon such an act as foolish and ignorant. Even back then, Sol knew the tale of God and the Usurper. She knew what terrible task was laid before her. She knew – but would not accept – that her mission was foolhardy. “Death will never be the end” were words that seemed to stem from a past long forgotten with the destruction of God into the very future. Sol scratched them into the stone for two purposes: the first was to reassure her that even with God’s death she would never stop fighting the Usurper. The second reason was to remind her that she wasn’t the only one standing up against the God slayer.

        Four years ago Sol was leaving her adolescent age and entering complete womanhood. Back then, Sol thought herself mature, intelligent, and aboveall, ready to face her fate. Now Sol found herself to have been weak and childish. She had been so focused on facing her own fate that she overlooked the importance of the person closest to her: Donovan. For the longest time Sol only considered herself as the full force opposing the Artist. She could not have been more wrong. If anything, it was possibly her contributions that were the most insignifigant.

        Donovan would be forced to bear the burden of the entire world on his shoulders, and there was so little she could do to aid him. She loathed the words she enscribed for her own cowardice almost as much as she despised herself for being so weak. She may have the only power that could confront the Artist, but she would never stop having to lean on Donovan. Even with power, she was nothing but an insect without her companion. How weak she was! Sol was certain it was her weakness that would lead Donovan to his death. Then the one real source of her happiness would come to an end. Death would be the end.

        Sol walked towards the pool of water and looked around. After only a few seconds of looking, she found what she wanted. The queen returned to the engraved message with a sharp, hand-sized rock in her hands. She bent beneath the words and started to etch something there. Unlike the  last time where she used Donovan’s knife, these letters were coming out in scribbles; a sharp, messy jumble of lines and curves that met and made obscure letters.

        Sol was finished. She stood up straight and stepped back; Sol observed that each word looked like battle scars upon the cave wall. Where as the last message was neat and readable, this one was incoherint and unattractive, perhaps symbolizing the dourness of the current situation.

        Upon the wall it now said: Death will never be the end, and below it read: Death is but a means to the end. All things come to an end. Do not be fooled by the illusion of time, do not be tricked by the subterfuge of the mind. Afterall, it is so easy to fall victim to the concept that familiar and timeless things are indeed immortal. This is especially the case when dealing with a living entity — say, for instance, humans.

        A deep-seeded realization soon took Sol as finished going over what she had just wrote. She did not trick herself into believing she understood everything — in fact, she succombed to the truth that she knew almost nothing at all — but from what she had seen, this passage was far more accurate than her last. And if that was the case, then she had to question one thing: if everything eventually came to an end, then would God fit into the category of “everything”? Is Donovan and her crusade nothing but folly then? Was there even a point in continuing?

        Of course there was, Sol resolved. Perhaps there was nothing the pair could do for God, but they still could fight the Usurper. If not for God, then for man. That would be their focus. She would make sure that the Artist would die, even if it was the last thing she did. Mankind needed a future free of a tyrants hand, of that she was sure.

        Sol, deep in thought, dropped the rock to the floor and left the cave. Though the majority of her mind was preoccupied with itself, some part realized she had to return to Donovan soon. As the emerald eye queen made her way, she went over in her mind as to figure out how she was going to explain everything to Donovan. What to tell him? How to explain their current situation?

        There is so much to explain. Do I dare say too much too soon? I’m sure there is much that he will ask about, and I have my own inquiries. Do I broach that subject? No, it was probably no more than exhaustion that forced Donovan to believe that there was more than just me with him. But that is just one of few questions in mind. So much information needs to be shared between us, but still… 

        She slowly trudged into her and Donovan’s little alcove. Sol didn’t even notice that he was awake, sitting up waiting for her to return. She simply walked right past him and sat down on her own makeshift cot.

        “Where did you go?” he asked. Sol startled at the sound of his voice. She was pulled violently from her introverted mood like gravity held everything down to the planet. 

        “Donovan! I didn’t notice you. I was just…investigating. Went back to the pond is all. We appear to be safe, which in and of itself is a mystery.” She leaned forward into his pack and produced their last piece of bread. “Here,” she said, handing the bread to him. “Eat this. I’m sure you must be hungry.”

        “But, Sol, I —”

        “Don’t worry. We need more water than food right now. I imagine if we don’t leave the desert soon, a single peice of bread will do no good. Besides, we humans can survive longer without food than without water, espescially in this environment. We can collect plenty of water from the pond — it is no longer charmed due to the Warden’s death, afterall.”

        “Fine,” Donovan muttered grudgedly. He took a meager bite of the bread then set it aside. “Sol, I need you to help me to understand. I need you to explain what is going on.”

        “I figured as much. Perhaps I should start at the very beginning. Before the Rending. There was man and all life of today, who stood along side creatures of long since past. And these life forms were bound in harmony by the presence of God. But one saw fit to throw chaos into such harmony. That one goes by the title, “The Artist”. A cruel and foul being. Usurper. Now this part, I do not know why, but the Usurper decided on his own that God had no place among the living. No one knows how, but he succeeded. The Artist gave death to God.”

        “Those of faith see shadows of deities in prophecies and the most minute of actions,” Donovan quoted.

        “Do not paint me a mindless fanatic, Wayward Sword!” she roared.

        He instinctively pulled away from her, then relaxed. “I’m sorry, Sol, but how exactly does one kill God? Is there any real evidence of these events?”

