Desecrate

"Within the phantasmal dream of the throne, the King hearkens to the revelation of the Divine."

"The storm of Lemuria shall be stilled. The abyss of Lemuria shall be no more."

"The King shall shelter His righteous people, and He shall bring forth the Divine Realm. Gentle waters shall flow, anointing the earth, giving life unto every blade and every tree."

BOOM...

Thunder cracks violently above the island. Beneath the rubble, a small form shivers.

Not far off, the ocean rages with such fury that it nearly swallows the thunder itself. Like a helpless, withered leaf adrift upon the boundless sea, the great isle of Lemuria trembles.

Though the violent quakes have ceased, a lingering dizziness still clouds her senses.

Her house has almost fully collapsed, debris pinning her into a cramped crevice amidst the rubble. Torrential rain pours through the gaps between stones, soaking her to the bone.

Above her, massive fragments of wreckage hang suspended, propped up only by a single, crack-riddled pillar, shuddering beneath the rain's assault.

Her eyes fixed on the precarious rubble overhead, she curls deeper into the corner, fingers knit tightly together, pressed to her chest as she prays to her king.

Tempests. Thunder. Earthquakes. Tsunamis.

In Lemuria, the people sleep alongside Cataclysms; prayer is the first thing they learn upon waking.

Her father has told her that their god and their king will deliver Lemuria's people. She does not know what a god is, nor what a king is. Still, she cries out again and again.

God still does not appear; God has never appeared before her. And yet, apart from prayer, there is nothing she can do.

The cracks in the stone pillar widen. It can no longer bear the crushing weight above.

Miryam remembers when her mother's body was dug out from under the ruins, that dirty, broken body.

In those last despairing moments, was she too this cold? This terrified? This utterly forsaken?

Her tears melt helplessly into the rain. Her voice grows weaker, trembling along with her body...

BOOM...

The stone pillar shatters. Just before the massive slab plummets down, a familiar figure rushes in, pulling Miryam into his embrace.

Miryam slowly lowers the arm she has instinctively raised to shield her eyes.

She clings to him, tightly embracing his familiar figure.

Stones crash, gravel sprays. He stands between her and the collapsing debris, his weather-beaten, sun-darkened skin gashed by countless fresh wounds from rubble and tile.

His hands, already rough from a lifetime of labor, are mangled and bloody from frantically clawing through the rubble.

Rain falls, washing over the man's body, his fresh blood staining the broken ground a dark crimson.

A broad, calloused hand rests gently on her head, softly stroking her hair.

Enos smiles, patting her gently on the head. He leads Miryam in a devout bow, facing the direction of the temple.

Now come, recite with me. For the lost, the Lord shall guide ...

...

...For the yearning, the Lord shall answer. ...

...For the devout, the Lord shall embrace...

But it was never the King who watches over me, Miryam thinks, swallowing the words.

At Sarah's excited shout, everyone looks forward.

The priestess, wearing a purple veil, moves slowly through the congregation, reciting prayers. She passes the young candidates ahead, before stopping before Miryam and her family.

Her father's whispered prayer, together with the solemn majesty of the priestess, keeps Miryam from speaking further.

She lowers her head and waits. The priestess raises her hand and places it on Miryam's forehead.

Her father humbly looks up to the priestess. She gives no reply, shows no expression. She has seen too many such stories before, the lowing of beasts no longer stirs even the faintest interest within her.

Those well-kept hands do not linger for even a moment. The priestess turns away and leaves with her attendants, returning to the altar.

Miryam sees the disappointment in her father's eyes, yet his rough, broad hand still rests upon her head, as gentle as always.

From childhood until now, that hand has always appeared, whenever she was afraid, whenever she was lost, whenever she was sad, that same hand would always find her, stroking her head just like this, soothing her into calm.

And yet, since childhood, how many burdens has the owner of that hand endured? And what has she done to help him?

Miryam lowers her head again, hiding her reddening eyes.

