Chapter Text
Later that evening, after a very sombre supper, Thrain lay on the bed in his room.
He ought to be asleep, but instead his eyes were watching the ceiling, his ears trying to hear past the low, disembodied groaning from somewhere inside him.
The thought came to him even as he tried his hardest to close his mind off to it.
He had failed yet again.
More lives he didn’t save, more souls lost to the land.
He had already failed once, in another place, and had sworn not to fail again here. He was sure he had, yet what good was his word, his honour, himself, if he only kept failing?
The chorus of voices that had lingered in the background all this time swelled, unbridled, and their song brought him back beneath the earth, to the moment it all fell apart. In his mind’s eye the last crumbling buildings of Khaenri’ah fell into flames, and his men, one after the other, into red pools of blood.
His eyes shot wide open.
He bolted upright, grabbing his head with one hand, fingernails digging into his scalp. His breaths came fast and ragged, scraping harshly against the dry walls of his throat.
Alas, sleep would not come; not like this, kept a world away by his failures. It would remain elusive as it had for months.
The shock left him slowly. Eventually, his breathing grew softer, more regular. Hours had passed since the sun dropped; by his guess, the handover to the second shift of the night watch should already be underway.
He might as well take over, he figured, if not to pass the time, then to let the others get their rest. In fact, this was becoming so common an occurrence that he decided he’d have Ayizu permanently assign him to night watch the next time he saw him; something told him that the tribal chief may not be the most agreeable, and he could already predict the same, tiresome argument about how he was overstretching himself, but Ayizu was a hypocrite in that regard and Thrain did not see a wiser arrangement for the night watch. He would convince him one way or another, and that was that.
He got up from his bed and pulled on his boots, trudging to the doorway. Then, with a push of the door and a slight duck of his head, he emerged into the cool night air.
The breeze glided past his cheeks and ears and already he felt calmer, so the souls were too, out of the confines of his room and into the vast night where his thoughts were as small and insignificant as the winking stars above.
He wove his way through the houses quietly, wary not to wake the slumbering tribespeople tucked inside, until he reached the entrance of the tribe where some warriors were standing guard. After a surprised greeting, they’d pointed him towards the orange glow of a bonfire.
There, he found that he was not by himself, but it was company he’d never expected.
Mavuika sat on a log before the campfire, alone and silent. Silhouetted against the flames, her red hair looked nearly black, much like Thrain’s own, so he almost didn’t recognise her at first.
But what he did notice quickly was the brooding and heavy air around her, and soon after that the word uncharacteristic pushed its way into his mind. He hadn’t known Mavuika long enough to claim any firm understanding of her moods, given they’d only spoken properly for the first time yesterday, but already this was a departure from whatever half-formed idea he did have.
Without realising it, he had already stilled his feet, unsure whether to make his presence known yet certainly unwilling to intrude. But as he shifted his weight, the ground gave a soft crunch under his boot, and that was all it took to alert the musing Archon.
Mavuika glanced halfway over her shoulder, the side of her face turned towards him in shadow.
“…Thrain. Can’t sleep?” she asked.
Thrain disregarded her question and instead answered with a question of his own, one he’d been wondering since he spotted her and no one else. “…Where are the warriors on night watch duty?”
She faced the fire again. “I told them I’d take over.”
“…You’ve been here,” Thrain realised aloud, “since the first shift?”
Mavuika gave an affirmative hum.
Thrain wasn’t sure what to make of the situation. Either Mavuika’s divinity meant she didn’t tire, or, for some strange reason unknown to him, she was staving off her sleep. But Ayizu had always spoken of the pride the Natlanese took in their Archons being human, and he never made a distinction between their constitutions and those of ordinary Natlanese, so Thrain was inclined to believe it was the latter that was true.
It struck him as odd, then, that she might choose to forgo her rest, but it was not his place to be curious. He moved closer and said coolly, “…You ought to get some rest. I’ll take it from here.”
Mavuika regarded him for a moment, then turned her attention to probing around in the bundle of Flammabomb logs by her feet until she settled on one dry and thick enough to satisfy her, and promptly fed it to the fire. The hungry flames devoured the offering readily, and the ensuing embers skittered upwards in jagged arcs, like Cicins let loose.