        “I understand; it is difficult to accept at first,” her tone had softened and she was no longer yelling. “Have you ever felt like there was an emptiness within? Like there was a hollow void in you that you could never really fill? Don’t lie. I know you feel it like I do. That is our humanity telling us we are nothing without our Father. Then there is also the Rending to consider. When God died, the world was reshaped. The planet was scarred and creatures went extinct.”

        “How exactly did that happen? I mean, how could God’s death cause all that?” For some reason, even though any solid evidence of what Sol said was true was missing, Don felt a powerful compulsion to believe in her with all his heart.

         “You see, the creatures of today sort of….evolved. We adapted to a life style where God was no longer a necessity even before the Rending. Those creatures that were lost to the abyss did not.”

        Silence ensued for a minute or two afterwards. It felt like an eternity to Sol. Would Donovan shoulder the future with her — could he? His deccision had been made, eons before his own birth perhaps, but the queen was oblivious to that fact at the time.

        “Sol, you made references to ‘Wardens’,” Don said.  “That thing we fought — that demon — was that one of those Wardens?”

        “Yes.”

        “Why would the Usurper send one of his Wardens after us? In fact, for that matter, what did they plan to do with you?”

        “I don’t know, Donovan. If the Usurper sent one of his top warriors after us, that must mean he sees merrit in our death. It seemed to me that your death was the prime objective, but I don’t see how that could be right. I can say this for now, however. The Usurper sees all. He observes and documents what he wills. It wouldn’t be unreasonable to assume he watches us even now.”

        Donovan showed obvious signs of internal strife with this new development. After awhile, he replied, “Even so…we dealt with one Warden, so that means one of these Pillar things is destroyed, right? So then, where do we go from here?” Donovan presently looked down at the remaining piece of bread in his hand, lifted it to his lips and took a bite.

        ” I have good and bad news on that subject. The good news is that we did manage to destroy a cursed Pillar, but I’m sure the Usurper has many more for us to deal with. I know of their existance, and yet I don’t know where they are or how many of them there are. Great source of information I am!” she joked. Donovan, however, saw a total lack of mirth in her eyes. Solemnly, Sol continued, “I think we must destroy all the Pillars, even though I know not how many there are. Once that is done we may finally have a chance to place our hands around the throat of the Usurper! But first, we must leave this damned desert. This merciless land may yet be the death of us both.”

         She wanted to say more. She wanted to check on her people; no, she would need to go to the capital, Cunabula Deus. Not now. They couldn’t afford to go right now, but soon. It was her duty as the queen.

        “Well then,” Donovan said. He quickly finished off the bread and stood up. “We should be on our way, right, Sol?”

        Asking about his wounds at this point would be useless. “Yes, I think that would be best. We can’t stay in one place for too long with that cursed Usurper always about.” She too got up and began to pack up their belongings. “We’ll make quick work of crossing this desert.”

        The two companions were packed and ready in a matter of seconds. Donovan did the best he could to cover up their fire even though it was a futile effort. He shouldered his pack and meet Sol outside the cave.

        “I think we should go west,” Sol voiced.

        “West it is then.”

        Sol the queen and Donovan the Torch turned westward and began their trek all over again. This time, however, their feet marched with a purpose in mind now. Still, shadows squirmed all around them, snapping at their heels. Purpose helped, but this evil would be upon them and then crash down upon them with ferocity. And soon, too.

They had been walking for almost ten minutes, hand in hand, and he still hadn’t said anything. Sol had felt guilty from the moment he had found her, and watching Donovan attempt to conceal the pain from his earlier burn while they walked evoked another surge of guilt and brought a lump to her throat. Donovan was a great man and a great friend, and he deserved better than her deception. Sol would have given away her crown and her power if saving her people hadn’t required drawing Donovan into this trap; however, she had learned years ago, and from Donovan himself, that when others’ lives depended on her, there was never an easy choice.

“I give up,” Donovan said, coming to an abrupt halt.

A small cloud of dust puffed up from the ground as he stamped his feet down. The night was too dark for Sol to make out the fate of this cloud as it spread and dissipated. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves, and then Sol looked up at Donovan, only to find that he had not turned to look at her. He dropped her hand and raised both of his in confusion as he looked down to examine himself. Sol, still worried that Donovan was hurt that she had lead him into a trap, said nothing.

“Why, in the name of all things good and righteous, am I still as sopping wet as a Falcyrian high priestess?”

Sol blinked as though slapped. She had forgotten how vulgar Donovan could be, and despite everything his question made her flush with embarrassment. She stammered for a moment, and then indignation overwhelmed her shock and guilt. It did not occur to Sol until much later that Donovan had probably been vulgar specifically to knock her out of her introspective guilt trip.

“I haven’t seen or heard from you for three years, I get kidnapped and used as the bait in an obvious trap, you don’t say a word to me during your ‘daring’ rescue, and then the first thing you decide to talk about is the fact that you haven’t dried off from your dip in the pool yet? And you still can’t think of anything other than sex? What the fuck is wrong with you, Donovan?” Her voice had been increasing in volume while she spoke, so that by the time she reached her last question she was screaming at her mentor and occasional lover.

Donovan slowly, unhurriedly turned to face her. The bright night sky provided enough light for Sol to see the twinkle of mischief in Donovan’s eyes, despite the look of concern on his face.

“It’s always going to be ‘Donovan’ with you, won’t it, Sol? Never ‘Don.’ I like that.” Sol was used to Donovan’s odd tangents, and she waited for him to get back on topic. “And, no, sex is not the only thing on my mind,” he admonished, waggling an index finger at her. “It just happens to be very high on my list of daily priorities.” Donovan cocked his head and his eyes took on a faraway look, as though he was listening to something that Sol could not hear, and then he glanced down at his wet clothes and skin. He had, apparently, remembered what he had started talking about in the first place.