A worshipper eagerly pushes through the crowd, standing on tiptoe beside Enos for a better view.

An elderly figure emerges from the chamber behind the altar. His face is aged, yet his steps remain steady; his robes are impeccably kept, without a single wrinkle.

The High Priest, the sole person in all of Lemuria granted audience with the King. Save for the King himself, who holds the power to commune with God, the High Priest holds the highest station in all the land.

The old man's stern gaze sweeps across the hall. Though he speaks not a word, the once-noisy temple falls silent beneath it.

Soon, that gaze turns towards Miryam. Following a priestess's guidance, the old man comes before her and places his wrinkled hand upon her forehead.

The once-arrogant priests now stand bowed before the old man. Everything within the temple seems to still at his presence; she finds herself breathless, unable to perceive even the flow of time.

An icy voice comes from the High Priest, shattering the frozen moment like a clap of thunder.

Miryam jerks her head up, seeing the stern, imposing face of the High Priest.

The High Priest pays no heed to Enos and Miryam's words. Without another glance, he sighs deeply and walks back into the depths of the temple.

Soon, a priestess hurries over, her footsteps echoing in the quiet hall.

She stops before Miryam, smiles, and hands her a badge.

Sarah jumps around excitedly. Enos turns towards the statue above the altar, his clasped hands trembling slightly before him.

Miryam stands in a daze, still not fully grasping what has just happened.

Her sister's unrestrained cheers, her father discreetly wiping away his tears, the mingled sincere and envious congratulations of the crowd.

In her palm rests a dark badge, etched with writhing tentacles and raging tempests. It lies cold and still, indifferent to the noise around it, like an aloof prophecy.

Miryam still does not understand what the High Priest meant, nor does she understand why she has been granted this place. She looks at her father and sister. She hasn't seen such joyful expressions on their faces in a long time.

Miryam strokes the badge, a smile appearing on her lips.

Finally, she too has brought smiles to her family, just like her father. Then let those smiles last, she thinks. Let this joy endure.

Sizzle...

Fresh fish hits the pan, and a delightful sound and fragrance waft from their modest kitchen.

These are his daughters' favorite dishes. Enos has been preparing them for over a decade, he can measure every spice perfectly with his eyes closed.

Outside the kitchen, Sarah pats Miryam's back, shaking her head and sighing.

Miryam can't help but smile at the grandmotherly look on Sarah's ten-year-old face.

Sarah shakes her head, nestling quietly into Miryam's arms to listen.

Miryam doesn't go on, and Sarah doesn't ask. Sarah snuggles tightly against her, gently patting her back.

Their father's voice comes from the kitchen, cutting off Sarah's question. Miryam smiles and changes the subject.

Miryam smiles and pats Sarah's head, leading her toward the kitchen to welcome the feast their father has prepared.

Soon, fish dishes of every kind cover their small table.

Enos lifts Sarah into his arms, sets her on his lap, and softly strokes her head.

His adam's apple bobs in excitement as he draws his hopeful gaze back from the direction of the temple.

He wipes the wetness from the corners of his eyes. The next moment, his expression becomes a deliberately warm grin, his hands patting his two daughters' heads.

Enos raises his wineglass. The turbid liquid swirls inside. Miryam can smell the thick, pungent reek of cheap spirits cutting through the dust in the air.

The drink favored by the poor of Lemuria. Cheap and strong. Brief solace at a low cost.

Impurities in the alcohol cause severe headaches the next day. But hangovers and spasms of pain are gifts to the destitute, it is almost a kind of blessing.

He drinks it all in one gulp.

A heaped plate of fish is set before Miryam. Golden batter crisps its skin. A hot, rich aroma rises.

Her sister is smiling. Her father is smiling too, tears welling in his eyes. Through Miryam's vision, blurred by the rising steam, her mother's silhouette seems to sit nearby as well, a smile spreading across her face.