Thrain waited for an answer.
“I’ll stay. Sleep eludes me as well,” she said finally, and he wondered if that was, perhaps, his cue to leave.
As if reading his mind, Mavuika straightened, then with a small pat on the log surface beside her, offered a solution that hadn’t occurred to Thrain. “Since that makes the two of us,” she ventured, “care to join me by the fire?”
It was so unlike what he’d expected to hear, that now it was his turn to fall silent.
He would be untruthful if he said his first instinct was to accept, but the same instinct, honed by years of knightly service, reminded him it was not his prerogative to turn down an Archon. Mavuika hadn’t shown herself to be particularly invested in the rules of hierarchy, but staying on guard was a force of habit for Thrain, as natural as breathing, first taught to him in the military then beaten into him for good by the war.
Not to mention, Mavuika was not only a god but one aligned with Celestia, so she stood for everything Thrain could not trust.
But all that mattered little when, at present, there was only one option where he wouldn’t have to shut himself back inside his dwelling as soon as he’d come out of it.
He felt her eyes on him as he moved in front of the log and lowered himself onto its ridged surface. Despite Mavuika shifting over to make space, the log was not long, as Flammabomb trees didn’t grow to be very tall, and barely half an arm’s length separated them when he sat.
Mavuika began speaking first.
“Ayizu told me, earlier,” she said, “about how you came to live with the tribe. It reassures me to know the Masters of the Night-Wind have a friend in you.”
Thrain was a little surprised to hear he had been the subject of their conversation, but the feeling was quickly replaced by the need to clarify the situation the way he saw it.
“I am the fortunate one,” he said, “that they will have me.”
Mavuika hummed softly, then pivoted to ask, “Tell me, Thrain, if it’s not too much trouble — how have you found it here?”
Thrain cast Mavuika a sceptical glance from the corner of his eyes, and saw a small, friendly smile on her face. He couldn’t be sure why she was asking him such a question, and wondered if it was some test to probe his motives for staying within the tribe. But she seemed genuine.
He returned his gaze to the fire and pondered his answer. “The tribe… Outside of the Abyss’s attacks, it is a very peaceful place. The way of life here is simple, and the people are content.”
There was a moment’s pause. Then, for no reason other than to speak plainly, or perhaps because tiredness had loosened his lips, he found himself adding, “Despite my… origins, Ayizu accepted me into the tribe.”
A beat passed.
“…And do you believe he was wrong to do so?”
Their gazes met.
Then Thrain looked away.
The question, despite its simplicity, had caught him off guard. He didn’t feel provoked so much as uneasy, forced to acknowledge his conscience by someone other than himself. He thought it was scarcely worth explaining the obvious, and yet a part of him was compelled to do so anyway.
When he did speak, his words came out sharper than intended. “Ayizu had every reason to send me and my men away. You and I both know that if it weren’t for Khaenri’ah’s dealings with the Abyss, your nation wouldn’t be in crisis now.”
He’d said it — actually said it. But Mavuika didn’t get angry; instead, a sigh left her and she said, “Perhaps that may be the case, but from what you’ve told Ayizu, it was through no fault of your own.”
His breath hitched in his throat. His eyes moved into hers, boring deeper into his, penetrating.
The sounds of the night grew louder in his ears.
Ayizu had indeed asked him previously about the extent of his involvement with the Cataclysm back in Khaenri’ah, and he had answered truthfully: he knew nothing of the Vinster King’s wretched scheming, nor were his men any the wiser.
He also understood then, as Ayizu surely did, that Ayizu had scant cause to believe him so much as he had every reason to lie, in order that he and his platoon may continue taking refuge with the tribe.
But it appeared Ayizu had believed him after all, and told Mavuika as much.
No sooner had Thrain come to this internal realisation than he attempted to set his surprise aside, hoping Mavuika hadn’t noticed. He cleared his throat.
“…Hmph. You’d trust my words so easily?”
“I trust Ayizu,” Mavuika replied, almost too quickly. “I’ve seen the way he’s vouched for you many times, and he’s nothing if not a good judge of character.”
Vouch for him?