“Anyway, I know that you know that I knew this was a trap.” Donovan paused. “That was quite a mouthful, wasn’t it?”

“Donovan,” Sol said threateningly.

“Right, right. Well, I figure you must have a good reason for all of this, and since you haven’t told me yet, I must also assume that now is not the time for me to know. I realize that if I were to ask you about it now, you would simply deflect; therefore, I decided to find out if you knew anything about this baffling hydration issue.”

Sol stared at her friend for a moment, and then she broke into laughter. The puzzled look of consternation on Donovan’s face only encouraged her amusement, and Sol doubled over with the exertion of laughing so hard.

God, it’s been so long since I’ve laughed like this, Sol thought to herself. Only Donovan could make me laugh while the world falls apart before my eyes.

“Well?” Donovan demanded, obviously a little frustrated with Sol’s sudden outburst. “Damn it, Sol, why are we still wet? In this arid climate, we should be mostly dry by now.”

“You…are…so…weird,” Sol gasped between fits of deep, freeing laughter.

Despite the circumstances, despite the angry storm clouds quickly approaching from the north, and the danger they represented, it was good to be back with Donovan. She had gotten so used to the feeling of missing him that the void in her life had started to feel normal.

“Don’t give me that ‘I told you so’ crap,” Donovan spat angrily, looking up into the night sky, as though talking to some unseen phantom. “You know, just as well as I do, that I’m right. Sol knows I’m right about this one too, and she’s just surprised that I was perceptive enough to recognize it as the truly disconcerting issue in this mess.” His eyes snapped down, suddenly focused on Sol again. “I hate it when you fuckers keep important information from me,” he growled.

Sol, still doubled over, raised an open palm in a placating gesture as she struggled to reign in the last bouts of her wild laughter. She closed her eyes and practiced some deep breathing exercises, straightening her posture as she did so.

“Peace, Wayward Sword,” Sol breathed, opening her eyes to look at Donovan once again. Behind him, she could see that the malicious storm clouds she had spotted in the north were much, much closer than they had been only a few moments ago. They were advancing at an unnatural speed. There was little time left.

“The water was imbued with a…personality, you might call it,” Sol explained. “It is acting as a tracking and identifying mechanism. Without it, the creature that is now hunting us would not be able to perceive our existence, in much the same way that a hurricane cannot imagine our existence. The trapper that changed the water is also hoping that, with a part of His soul still clinging to your body, He will be able to prevent you from burning while you fight His creature.”

Donovan frowned, all levity vanishing from his face. “You’ve found others? What have you gotten yourself into, Sol?”

“They’re not like me, Donovan,” Sol replied, shaking her head slightly and giving him a meaningful look, hoping he say more.

Careful, she thought, you’re treading on dangerous ground here. Until Donovan is burning, the Usurper can still see and hear us if He’s watching through one of His windows. None of us can afford to lose even the tiny advantage we have by keeping my power secret from Him.

“But what you’re talking about is not the physical power of a Torch, Sol. What you’re talking about is more like—”

“Donovan!” Sol interrupted sharply. “Please,” she added in a softer tone. Donovan finally seemed to take the hint, and his mouth clamped shut mid-sentence. He tilted his head quizzically, but said nothing further.

“We’re out of time anyway.” Sol pointed at the storm behind Donovan’s shoulders. A thick, jagged bolt of lightning arced up to the heavy clouds from the desert floor less than a mile away just as Sol spoke. Donovan spun as the purple electricity lit the night in a brilliant flash, his arms raised in defense, and his legs spread apart in a familiar fighting stance.

“What the fu—”

Donovan’s incredulous question was cut off by a deafening peal of thunder. Sol understood the sentiment, though. The once clear night sky was now completely obscured by a raging, boiling mess of angry clouds. The storm had approached so quickly that to Donovan, who had not been watching its progress, it must have seemed to materialize out of nowhere.

“I’ll explain later, Wayward Sword. Assuming we survive this.” Sol stepped forward and placed a hand on Donovan’s right shoulder. He did not break his stance, but he did glance back at her. “You cannot win this fight, Donovan,” she said quietly, almost whispering. “And I cannot win it for you. Not until you burn. I’m sorry that I cannot tell you more.”

And then the rain started to fall. Actually, Sol noted, that was a terrible description. The storm dumped rain on the exiled queen and her warrior companion. Though she had never seen a waterfall, Donovan had once described the sensation of standing underneath a powerful cascade to her, and Sol imagined she must now be feeling what he had felt then. She felt as though the rain was driving her into the ground like a hammer would a nail.

It was difficult to see very far through the haze of rain and darkness, but Sol thought she could see forms taking shape around them. Ethereal, fluid, shifting shapes that could be men or beasts. Though Sol squinted and used her hands as a makeshift canopy for her eyes, she could not make out their true, definitive forms. Considering what she knew of the creature that the Usurper had set upon them, it was entirely possible that those shapes did not have definitive forms anyway.

She could not see them properly, but Sol could feel them. Their malice burned into her, and her skin prickled with the fire of their hatred. When she looked at her bare skin, she half expected steam to be rising from her, the cold rain water instantly evaporating under the heat of those forms’ vicious intentions.

“Water? I have to fight water?” Donovan hissed beside her. Before she could respond, he was talking again. “Have I told you before that you are a completely useless deity?”