Her clothes are ragged, her body a broken mess. Her eyes are still bulging, wide open, sharing an overwhelming likeness to the fish eyes on the plate.

Miryam slices into the fish, takes a bite. Its flavor bursts in her mouth, forcing a smile to her cheek.

A low hum, echoing with ancient mysteries, breaks the solemn silence.

Two tremendous slate doors, etched with intricate carvings, slide open. Pure, formless darkness waits within, devouring the outside light.

The darkness offers its invitation to all who meet its gaze.

A gust of wind greets them from the dim sanctum. The wild scent of the deep sea surrounds them.

As the apprentices follow the priestess into the inner sanctum, the darkness strangely recedes. Light from nowhere pours down, illuminating the seemingly endless cobblestone path.

Beside the path lie two massive pools. Miryam approaches one of them and peeks inside.

Swish...

A drenched creature leaps out of the water, sparse human hair plastered down its head, clinging to its fish-like face.

Its gills slightly part, its slimy, thin lips quivering, emitting muddied syllables of no discernible meaning.

Its once-human limbs are cluttered with scales, flailing wildly at the surface, reflecting the sanctum's light with a filthy sheen.

Plop, plop...

Following it, countless fish-faced creatures with identical features emerge from the pools, limbs slapping the water frantically, strange noises rasping from between their shark-like teeth.

In an instant they crowd the pool, slick gleaming skin sliding against itself. Their bulging eyes, wide, unblinking, fix on Miryam without emotion.

Miryam summons all her strength to keep from throwing up.

A fellow apprentice named Deborah stands beside Miryam, patting her shoulders excitedly, undeterred by it being their first meeting.

Deborah greets the fish-people joyfully, gently stroking their glossy faces.

The other apprentices also bow, paying their respects to the pioneers. Miryam stands still, watching.

...

The slate doors close silently, sealing off the fish people's screams and the clamor outside.

The apprentices kneel at their prayer seats, gazing toward the altar, and the grand statue behind it: a breathtaking artifact of a human form, a throne, and writhing tentacles.

The face is somewhat indistinct, the humanoid body seated between a massive throne and a myriad of tentacles, a stark contrast.

The elder priest emerges from the right side of the statue. With a wave of his hand, he stops the apprentices as they begin to rise in salute.

The High Priest spares her an unreadable glance.

He leaves the room, leaving only one priest and a handful of guards with the apprentices.

The light in the prayer hall dims. A faint, mysterious glow begins to manifest across the statue's surface.

Miryam picks up the prayers before her.

The text on the paper is not the common tongue of Lemuria. Crowded with complex hieroglyphs, it seems to possess more dimensions than the space of reality itself.

Miryam wonders whether the strange glyphs come from ancient inscriptions, or perhaps from another world entirely. Yet their meaning enters her mind unbidden, the moment her eyes meet the page.

Countless scriptures flood Miryam's mind. As their meanings unravel with overwhelming vastness, her fragile human skull strains under the weight, edging toward collapse.

Around her, others keep collapsing to the floor. Enduring the pain, Miryam recites the prayers from the page.

Miryam speaks these words in ordinary Lemurian, but as she speaks, the words come alive. Letters distort like tentacles, black ink dancing in the air, until they transform into another language.

Her voice overlaps and intertwines all at once, vowels hooking onto consonants, endings merging with beginnings, just like those symbols. What comes from her throat forms a complex structure of higher dimension, as if echoing from a space-time no human mind can imagine.

...His will is woven through the vast tapestry of glowing constellations; from His throne in eternal darkness, He calls your drifting dreams home...

Miryam continues to chant with all her strength.

As her words resonate and stack upon themselves relentlessly, the reality surrounding her blurs, then dissolves.

She finds herself submerged in the deep sea. Weightless water flows in every direction, more illusion than substance.

It shimmers with silvery light. Luminous stars scatter everywhere, drifting, flickering.

Miryam feels she too has become a star. Her own faint light is being drawn somewhere. She looks toward it.