Thrain’s mind turned to the weekly hours-long absences when Ayizu, normally ever-present, would be missing from the tribe, having gone to the Stadium to hole himself up in the Speaker’s Chamber with the Archon and other rival chiefs for intertribal meetings. Those meetings must be what Mavuika was alluding to, and from the sounds of it, Ayizu had had to justify his sheltering of Khaenri’ahns to the other chiefs on more than one occasion.
It can’t have been easy, speaking in his defence. And after the lengths he’d already gone to give Thrain and his platoon a place to stay within the Masters of the Night-Wind, too.
As he grasped this, something welled up in Thrain’s chest, a curious, fluttering feeling that made his body suddenly feel light. He had the urge to nag Ayizu again.
“Besides,” Mavuika continued, her voice snatching his attention back, “you fighting here with us all this time has to stand for something, right?”
Thrain’s lips parted for a moment, then pressed together again. The conversation lapsed into a decidedly awkward silence.
A small cough, which could not have been more forced if she’d tried, came from Mavuika. “W-well, anyway,” she said, throat moving in a nervous swallow, “Ayizu mentioned you’ve been learning some spells?”
Thrain cocked an eyebrow as if to say, he even told you that?
When he’d first started collecting souls with the goal to one day return them to the Ley Lines, gods and their curses be damned, he’d sought Ayizu’s permission to read the tribe’s woven scrolls on the Night Kingdom. His frequent visits to the archive hall, which typically only saw shamans there for their readings, had caught the attention of a high priest by the name of Yemaya. The tribe couldn’t have too many spell-casters in this war against the Abyss, she had said, so one thing led to another and he wound up a student of hers.
But not even Yemaya was privy to his secret. That confidence, in all the world, rested solely with Ayizu. Liberalising the Night Kingdom was a notion as preposterous as it was ambitious, possible as it was possible for a Koholasaur to learn to fly, plus, he wasn’t sure the Pyro Archon would be all too keen having an outlander meddling in her nation’s Ley Lines.
So, opting to reveal as little information as possible, particularly of the incriminating kind, he simply responded with, “…Yes. I’m currently learning the basics of soul ferrying from Yemaya.”
Fortunately for him, it seemed Mavuika held no such suspicions. She exclaimed, “Oh, Yemaya! She did mention taking on a new student recently. So that was you.”
“She is a great teacher,” Thrain said, relaxing, now that he was sure Ayizu hadn’t mentioned anything inconvenient. “I can only imagine it takes no small measure of patience to teach one unversed in the spirits such as myself.”
“Give yourself some credit. Yemaya wouldn’t take on a student she didn’t believe had potential.”
“Hm… I deserve no praise.”
“Well, do you enjoy it?” Mavuika asked encouragingly.
“Enjoyment is not a relevant factor in the learning process,” Thrain deadpanned, clearly not encouraged.
“Oh. That’s… a serious way of approaching it,” Mavuika said, slightly amused.
“Yes. It is only proper that I take my studies seriously.” Thrain was not amused in the slightest.
The flames of the bonfire continued to crackle and pop. Mavuika studied Thrain for a moment, then a chuckle escaped her.
“…What is it?” Thrain queried, frowning slightly.
“No—no, nothing,” Mavuika waved a hand, still smiling. “It’s just… Are you this serious all the time?”
There was a long pause.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Mavuika clarified. “I’m just making an observation.”
Thrain’s jaw tightened. “…I mean no offence by it. It’s simply how I conduct myself.”
“Well… you could afford to loosen up a little. If you frown any more, I fear you’ll scare off any soul before you have the chance to ferry them.”
“Is that so?” Thrain was quietly startled. Yemaya hadn’t warned him of anything of the sort, but perhaps he just wasn’t far enough along in the lessons and so she hadn’t seen a need to yet. “…I’ll keep that in mind.” His brows furrowed in solemn contemplation.
A few moments passed as he grew increasingly aware of Mavuika’s stare boring into the side of his face.
“…What is it?” he found himself asking again.
“…You know I was only joking, right?”
Another pause. Thrain stiffened.
“…Of course,” he said, untruthfully, then privately felt a lash of shame for engaging in such deceitful behaviour.
Mavuika regarded him with a knowing look. “Oh, really?” she asked, the faintest smirk lifting one corner of her mouth.