Puzzled, Sol thought to ask the Wayward Sword what he was talking about, but he was on the move before she could form the question. In one smooth motion, Donovan unsheathed two steel stakes and slammed them into his thighs. He screamed in agony, but nothing else happened. No light burst forth from his skin, and even in the torrential downpour Sol could see dark patches forming on his trousers around the stakes. He was bleeding profusely. It was as Sol had feared: the Usurper and his Warden were preventing Donovan from burning.

“Keep trying, Donovan!” Sol shouted to be heard over the staccato beat of heavy rain. “I’ll do what I can to help light you, but you’re going to need more spikes!”

Sol saw her friend’s shaking hands reaching for his pack, and then the world erupted into pain and confusion. One of the Warden’s creatures slammed into Sol’s back, sending her sprawling to the muddy ground. Only Donovan’s peerless combat skills saved her from the gnashing, snarling mouth of the watery fiend. Even with metal stakes stabbed deep into his legs, even without the extra strength, balance, and speed that a Torch would normally have gained with the spikes, Donovan was incredible.

Sol crawled a short distance away and stood, mesmerized by the sight of the Wayward Sword locked in mortal combat with two of the water golems. Donovan was a flurry of muscle and steel, his unremarkable short sword in one hand and a spike in the other. As impressive as he was, though, Donovan was now fighting an enemy unlike any he had ever encountered. He was fighting Sol’s battle. She cursed to herself as she watched Donovan decapitate each of the water golems several times. Each time, the golem would collapse, dissolving into a harmless pool of water; after a few moments, however, it would reform and continue its assault on her friend. At this point, the best Donovan could do was slow the golems down and prevent them from hurting him or Sol. He would not last long.

“The stakes, Donovan! I can’t help you without the stakes!”

Another set of golems formed from the surrounding water, and these lunged at Sol. She had no weapons, but she had been Donovan’s pupil in years past. She had only gotten more dangerous with time. Spinning, kicking, punching, and ripping, she pit herself against the golems. Each strike felt odd, like hitting a being made of gelatin, but with a small, hopefully undetectable application of her mind, she was able to add a little bit of extra force to each blow.

It was extremely difficult to keep track of Donovan’s progress while she fought, but she was able to determine that he had quickly plunged another three stakes into his chest. He still wasn’t burning, which meant that he must still be bleeding. She knew that he would not be able to last much longer if she did not help him light, and even as she watched, a golem clamped its powerful jaws around Donovan’s sword arm and shook him like a rag doll. Sol heard bones snap, and the Wayward Sword’s primal cry of anguish. His sword dropped to the mud, and Sol rolled under a flying attack from one of the golems, coming up with sword in hand. With a clean arc of the blade, she severed the head of Donovan’s attacker, and the Wayward Sword slumped to his knees.

Sol gritted her teeth, standing over Donovan, preparing to fight the pack of golems on her own. She needed to give Donovan time to impale himself on more of his steel stakes, and she also needed to push back against the combined wills of the Usurper and His Warden. If Donovan couldn’t get enough of the spikes in himself, she would be forced to play her hand now, which would likely spell doom for the world and its inhabitants. She could only fight and have faith in Donovan.

The warrior queen screamed and went on the offensive, slashing and stabbing, becoming a whirlwind of violence and death. She would never be the warrior that Donovan was—no one could ever be the warrior that Donovan was—but Sol’s prowess in battle was spectacular. She released her body, the way Donovan had taught her, allowing it to act and react without the hindrance of a mind occupied by doubt, fear, and worry.

Fortunately, the golems were neither warriors nor tacticians, relying on brute force and their maddening immortality to wear down their opponents. For Sol, that was a blessing; the golems’ lack of imagination meant that her body needed very little instruction from her conscious mind in order to fend them off, freeing her to wage another, more subtle battle on Donovan’s behalf. Her stamina simply needed to carry her forward long enough for the Wayward Sword to burn.

Trusting her body to do what was needed, Sol retreated from the physical world, reaching out with her mind to gently probe the forces that bound Donovan. Brushing against the wills of the Usurper and the Warden with her will was like stepping on something slimy and unpleasant in the dark; her first instinct was to pull away immediately, lest she be infected or sullied in some way. The queen growled quietly and forced herself to quest along the intricate bindings preventing Donovan from burning, searching for weak links. Whenever she found one, she would carefully push on it until she felt resistance, the Usurper and the Warden unconsciously pushing back, and then she would move on. She needed to weaken their hold on Donovan as much as possible, but she also couldn’t risk alerting them to her power.

After a few minutes that felt like hours, Sol was physically and mentally exhausted. She had done all that she could for Donovan with her mind, so she came back to her body, focusing on the fight as her weary body began to falter. Ducking under the wild lunge of one golem, Sol came back up with the sword in a modified uppercut, splitting another golem in half. She risked a quick glance down at Donovan, and she found him slumped over, a spike in his right hand and a dozen or so stabbed into his body at important convergence zones. It looked like he was unconscious.

Sol’s momentary distraction cost her, and a reformed golem slammed into her chest, causing her to trip over Donovan’s unresponsive form. Even falling, though, Sol managed to maneuver the short sword between her and the golem, so that it impaled the creature as it fell upon her. With a grunt of pain, she landed on her back in the mud, the impaled golem gnashing its teeth just inches from her face. Sol groaned with effort and kicked the vile creature off of her, sending the sword flying with it. The emerald-eyed queen knew that she had reached the end of the battle—in just a moment, she would have to use her power to destroy the golems, even if Donovan couldn’t burn to hide her from the eyes of the Usurper.