Countless lights swirl with luminous foam, chasing each other toward a distant, blurred silhouette, a silhouette of a human body, a throne, and innumerable tentacles.

Snap...

He stirs upon his stone throne, as if disturbed by a sound. As he wakes, the entire illusory space dims for a moment.

Behind him, the blurred silhouette of an old man takes shape.

The young boy leans back wearily, arguing no further.

He waves his hand. The old man bows, and vanishes into the infinite void.

Before sinking back into his dreams, he glances once at those who offer their light to him. An unheard sigh vanishes into the boundless void.

A heart-stopping sensation of falling, and then a sharp, stinging pain.

The pain does not last long. Miryam wakes from the void and looks around.

Those unable to read or chant the prayers have been ushered out. Of the remaining apprentices, some lie on the floor in pain, while others pray with eyes closed, blissful smiles spreading across their faces.

Deborah sits beside her, slowly opening her eyes with a smile. Seeing Miryam's state, her expression turns to concern.

Her friend's kindness eases Miryam's weakness. As she rises to leave, she glances once more at the statue ahead. The light and shadow she saw in the spiritual realm overlap with the sculpture before her.

A vague figure sits slanted upon the throne, His face veiled by tentacles that mark His immense power.

His faint eyes seem to look past the worshippers in the room, past the massive slate doors, watching over every living soul in Lemuria.

It is hard to tell whether what is etched in those eyes is conviction, compassion, or mere weariness.

Several months later.

She holds a ritual dagger, looking down at the half-human, half-fish creature laid out on the stone altar.

The sound of wind, rain, and distant thunder seeps through the thick stone walls, echoing dully within the temple.

She bolts to the side, clutching her mouth. Stomach cramps force her to lean against the wall just to stay upright.

Deborah bows reverently toward the statue in the prayer hall, then glares at Miryam.

Miryam rarely speaks of this to anyone. She is hesitant at first, her speech halting, but soon her words come smooth and light.

She recounts each small memory of her family to Deborah in great detail, an unconscious smile playing across her lips, as if showing off her secret treasures.

Amid the faint sound of the thunderstorm, they walk along the long, peaceful corridor, playing and chatting as they go.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

The noise of clashing weapons and hurried footsteps tears through the inner hall. Ominous echoes interrupt their conversation.

A few words reach Miryam's ears as the guards hurry deeper into the inner sanctum. She stops dead.

Miryam nods quickly, her eyes darting around in panic.

A heavy drowsiness overwhelms her mind, the effect of a hypnotic herb used in sacrificial rituals, one priests always carry on them.

It helps devotees seek tranquility. And it helps priests bear the weight of their sins.

Among all the apprentices, Miryam has always been the best with herbs. Deborah knows this well.

She gently lays Deborah in a corner where no one will notice, then turns and runs for the temple gates before the guards return.

...

Hearken unto the Lord. Submit unto the Lord.

Tempest. Gusts. Thunder.

For the devout, the Lord shall embrace.

Houses collapse. Crowds drown in rain, or in tears. Stones fall from the mountainsides, engulfing the town like toy bricks shoved down by an idle hand.

For the yearning, the Lord shall answer.

The world bleeds crimson in her eyes, the dying landscape blurred by desperation.

After running through the rain for hours, she cannot be sure she is in her hometown at all.

Why have all the familiar streets and buildings vanished?

Why are so many of the familiar neighbors gone?

She has poured every effort into reaching this place, but now her sanity screams for escape. Still, her legs drag her on, toward home.

The home that holds her countless laughs and tears. The home that has endured Cataclysm after Cataclysm, rebuilt and rebuilt again on hope.

The home now buried in ruin before her eyes.

For the suffering, the Lord shall recompense.

Amid the ruins of sharp stones and splinters, kneels the man on whom she has always relied.

His back is hunched, curving into the shape of a tattered shelter against the flapping rain.

But calamity has spared not a single scrap for that shelter. No matter how he tries, the ruthless rain soaks through his body, dripping onto the lifeless girl in his arms.