Thrain’s eyebrow twitched, and an uneasy grunt slipped from him. He couldn’t recall the last time someone tried to tease him like this.
As Mavuika chuckled at his reaction, he glanced over at her face in the flickering firelight, and now that he was looking at it properly, he noticed the way the edges of her eyes crinkled as she laughed, and the puffiness under them.
The night continued to stretch around their little pocket of light. In front of them, the air curled above the dancing flames, scattering embers that rose skyward to join the stars.
Thrain thought to ask, after a while, “And you? Which tribe is your home?”
Mavuika stilled, expression faltering, seemingly surprised by the question.
But she caught herself quickly and smiled again, and Thrain listened attentively as she shared at length about what it was like growing up in the Scions of the Canopy, high above the ground such that as a child she felt like she lived on top of the world, and where everyone was born with natural affinity for the outdoors and all its concomitant dangers. It was a tribe of thrill-seekers and even more thrilling adventures.
But then there was a distant look in Mavuika’s eyes, and her demeanour suddenly shifted.
She said, quieter, “Before the war, Natlan was… happy. I know it doesn’t seem like it now.”
She sighed, her features taking on a pained expression. Now, she seemed to be speaking more to herself than anyone else.
“I know very well that the people of Natlan are losing hope. The war situation has only deteriorated, and all this frustration hasn’t helped the inter-tribal tensions at all… To make matters worse, the Sacred Flame grows weaker with each passing day…”
Thrain grew alert.
The trouble with the Sacred Flame was all anyone talked about these days, and he had heard bits and pieces about it from Ayizu and other members of the Masters of the Night-Wind. The mighty Flame was Natlan’s primary defence against the Abyss — yet it had been failing, and not slowly at that.
In response, the inter-tribal council had recently announced that future Pilgrimages would be held more frequently as a means of cultivating more Contending Fire — Thrain had barely missed the previous Pilgrimage, yet the next one was already on the horizon — and had introduced the Night Warden Wars. But even then, these were only stopgap measures, and everyone knew it.
“The Sacred Flame… Is there a way to restore it?” he asked, tone cautious.
Something flickered across Mavuika’s face, which Thrain recognised as the look of someone thinking something but not voicing it. In its place, she instead said, “…As long as I am Archon, I will never let it go out.”
It didn’t get past Thrain that she’d dodged his question, but nonetheless he sensed a resoluteness that made him want to trust her word.
“…When I arrived on the battlefield today,” Mavuika murmured, voice hoarse, “and saw the trust and hope the warriors placed in me, I knew, all the more then, that I could not let them down. And yet…” She bit her lip. “If only I’d arrived sooner…”
Oh.
The guilt, the weight of human lives — Mavuika did feel it after all.
But of course she would feel it — she was only human. Thrain had known this, but deep down it still surprised him to realise it, like how it was one thing to know men die in battle and another to witness it firsthand.
Mavuika’s eyes widened a fraction as she realised what she’d said. “…I’m sorry. Now’s not the time to be negative. I didn’t mean to make the night heavier than it already is.”
“It’s fine. I…” Thrain sighed. “…I understand the feeling well.”
He glanced down at his open palm, then clenched it tightly into a fist. “With every life I failed to save — family, friend, comrade — I wonder the same as you. If things could be different had I done just a little more…
“But I’ve come to the realisation that,” Thrain continued, voice hardening, “as long as there are still people and land worth saving, then not everything has been lost. Everyone who’s given their lives, my men and your people — they died believing in Natlan’s future.” He looked Mavuika squarely in the eyes. “That is why, if you do not wish for their sacrifices to be in vain, you must not let Natlan fall.”
Mavuika blinked, surprised. Then her expression softened.
“…I don’t plan on it. You have my word.”
The distant trill of an Iktomisaur came on the night breeze. When she spoke again, it was barely above a whisper.
“…Thank you, Thrain.”
Thrain didn’t say anything back, only looking up at the vastness above. The night was clear and crisp, and the moon hung high in the sky.