Desperately, Sol sat up and scrambled over to Donovan, clawing at his shirt to reveal his bare, tattooed back. She yanked the stake out of her friend’s slack hand and raised her arm, intent on stabbing the metal object through a convergence zone at the base of Donovan’s skull. She didn’t even know if the man she loved was still alive, or if she was about to stab his lifeless body for no reason.

“He cannot save you now, pretty little insect,” said a musical, yet sinister voice.

The rain let up, becoming a much more natural desert shower, and the remaining golems stood in a perimeter around the two fallen warriors. They did not attack or pace as they had at the beginning, instead standing firm, almost completely immobile. Sol jealously noted that they weren’t even breathing hard after the exertion of their combat, but then she reminded herself that they were golems. Their creator, the Warden, probably hadn’t even built lungs into them.

In the darkness before her, a tall, willowy shape materialized out of the rain. The Warden. He was humanoid in shape, with two legs, two arms, a neck, and a head. He had five fingers on each hand, and five toes on each foot, but they were all long, thin, and sharp at the end, like claws. The Warden probably stood at a height of about eight feet, and his frame seemed so thin as to be frail. Sol knew, however, that the normal rules of the physical world did not entirely apply to the twisted creature that stood before her. And whereas his body could almost be mistaken for some giant of a man, the Warden’s face was almost completely alien. He had wide, slit-shaped eyes without lids, three vertical openings in the center of his face where a nose should have been, and a lipless mouth filled with hundreds of sharp, predatory teeth. The creature’s skin was also bizarre, like the rough bark of an oak tree, but jet black and glossy, like the exoskeleton of a beetle. Though the Warden wore no clothes, he had no apparent sexual organs; still, Sol knew without a doubt that the creature was male. She could feel his malevolent presence trying to worm its way inside her mind.

“You humans are fascinating creatures,” the Warden continued, his voice almost pleasant to Sol’s ears, but disturbing to her soul. “Like a colony of insects: building, destroying, moving, breeding, fighting, dying, and struggling to survive. All the while, you are completely blind to the world around you, completely blind to the existence of those greater than yourselves. Much like ants are oblivious to your existence, other than a vague perception of a force of nature, I would think.” The abhorrent creature slowly walked toward Sol and Donovan as it spoke. Each step that brought it nearer to her sent a deep wave of primal fear down Sol’s spine. “Without direction, without purpose, your kind will destroy this world,” the Warden chided. “The Artist requires the purge of God in order to give you that purpose, little insect. The Splinter must die.”

Sol’s eyebrows furrowed as she caught the faintest whisper of a sound outside of the Warden’s terrifying voice. She cocked her head downward, toward Donovan, and heard the sound again. This time, she heard the words.

“Put the fucking stake in me, woman,” Donovan breathed.

Sol did not hesitate. She was glad to find that Donovan wasn’t dead, and she was worried that stabbing him with the spike would only be the killing blow, instead of lighting him, but she had little choice. Her arm slammed down onto the Wayward Sword’s back, the steel tool piercing his flesh and spine.

Immediately, Donovan’s skin burst into a brilliant white light. Sol hissed in pain, closing her eyes and throwing her arms up before her so that she wouldn’t be blinded. From what seemed like a great distance away, she heard the Warden shriek in agony. The golems wailed as they dissolved, the Warden unable to sustain their forms while blinded and assaulted by the pure, holy light erupting from Donovan’s flesh.

There was a moment when Sol feared she really would be blinded by the small sun that Donovan had become, and then the brilliant spot of light shot away from her at inhuman speed. She heard another shriek from the Warden and a deafening boom as the Wayward Sword slammed into the creature with the force of a stampeding herd of horses. The queen opened her eyes as the physical conflict moved well away from her.

The Warden and the Wayward Sword clashed again and again in the desert arena, a shining star smashing repeatedly into a black void. The sounds of their battle shook the very ground, and Sol was sure that if they hadn’t already moved so far away from her, she would be going deaf as well as blind. She had never seen so many stakes in a Torch, and she could only imagine the raw physical power that Donovan now commanded. She no longer had to worry for the safety of her friend, since there was nothing the Warden could do to hurt Donovan at this point; however, Sol also knew that the epic battle in the night could not be won be either combatant. It was true that Donovan was now so much stronger and faster than the Warden that the creature couldn’t hurt him, but even though the creature could feel pain, it could not be killed through physical means.

“Donovan!” Sol shouted into the night. She did not worry about the distance that separated them—all of Donovan’s senses were enhanced when he burned, which meant that he could easily hear her despite the rain, distance, and the thunderclaps of each brutal impact. “You can’t kill that thing! I need you with me!”

She waited, standing in the rain and mud, her legs set apart in a balancing stance. The bright spot that was Donovan disengaged from the Warden and dashed back to her side. The fight had moved hundreds of yards away from her, but Donovan reached Sol in a matter of seconds. She threw up a hand to shield her eyes when he approached, and then he was standing just behind her, casting her shadow far into the night. It was an odd experience, to know that the night still enveloped her, and to see darkness on the horizon, yet she felt almost as though she was standing in the light of day.

“Do what you are going to do,” Donovan commanded. His voice resounded inside Sol’s head, as though he had reached into her mind and placed the words there. She had never been comfortable talking to Donovan while he burned.