He can only stroke her face again and again with his rough hands, wiping the rainwater from her skin, feeling the warmth and color leave her under his trembling fingers.

Miryam's throat clenches, her voice barely a murmur. She moves forward, stumbles, kneels, crawls. Her hands tremble with disbelief as they touch her sister's body.

The man thought his tears had long since dried up, but the moment he murmurs a few words, they mix with the rain once more. His pale lips quiver, perhaps from cold and exhaustion, perhaps from grief.

A series of painful coughs burst from him. Only then does Miryam notice, the flesh of his leg, of his abdomen, has parted like crepe paper. The last of his blood is seeping out.

She fumbles out a bundle of herbs. Her mind beyond sorting, she presses them all to her father's wounds. Her gaze rakes the surrounding ruins, savage with hope, searching for anything that might help.

He struggles to lift his head, gazing at the collapsed mountains, at the ruins all around, at the cold, distant sky, indifferent still, after raining such ruin upon the island.

Following his gaze, Miryam looks to the mountains on either side.

Huge rocks break loose from the mountainside, ready to engulf the entire town in a second.

Several enormous tentacles stretch up from the ground, holding back the devastating cascade.

Enos lowers his head. His dimming eyes gaze upon his daughter, his sole remaining hope and pride.

The blood has all but bled out from his wound. Icy rain, mingling with the crimson stream, stains Miryam's dress.

Enos holds his hunched posture still, sheltering his daughter from the unrelenting storm, even now, in death.

His body leans down slowly, as if only to embrace his daughter, to bid farewell to the day's toil and slip into the sweet slumber of night.

Regret and pain surge like an endless, oppressive black fog, suffocating Miryam. She clutches her father's and her sister's bodies tightly.

The rain seems to ease. She looks up to see a black umbrella shielding her from the sky.

Miryam turns. A row of guards stands behind her, and at their center, the elder priest, robed in his sacred vestments.

Spotting a lifeline, she crawls forward on her knees toward the old man.

The old priest looks up at the dying sky. His sharp gaze seems to pierce the clouds, holding silent negotiation with something distant, something beyond Miryam's understanding.

The High Priest closes the distance, his eyes fixed on her, sharp as a blade.

Miryam freezes. The question, and the tone of it, stuns her so deeply she forgets to plead for her father.

The High Priest walks slowly toward Miryam. His eyes fix on her face, scrutinizing every flicker.

He stares down at Miryam's frail, crumbling figure on the ground, as if he were beholding a prophecy of destruction and rebirth, of despair and hope.

So, Miryam, are you ready to kill your father?

Enos gently strokes his youngest daughter's face.

Precious herbs have briefly held his life in place. For the first time, this devout believer steps into the sacred sanctum, drawing so close to the King.

Hatred for the Cataclysms, grief for his lost daughter, fear of death, and the joy of pilgrimage, tangled emotions tear at his frail body. He leans feebly on Miryam's shoulder.

Miryam looks at her father. The man who once stood before her like a guardian angel, who never ceased to protect her, who held the whole family up, now huddles beside her, hoary and weak.

Like an oyster disguised as solid stone, unmoving, hiding its fragile heart within, until the shell shatters at last.

The wagon halts. Oil-lamp light barely touches the dim ritual chamber. A lampstand turns slowly above them, its surface etched with tentacles and watching eyes that drift back and forth across the workers below.

At the center of a blood-drawn formation rimmed with ancient glyphs, a solitary stone bed waits.

Miryam helps her father lie down on the stone altar.

Those few short steps seem to drain the last of Enos's strength. He coughs in pain, on the verge of fainting.

The guards set the ritual tools and materials aside, then leave the chamber with the High Priest.

The dingy candlelight shrouds the two who remain.

Miryam kneels by the stone altar and buries her face against her father's chest.

A pair of big hands touches Miryam's head, softly stroking her hair. As they always have. As they always did, every time sorrow found her.