── ⟡ 𖤓 ⟡ ──
They had still been talking when Ayizu found them in the early morning. Or, more accurately, Mavuika had still been talking — her words spoken in the night outnumbering Thrain’s three to one. Most of Thrain’s contributions were an outrageous number of hmphs, all delivered in approximately the same tone every single time, no matter if the topic being discussed was as exciting as the Scions of the Canopy’s extreme sports or as mundane as his regular patrol routes.
After a few questions from Ayizu about why they had been the ones on night watch, their steps had carried the three of them back to the lean-to, where, after inspecting the bodies laying exactly as they had the day before, Ayizu had grimly concluded that there was simply too much Abyssal energy to disperse on its own. Mavuika’s response had been a cryptic, “…Then I’ll do what I must.”
Thrain hadn’t had an inkling then what she meant by that, but in any case, they promptly returned to camp, and along with the other warriors, began gathering the tribespeople, just waking, for funeral rites outside the tribe.
The bodies were too contaminated to be buried, but cremation wasn’t ideal either — the Abyss-tainted fumes would no doubt blow over Tezcatepetonco Range. Ayizu certainly knew this, but had instructed Thrain and some others to separate the bodies and build the pyres anyway. When Thrain had asked, Ayizu simply said it wouldn’t be an issue.
That had been half a morning ago. Now, Thrain stood alone at the very back of the congregation, well behind the other tribespeople and farthest from the front, where Mavuika was currently scattering incense along the row of pyres.
The smoke from the incense smelled faintly of what ought to be Glowing Hornshroom, and the subtle gleam of the ash specks confirmed the fact. In Thrain’s ears settled the slow beating of ritual drums, low chanting of the priests, and restrained crying of the bereaved.
The air was stifling. Thrain could never get used to it.
Mavuika sprinkled the last of the incense, and it came time to light the pyres.
Curiously, Thrain noticed that she didn’t hold a torch. Just as he wondered how the fire would be lit, Mavuika responded by producing a kindling of Sacred Flame in her palm and touching it to the first pyre.
The blaze travelled along the row, picking up speed as it went, rising into a roaring wall of flame. In an instant, the familiar heat wrenched Thrain from Natlan and cast him back into the depths of his memory where a dying Khaenri’ah still endured. He did not move or speak, nearly forgetting to breathe as the fire raged, the smell of burning flesh and smoke overpowering the damp scent of morning dew and earth.
This was the true power of the Sacred Flame, and it wielded the ability to burn away Abyssal energy.
This was what Mavuika and Ayizu had meant.
Eventually, when the fire had all but burned itself out, the tribespeople dispersed towards the pyres to collect the ashes. Mavuika passed among them, offering condolences, and apologies.
From where he stood, Thrain saw Ayizu emerge from between backs in the crowd and come towards him. When their eyes met, he straightened involuntarily, a dry swallow rolling down his throat.
Without a word, the tribal chief moved beside him, standing abreast, and began watching the tribespeople too.
The silence stretched as Thrain waited for Ayizu to speak. Soon, he did.
“Why are you standing off by yourself?”
Thrain stayed tight-lipped, saying nothing.
Ayizu pinched the bridge of his nose, and released an exasperated sigh.
“What’s this, then?” his mouth moved to say, tone every bit critical as he surely meant it to be. “Shame? Guilt?”
Thrain narrowed his eyes. In his gut, there was that heavy, lurching feeling as he realised Ayizu had already seen through him. Nothing on his mind was ever opaque to the older man.
Even so, he asked a few shades defensively, “What are you trying to say?”
“I know what you’re thinking, Thrain,” Ayizu shot back, entirely undeterred, “and why you’ve been distancing yourself from the rest of the tribe.
“…Since Guthred died.” That, he seemed reluctant to say.
Thrain seized up — but this had more to do with hearing Guthred’s name for the first time in a while than Ayizu being right, he told himself.
“I… do no such thing. I train and feast with the warriors. I practice with the shamans.”
“You know that’s not what I mean,” Ayizu said severely.
Those hazel eyes seemed to see everything. Thrain’s hands clenched at his sides, muscle tightening in his jaw as he tilted his face away.
“These—” Ayizu tipped his chin towards the tribespeople— “are your people now, Thrain. Your tribe. You’re letting guilt teach you the wrong lesson.”
Thrain couldn’t find it in himself to reject those words. He didn’t know if Ayizu was right, but he badly wished he were.