Sol clapped her hands together in front of her, her arms held straight out, parallel to the ground. A shock wave of sheer willpower radiated away from her, a ripple that brushed aside the rain as it rushed outward. When it reached the Warden, Sol bent her elbows up, her hands still pressed together like she was praying. The ripple instantly contracted, pulling the howling creature with it. An instant later, the chitinous Warden hung suspended in the air a few feet before Sol. She held him there with her mind. The Warden’s will felt wretchedly feeble struggling against Sol’s awesome power.

The Warden screamed in agony again. He was unable to close or shield his eyes, and Sol knew that she had blinded the creature by forcing him to stare into Donovan’s light. The queen closed her eyes, holding the existence of the Warden in sharp focus in her mind. She took a deep breath, and as she exhaled, she dissolved his will, erasing the image in her mind. Her eyes snapped open, and the Warden’s body began to drift away in small parts, like flakes of ash drifting away from a scorched log of wood. Seconds later, the Warden no longer existed, and the violent storm he had conjured stopped raining as abruptly as it had started.

“Remind me not to piss you off,” Donovan’s mighty voice boomed in Sol’s head. The words would normally have been playful, but the only emotion that a Torch’s voice evoked was awe. Still, Sol smirked at the comment, watching the clouds break apart to reveal stars in the sky once again.

She felt exhausted after exerting so much power on the fabric of the universe, but Sol felt that she still owed Donovan something of an explanation. “Our world is quite a bit more complicated than we ever imagined, Donovan,” Sol started. “There is a…being…out there, watching all of us. He killed God, Donovan, long ago. He created Wardens to imprison and control nature, and He called them the Pillars of the World. He thinks of Himself as an artist, but He fears free will. He has been using the Wardens and His own will to manipulate the decisions and destinies of humankind since the Rending.

“I need you to help me find Him, Donovan. He has been consolidating power for more than a thousand years, and it won’t be much longer before anyone who even knows of His existence is gone forever. We may be humanity’s last chance at resisting. Humanity’s last chance to forge a destiny of our own, Donovan.”

“Am I to assume that this God-killer does not know what you intend?” Donovan’s question almost seemed accusatory.

“Because of you, yes. Something about the power of a Torch eludes His perception.”

“Which means that you are hidden from Him when I burn near you.” It was not a question. Donovan understood now, and Sol could tell that on some level he did not approve.

He doesn’t want to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, Sol thought, even if he’s sharing the burden with me. She couldn’t blame him. It was incredibly daunting to think that she had just started a war most people would never comprehend, a war for the future of every man, woman, and child on the planet.

Sol was startled out of her introspection when Donovan’s hand fell on her shoulder. He was burning so brightly that she couldn’t make out the features of his hand, and his skin was almost hot to the touch. An unnatural sense of peace swept through her on contact, and she sighed tiredly, contentedly.

“You two have quite a lot of explaining to do,” Donovan said. With the Wayward Sword’s burning hand on her shoulder, Sol felt too serene to firmly hold her curiosity in her mind, and her confusion with Donovan’s inability to count accurately slipped away from her. “But now you must rest, Sol.” She simply nodded, her eyelids drooping shut, as she drifted away into an ocean of bright calm.

        The man sat at his desk facing the only door into the room. Scattered across the table were scraps of paper and a few pencils. The desk itself was plain and bland. It only had four legs and a top. No ornaments. No meaningless decoration. No pointless drawers that would undoubtedly have been only used as trash containers if they were there. It wasn’t even made of some fancy wood like mahogany. The door was very much like the desk; it was only there for practical reasons and not decoration. The floor beneath the man was covered with white tiles so close together that it was nearly impossible to see the asphalt. None of this registered to the man sitting at the desk.

        Daedalus sat with his head resting on his arm, which in turn stood with its elbow implanted into the desk. He ignored the paperwork before him, finding no interest in such affairs. He wanted to get back to work, but at this stage it was just too boring. With a sigh, Daedalus stood up and went to one of two windows behind his work bench. They both rested on thin air, floating above the ground and standing too far out to be part of the wall. Both windows had been “drawn” by the Artist for the practical use of keeping an eye on immediate interests.

        The night sky on the other side of the windows did little to contrast the dimness created by a single candle that sat on the top right most corner of the desk. The flame seemed to be dancing with the wind on the other side of the windows. It wouldn’t stay this way for long though. Dawn was soon to be on the horizon. Daedalus gave it three to four hours until sunrise; to him that was only like a couple of minutes.

        Daedalus only cared for one of the windows right now, however. He observed as the wytch and his fair maiden fled from where she had been held. They were making their long trek out of the desert. So far, things were going as planned. The wytch-boy had to die, and the girl — Sol — was just as dangerous. Currently in the desert, the wytch lead the girl by the hand further into the desert night. Futile efforts. Daedalus had planned on such an occurrence.

        The trap has been set. The boy must know that by now. The best part about that is that even though he knows, there is nothing he can do about it. This trap — this artifice — truly was an elegant solution to a barbaric problem. And this dilemma was indeed barbaric as it was tied closely with the primitive natures of the past, Daedalus thought.

        “Don’t underestimate the boy, Daedalus,” said a deep, sagely voice behind him. Daedalus turned around to see his “muse” standing in front of his desk, like he had always been there. Daedalus looked upon the old man standing before him. The elder had lacked both of his arms for as long as Daedalus knew him. The old man had a smooth, silky white beard that went down to the base of his neck. His hair was balding and the hairline was retreating. Other than his lack of arms, however, the most noticeable feature was the crown that lay on his head. The crown looked older than the man himself; it was rusted and showed countless signs of decay. Daedalus could see that the protruding towers at the top of the crown were crumbling away and breaking apart. Adonai was the muse’s name.