Miryam can no longer hold back her tears. They fall onto Enos's clammy body as her own frame shakes with sobs.

She grips her father's hand tightly, as if her grip alone could keep him at her side.

She wipes the tears from her face and rises slowly. Her hand finds the dagger beside the altar.

The dagger's blade curves in a strange arc, engraved with the same intricate glyphs as the prayers themselves.

Beside it, in a stone basin, the sacred blood, kindred with the God Himself, ripples faintly, glazed by a sombre and eerie sheen in the flickering candlelight.

Severe delirium has stripped Enos of most of his awareness. He gazes at Miryam with curiosity, like a newborn seeing the world for the first time.

A pale smile breaks through the tangle of tears. She steps to Enos's side, leans down, lays her hand on his cheek.

Plunge...

The dagger drives deep into Enos's chest. A howl of burning agony tears free. His blood sprays wild, staining the right side of Miryam's face.

Miryam's eyes widen. She studies the wound between dagger and flesh, as if it were a masterpiece.

The blade slides across skin, parts the veins, scrapes against bone. Enos's howling does not stop, like a beast being dismembered alive.

The screaming and the blood surge through the chamber together like countless thorns, piercing Miryam's face and skin, sinking into her gut.

"Faithful devotee of our Lord, open your heart as the shell, and receive His embrace..."

Blood and tears wash down Miryam's twisted face. She chants the prayer, her hands moving faster and faster.

When the dagger at last stops, the sigils of happiness and hope are carved across Enos's body, set in his quivering flesh.

For the devout, the Lord shall embrace....

For the yearning, the Lord shall answer...

She lifts the basin of sacred blood and pours it into the sigil-shaped wounds on Enos.

The moment the sacred blood touches the sigils, it stirs to life. It swirls across Enos's body like a serpent, like something that has just felt the warmth of its prey, and the thrill of it spreads through every winding trace.

No need for Miryam's guidance; drawn by the warmth, they slip into Enos's body through the wounds.

As the blood pours in, Enos's groans grow unbearable, even as his wounds knit closed before her eyes.

At the same time, his features begin to degenerate, eyes swelling huge and protuberant, lips turning slick, the skull stretching long and flat.

Gills open along his neck. Scales push through where hair once grew, spreading across his body.

He still groans in pain, but the sound is changing, drifting into something else, a wet hissing, the breath of brine and rotting depths...

The hissing stops. The half-fish, half-human thing stares back at her blankly, huge, pale eyes bulging, every flicker of intelligence dissolved in dark water.

Miryam steps to the stone altar and caresses the creature. The thick reek of fish fills her nostrils; the slick, sticky skin moves under her hands.

The smell, the touch, once they would have sickened her. Now they comfort her more than anything else can.

She bends down to the creature and kisses its slimy cheek.

...

The stone door slides open. The guards part, making way.

Steady footsteps pace slowly into the room and come to a halt behind her.

Miryam shakes her head, gently.

She kneels before the High Priest.

Half of Miryam's face is stained with her father's blood, a beautiful red mask, one that will never wash away.

The High Priest's sharp gaze softens, at last, for a moment.

He gestures to the table nearby. On it lies a chalice and a set of robes.

The old priest lets out a long, weary sigh and leaves the prayer hall, his back bent low, as though he has accomplished a daunting task, or carried out a heinous crime.

Miryam walks to the statue mechanically and picks up the chalice.

A girl sits beside Miryam. The face is one she could not know better, yet it strikes her now as utterly strange.

Eighteen-year-old Miryam turns her head and watches her nine-year-old self staring up at the statue before them.

Miryam stares into the girl's eyes, as if into the eyes of some childlike god. An immeasurable, inconsolable sorrow lurks there in the nine-year-old's gaze, and floods her own.

Miryam smiles at the girl and raises the chalice. The statue's image drifts on the red surface, its tentacles shifting, drinking in her devotion.