The tension in his chest slackened and left on a sigh. Feeling calmer and rather apologetic for his hostility towards Ayizu, who no doubt had only been looking out for him, he said, “…I’ll keep your words in mind, Ayizu,” and when the tribal chief nodded approvingly but didn’t make to leave, he added a tad sheepishly, “…Do you have something else to say?”
“…The Archon suggested that Embercore Flowers be planted over the cremation site,” Ayizu said. “This, surely, you can join.”
With that, the sound of footsteps faded ahead as Ayizu left to return to the rest of the tribe.
Thrain stood alone once more. The silence settled around him like a mire, dense and unpleasant.
He did not brood for long.
After only a few moments, a second set of footsteps echoed after Ayizu’s on the dew-dampened soil.
── ⟡ 𖤓 ⟡ ──
Having finished with his last flower bed, Thrain hadn’t been long on his way back to the tribe when he encountered Ayizu again near its entrance, sword and vials of Draught of Lucidity hanging from his waist.
Ayizu must have seen the question on his face, because before Thrain’s mouth could form the words to ask he explained, “I’m headed out to patrol. The night might have passed without incident, but complacency is something we can ill afford.”
The patrol assignments and schedule, updated monthly on the large bulletin board in the training grounds, flashed in Thrain’s mind. He didn’t so much ask as simply stated as fact, “Nzambe and Chimalli are the ones on duty this morning.”
Ayizu put a hand on his hip, sighing. “They were both injured in yesterday’s battle, and are on bed rest. Doctor’s orders. It’s only by the Wayob’s blessing that they weren’t more seriously hurt.”
A crease formed between Thrain’s brows. He recalled Ayizu’s own conspicuously wrapped chest at supper the previous evening.
Ayizu could’ve easily enlisted the help of another warrior to take over the patrol if he so pleased, and Thrain knew the only reason he didn’t was because he didn’t wish to burden anyone else.
Thrain sensed, at that moment, the conversation slipping into a familiar, unpleasant pattern, and he knew exactly where it was headed.
“No,” he said sternly, “I’ll do it. You’re injured yourself.”
“No, Thrain. You already covered the night watch. Take it easy for the rest of today.” Ayizu must have recognised the brewing argument for what it was, because the rising agitation in his voice was hardly inaudible.
Thrain’s lips parted, ready to push back, but before he could a voice that wasn’t his own interjected.
“I’ll come along too,” it said. Thrain twisted to see Mavuika approaching them from the side. “With our combined strength, we’ll make quick work of it. That’s much more efficient, isn’t it?”
“But—”
What came next was a quick exchange of refusals and rebuttals scarcely worth repeating. Tried as he might to fight it, Ayizu was still outnumbered two-to-one, and he hadn’t lost all sense to not recognise the merit behind Mavuika’s proposal.
After some convincing, Ayizu handed over the Draughts, while Thrain fetched his sword. Then they were off.
They descended into the valley, first heading north to Xalac Vale, then looping around to continue southwards, treading between the sheer cliffs of Tezcatepetonco Range.
The ground in the valley lay bruised and trampled, darkened by dried blood and Abyssal mud. Occasionally, a metallic clink would sound from under their boots as they inadvertently stepped on shattered steel, chipped off from what must have been weapons and armour. The place was eerily quiet, void of bird and beast; the two of them had left the last group of warriors on guard duty at the tribe entrance over an hour ago, and hadn’t seen another living creature since.
Still, save for the remains of a day-old battlefield, nothing could be said to be amiss.
Until there could.
They hadn’t given much thought to the Abyssal mud under their feet at first, seeing as it had claimed practically every inch of ground in the area, but the mud only grew thicker and thicker the further south they travelled. The question was, where was it coming from?
Thrain crouched down on one knee and stuck a fingertip into the mud, examining it, then wordlessly exchanged a troubled glance with Mavuika. They followed the track of thickening Abyssal mud, not without difficulty as they avoided it best they could, until it led them to what they’d been looking for.
There, in the middle of the valley, was a rift in space.