        “I didn’t hear you come in, old friend,” Daedalus expressed.

        “Don’t underestimate the wytch, Daedalus,” Adonai repeated as if the other man hadn’t said a word.

        “Yes, I heard you. Don’t worry about that bit. I’ve got one of my most dependable men on it. He succeeded at taking the girl, did he not? The boy would be no more than a tad bit of exercise.”

        “Dependable you say? Which mindless lackey is it now? Is it that one hunter…what was his name again? Oh, yes. You mean to send Isryle after the boy?” Adonai chuckled to himself at that notion.

        “I said ‘dependable’. Isryle doesn’t fit that bill. No, he is more useful than dependable. Isryle is simply a tool to be used.”

        “But such tools only function properly when they don’t know they are such. Do not underestimate the boy,” Adonai repeated sternly. “And now I must caution you to not underestimate the hunter.”

        “Yes, very well, as long as you shut the hell up, old man. As I was saying, I will trust this stage of the trap to someone far more dependable. A Pillar, if you must know. Ptolemy will see things through from this point on,” Daedalus remarked as he moved from one window to the other. Through this aperture, Daedalus kept an eye on the hunter as he stole his way through the night.

        “Pillar? I often forget your disposition for dramatics, Daedalus. I guess I shouldn’t though, seeing as that is how we first met. When you say ‘Pillar’, what you really mean is caretaker. I seem to remember you being the architect of seven such devices that would serve your end goal. I also seem to recall that you assigned seven trustworthy comrades to guard said devices. Am I to assume that these devices and Pillars are one and the same?” Adonai mused aloud. “And here is another thought: what if that boy—that wytch—is the endbringer? Will you really have thrown away one of your guardians?”

        “Seven devices. Seven caretakers. Seven Pillars to keep this world up. If the boy truly is the endbringer than his demise need be all the more imminent. I can’t let him throw this world back into upheaval. Those with the Splinters of God within their minds must be destroyed. God must be destroyed. Every last fragment must be burned and obliterated, and then this world will be free from the prison known as God. I need a trustworthy and skilled hand for this task. I would risk the others as well if I thought it necessary.”

        “Oh? Yet another trip down memory lane. I’ve heard that rant before, Daedalus. In fact, wasn’t it words similar to those that caused the Rending? Wasn’t it your words that caused this world to need such Pillars in the first place? And if I recall, wasn’t it you yourself that built such a damaged place?” As Adonai let fly his accusatory bombardment, he made his way around the desk to stand beside Daedalus. Unlike the man with arms, Adonai had no interest in the windows; he kept his complete attention on Daedalus.

        “You were there, Adonai,” Daedalus said without taking his eyes off the window. “You should know I had no choice. You should also know that the Rending isn’t entirely irreversible. That’s why the boy must die; I can’t have him undoing all of my work.”

        “I see. I guess my efforts to persuade you otherwise would be futile. I shall leave you to your work, my friend. I got the answer to my question, and I’m sure you got the inspiration you needed to move forward. We shall talk again, my old friend,” he said in dismay.

        Adonai swiftly turned and marched toward the door. Daedalus barely noticed the old man’s departure. The noteworthy observation he made about the whole interaction was that the armless man was upset. Almost furious, but not quite. Adonai’s disappearance did have the effect of making Daedalus forget about the windows and sit back down at the desk, however. Their little talks always put the man back in the mood to work.

        Daedalus picked up his pencil and started writing scribbles on some papers. Daedalus worked for a solid fifteen minutes before he stopped again. When he did stop, he looked over his right shoulder as if someone had whispered in his ear. With that, Daedalus stood up and went to the right side of the desk. With the tip of his index finger, he drew a rectangular shape in the air. A black outline appeared where his forefinger had been only a second before. With the rectangle done, he started to trace out a circle on the right side of the vertical rectangle. When he had finished, he grabbed hold of the circle and made a twisting motion with his wrist. The door slowly slid ajar until it was finally wide enough for the man to step through. With that, the Artist stepped through the doorway without offering a second glance at the room he had just left.

Donovan was falling. The initial belly-drop of the leap still shocked him, his fight-or-flight instinct screaming in his ears. After a time, the voices were silenced, and he continued to fall. The wind screamed in his ears and brought tears to his eyes as he struggledto cut a smooth path through the air. Now, he thought, as he righted himself in mid-air and slowed his fall. 

The glowing of Donovan’s body was still intense, illuminating the path before him as he slowed to a glide. Finding the opening in the canyon wall, he skid to a stop, almost landing on his feet. Knees buckling, Donovan fell on all fours, his light dimming. 

Well, that was graceful, quipped God.

“Almost perfect,” Donovan breathed, “now shut the hell up.”

Collecting whatever energy he had left, Donovan walked towards the cave entrance. Looking at the runes etched on the edges, he knew this was the place. In reaction to his glowing, the runes seemed to pulsate light with a life of their own. Donovan and Sol had come here once. With a bit of power, she had spread her hands in front of the cave mouth, and etched in the words, “Death will never be the end.”

“Whatever the fuck that means,” muttered Donovan.

He shuffled into the cavern, awaiting his diminishing glow to illuminate the chamber. Further in, as he walked, he found what he was looking for. The lake inside seemed to hum with its own heartbeat and energy. Glowing with no apparent source, tiny bits of light would float from the surface into the air, as if air bubbles could not stand to be underwater anymore. 