Her father's blood drips from her face, mixing into the hydra's blood in silent ripples.

Without hesitation, she tilts her head back and swallows the liquid in one draught. The reek of fish surrounds her, and the dark closes in.

Wind breathes through the chamber. The candlelight wavers. A column of guards files out and forms a line on either side of the altar.

Her voice carries from somewhere far away, soft, yet clear as a pebble on the shore.

Under the watching gazes of the priestess apprentices, a violet figure slowly emerges from the inner temple.

Her face is veiled in pale violet mesh. Two tendrils of black mist coil behind her, like two serpents not yet formed.

The gathered apprentices can feel her eyes pass over them from the altar. The stillness behind her fluttering veil spreads with undeniable force, silencing every breath.

Escorted by guards, a man and his daughter are brought into the chamber.

The dingy candlelight flickers on a damp lampstand. In three years, nothing in this room has changed.

The half-conscious father is laid on the stone altar. His teenage daughter struggles and cries in the guards' grip.

The bewilderment on the girl's face is familiar to Miryam. Everyone passes through this stage. No one knows better than she does.

She steps forward and gently strokes the girl's head.

She takes the girl's hand and guides it to her father's cheek, makes her stroke it gently.

She places the ritual dagger in the girl's trembling hands, and gently closes her own hands over them.

Splurge...

Miryam's grip on the girl's hand tightens, forcing it down into the strike. The blade of the ritual dagger sinks to the hilt into the man's chest.

Blood splatters, covering the girl's face. The father's agonized scream and the daughter's shrill cry echo through the room.

The dagger slides across the father's body in time with her voice. She has performed this ritual countless times over the years.

A vast happiness swells, wrapping her in ecstasy. The splattered blood, the twisted faces, these are the stairs that lead to His Divine Realm. Lemurians should embrace it in the deepest joy.

...

Plop...

The ritual may seem long to the priestess apprentices, but for Miryam, it ends quickly.

Two half-human, half-fish creatures are flung into the pool. Miryam pauses by its edge, bends down, and touches their slippery skin gently.

The thick stench fills her lungs; the foul pool water soaks her robes; she does not care.

She turns and gives a warm smile to her only friend.

She points to Miryam's robes. Miryam looks down, and only then realizes she is covered in blood.

She pats Deborah's shoulder, smiles, and walks toward her quarters.

The coronation ceremony will require great preparation. A busy time lies ahead.

On the way, she glances toward the new King's bedchamber, a place she has no right to enter.

Every Lemurian has heard some tale of the new King.

As their new King ascends to His throne, the Divine Realm draws nearer still. Bathed in hope, she casually hands the bloodied silk handkerchief to a guard, having wiped her face clean.

Toll... Toll...

A great bell tolls in the temple of Lemuria. Its low, lingering voice shakes the whole island like a divine decree.

It rolls over the waves, echoes through the valleys, wakes the people in every city and village.

Joyful cries join the chorus of bells, ringing in the ears of every soul in this vast kingdom.

Millions of Lemurians flood the streets and squares, fervent in their cries and their hope.

Perhaps the old King has abdicated. Perhaps he has passed away. Nobody knows, and nobody cares.

The long struggle against the Cataclysms has taught them not to mourn yesterday. Their eyes hold only the glory of tomorrow, shimmering in the name of their new King.

...

Outside the Temple of Lemuria.

The grand Temple of Lemuria rises tall as a mountain on the vast coast.

Worshippers swarm the square outside the Temple, their gazes locked on the grand shrine, lit with a dim and shifting glow.

People stand on tiptoe, peering past the clamouring crowds and the guards lined in clusters, straining for a glimpse of the new King inside the shrine.

Behind the shrine, the temple's great stone doors stand open before the worshippers, a sight granted only in such rare ceremonies.

Miryam stands at the head of the priestess ranks outside the shrine, hands clasped tightly, eyes fixed on the veil.