Thrain hadn’t known what to expect a space rift to look like, but now he saw it was an amorphous, shifting crack, hovering some way off the ground, darker in its centre than edges and somewhat resembled an open door. Light curved towards it, thinning as if stretched, then disappeared into it; the only thing that escaped were dripping streaks of Abyssal mud.
For a terrible moment, Thrain understood that the rift — though it looked a void from where he stood — was not empty.
He moved closer to investigate, giving a firm nod when Mavuika told him to be careful, and felt a shift in the energy around him as he approached. Picking up the nearest rock, he proceeded to toss it inside, and it didn’t so much as disintegrate or rip into shreds as it simply blended into shadow. A single thud sounded from the other side, presumably as a result of it landing on a solid surface in one whole piece.
With proof enough that they wouldn’t be instantly torn apart, or plunged into a free-fall as soon as they entered, the two of them xontinued their advance. Thrain held out his arm before Mavuika, signalling for her to fall back and let him enter first.
Then, with his other arm, he reached into the rift slowly.
His eyes narrowed. It wasn’t that it hurt; he definitely still felt his arm, sensed that it was part of himself, but when he looked down at beyond where it’d entered the rift, there was simply no arm anymore.
He squeezed the rest of his way through the rift, climbing inside, with Mavuika following closely behind.
All at once, a dizzying, nauseating feeling slammed jnto him at full force as the void closed in around him, so that one moment he was in the valley and the next he was not, in the smallest fraction of time.
He felt cold air prick his skin, not freezing but close to it, and Thrain had the uncanny realisation, then, that he’d left Natlan.
He waved a hand to clear the air in front of him and lifted his eyelids with effort, squinting; he was met with the sight of purple mist whirling all around, occluding his vision such that it made no difference whether his eyes were open or closed. He could barely see half a metre ahead.
They pressed deeper into the space.
They walked and walked, and walked for so long they began to question if they had been simply looping themselves around, the space knocking their sense of direction off-kilter. Then, as if on cue yet without warning, something sliced through the mist and hurtled straight towards them, sending them swerving in opposite directions — Thrain diving left, Mavuika veering right — barely avoiding the strike.
The mist cleared in a circle, and in the centre a pitch-black, utterly alien creature emerged, in the loose shape of a sprout. Loose, because it was much, much bigger than any sprout, towering metres over Thrain — whom was often told he was tall — and in every sense of the word, deformed. Besides in shape it did not resemble any living plant species he’d seen on Teyvat; if anything, it was little more than a pitiful imitation of one.
Creatures of the Abyss always seemed to possess such talent for taking on the most disturbing of forms.
Before Thrain and Mavuika could react, charge it, take it down— the monster unleashed another barrage of shards upon them, careening at uncommon speed, and steel rang through the space as they deflected the shots, one after another. The monster took advantage of their occupied defences and struck the root-like projections extending from its wretched core into the ground, fracturing it into an infinite number of islands.
The space shook — big, violent tremors — and it seemed the solid ground beneath their feet wouldn’t hold much longer. A large fissure raced towards the two of them—
—and their eyes locked in dawning horror, as they realised they were on either side of it.
“Thrain!”
They reached for one another, straining to maintain their balance, and for an instant their fingertips grazed — just barely — before the ground opened further, and dragged them further apart.
Thrain felt the tight grip of the monster’s writhing roots wrap around his ankles, then his hands and torso, and before he could shout to tell Mavuika to run, another root clasped over his mouth, silencing him.
The purple mist grew denser and heavier, displacing the air wherever it swept. It clung to his skin and filled his lungs and clouded his vision until his surroundings dissolved into inky blackness.
At first, everything hurt.
The voices in his head were so deafening, he thought this was, surely, where he would finally lose himself to madness. He could feel the Abyss tainting him, seeping into the very marrow of his bones, and it seemed it would be the last thing he ever felt.
But just as quickly as he thought he’d plunged into hell, every fibre of his being suddenly soothed at once, massaged gently by some unknown warmth. The crying in his ears faded.
For the first time in a long while, he felt at peace. It was such a wondrous, relieving feeling, that it made all other sensation pale in comparison, and he soon forgot the hurt.
Then he forgot all that ever hurt.
His eyes blinked open. Before him, the world fell away. He only saw the fields of Khaenri’ah sprawled before him.