Donovan took off his pack, set it on the soft, white sandy ground. He took a deep breath, steeled himself. Grabbing the stakes, holding his breath, he yanked them out as quickly as he could, two at a time. Cleaning the stakes, the light diminished ever so slightly from his body, enhancing the glimmer of the quiet lake. Carefully and meticulously, Donovan quickly put the stakes away in his box where they belonged. Before long, he did it again, and again, until the stakes were clean and stored, and the lake and his dim glow was his only light.

Closing the pack tightly, Donovan then stuck a toe into the pool, causing a chain reaction of bright, vivid ripples lined with light. 

What, too cold? 

“I told you to shut the hell up.”

Well, that’s no way to talk to God. 

Donovan sighed.

The only way is in. Go get her, Wayward Sword. 

Gathering all his things, Donovan dove into the cool lake. Tingling at first, the little bits of light went underwater to attach to him. They were attracted to his tattoos, making him glow again as he was before. Holding his breath, he dove under, swimming through the tunnel that would take him to the other side. 

It was not a long journey. Surfacing with a breath, Donovan hopped out onto the shore, contrasting black sand welcoming him on the other side. As soon as he’d left the water, the little bits of light left him to return to the water. 

Donovan’s strength was leaving him, quickly. The light was dimming. Approaching the darkness, he went ahead, knowing the path all too well. Reaching another chamber, he found her. There she was, just like the classic damsel in distress. Bound and gagged, and tied to one of the thick cave stalagmites. A thoughtful person left a floodlight there to face her. It was so plain this was a trap. 

“Rescuing you again, I see,” laughed Donovan loudly, to wake Sol up. 

She opened her eyes slowly and looked up at him with looks that could kill. He knew she wouldn’t even grunt at him. She’d save her energy for when he untied her, he knew. 

Sighing, and bracing himself, Donovan went over to untie her restraints. 

Best leave the gag for last, huh? 

Donovan ignored him. 

Untying everything and setting her free, he looked around for the first sign of an ambush. Realizing that Sol was not saying anything, he looked over at her. 

Her usually flawless dark blonde hair was tousled and dirty, stuck to her face. Her plump lips had a split, but her green, luminiscent eyes were untouched. Her clothes were soiled and ripped. She watched him intensely, waiting to leave. One look at her eyes said, not now. 

Nodding, Donovan thought it’d be best to head out of the cavern and into open space. Succeeding as far as the lake, and through to the white sands, Donovan and Sol emerged slowly, and left the cave. 

“You have almost no strength left,” croaked Sol, noticing Donovan’s stride. 

Looking around, Donovan could see no ambush. Huh, he thought. I wonder what the surprise is going to be…

They decided to sit down and replenish with a small bit of food. Ripping off her sleeves, Sol sat down and began to work with her leg wounds. As he watched, Donovan realized she’d been beat with what may have been a cane. Wrapping the most serious wounds, she cleaned off what she could with the droplets of water still sticking to her, and ate her meager share. 

She’s quieter than usual. What happened? 

I’d like to know that as well, thought Donovan, careful not to talk aloud. 

It was time to move on. With no energy to burst out of there, they began to walk down their familiar path.
 

Isryle stared intently through the window floating before him. It was night on the other side, a stark contrast to the white world around him. A floating, black square with images danced in front of him. A man stood peering over the edge of a monstrous canyon. He stepped back and slung the pack from his shoulders. 

South. His journey would take him south next. That’s where his quarry was heading. Isryle walked away from the window and to the body of his last victim. The wytch was entirely nude except for the bands it wore on it’s forearms and legs. Most of the stakes that were typically stored in the bands were still embedded in the dead woman. Those that weren’t had already began to rust. 

The wytch-hunter knelt beside the woman and rolled her over. He opened her pack and pulled out her clothes, lying them in the snow beside him. Underneath her garments he found what he was looking for, the wytch’s box. He unwrapped the box and then tossed it to the side. The contents would be rusting, slowly rotting away like all those not bathed in her life blood. He lay the cloth out next to the woman and flipped her back onto her back. He began removing the stakes that were in her body, cleaning each on his sleeve before resting them on the cloth. The only stake he left was the one jutting through her eye. The killing blow.

After he wrapped the stakes in a tight bundle he placed them back in the woman’s pack and then slung it over his shoulder. He then walked back to the window to see the wytch standing naked, gripping his own stakes.

“What?” came a growl from the scene before him.

Silence.

“Thanks for the advice. You are truly a useless deity, you know.” 

And then he pulled his arms back before slamming the spikes into his legs. 

Again, Isryle turned from the window and began his long trek south. 

He didn’t…look crazy, Isryle thought. Apart from the talking aloud, he was…in control, it seemed. Quite unlike this poor girl. Typically when a wytch gets infected they go crazy…

Sometimes, when Isryle thought to himself, he feared that the Splinters of God had infected him, though the Artist had assured him that was quite impossible. 

Maybe this one really is the EndBringer. He could hope at least. The wytch-hunter stopped where he had dropped his shot-gun and spear. First, he grabbed the gun and inserted one of the stakes he had taken from the dead woman in it’s barrel. He then pumped the gun ten times, each time the spike went deeper and deeper into his preferred weapon. After it was ready, he slung it across his back with the pack. He picked up his spear, which he mostly used as a walking stick, and continued south.

If this man isn’t the EndBringer…his life is going to get a lot shorter…and if he is…