A vague figure leans against the throne behind the veil, seemingly still lost in dream. The crown, that singular crown, the symbol of the King, quickens Miryam's breath without her willing it.

CRACK...

The sudden thunder freezes the worshippers in place. The fear of calamity runs through their veins; they look up in panic.

The sky, once veiled by clouds, grows darker still. Lightning flashes, thunder roars, and the ocean rises with waves that bring calamity and death in their shadow.

The ominous portent sets unease running through the worshippers gathered around the temple. Murmurs, then guesses, then complaints begin to ripple through the crowd.

And then, a faint sigh issues from behind the veil. A small figure rises from the throne.

That youthful voice is calm, yet it rings in every ear like a bell.

Almost the moment Tulu finishes speaking, the clouds begin to dissolve before their eyes.

The ocean's roar subsides. Sunlight breaks through and falls upon every worshipper's face.

On the veil behind the altar, sunlight casts a clear silhouette.

A small figure steps to the edge of the veil and gently raises an arm.

Boom...

At His gesture, enormous tentacles pierce up through the ocean, the plains, the mountains, appearing before every eye in Lemuria.

A faint light emanates from each tentacle. The strands of light gradually join and weave themselves into a vast tapestry before every worshipper's eyes.

Miryam's eyes widen as she watches the world before her transform.

The world changes. The mountains are no longer broken; the sea is no longer storm-tossed. Sunlight bathes a serene land, untouched by ruin.

A child's voice reaches Miryam's ears. She jerks her head up, and sees that familiar figure standing before her.

Miryam stares, stunned, at the two figures approaching her, while footsteps echo behind her. She turns slowly.

Tears blur her vision. Words die in her hoarse throat.

A hand gently touches her head and softly strokes her hair.

Her sister runs to her and embraces her. Her mother comes to her and embraces her. Her father strokes her head and embraces her.

Embraces gather around her, in time with the rhythm of beating hearts. The touch of skin. The exchange of warmth. A reunion that refuses parting. A celebration at which no one is missing.

Her longing fulfilled, her desire answered, in that single embrace.

Tears burst from her eyes and stream down her cheeks. She raises her head.

The embrace is gone. The illusory radiance fades. She is back at her place before the temple, and before her, countless worshippers stand weeping.

The splendor of the Divine Realm, the deepest desire that lies in every worshipper's heart, now unfurls before them in scrolls of living light.

Miryam murmurs the same words over and over as she kneels before the new King behind the veil.

Without a word of command, countless worshippers kneel behind her, a wave of utmost reverence spreads through the congregation.

Through tear-blurred eyes, countless gazes turn fervently to the altar, their hope mounting toward the small silhouette beyond the veil.

The High Priest steps aside and lowers his voice.

He bows to Tulu, gesturing him forward.

The young new King falls silent for a moment, then steps forward.

Thousands of worshippers kneel. Thousands of cheers echo between the mountains and break upon the waves. Thousands of praises rise from every corner of the kingdom.

Tulu turns away, weary.

He waves a hand, halting the guards and the High Priest.

Crowned by the fervent shouts of the worshippers, the young new King walks alone into the empty temple, leaving a lonely shadow behind him.

Several years later.

A light drizzle has just passed; the sky soon clears, blue as polished emerald. Sunlight pours down through golden sand and warms the Lemurian children playing by the shore.

A few townsfolk sit on the stone steps overlooking the sea, singing an old joyful hymn.

The song rises over the indigo water, mingling with the cries of gulls before it reaches Miryam's ears.

Spotting the violet robes, several Lemurians hurry over and gather around Miryam.

Deborah's expression makes them understand at once.

They kneel before Miryam in silence. Reverence and expectation glitter in their eyes, all of them fixed on the High Priestess.

Black serpents dance behind her hem. Her hand gently touches each forehead in turn.

Urged on by her guards, the worshippers, blessed by the High Priestess, leave with overwhelming joy.

Watching them go, Deborah lets out a contented sigh.

Miryam and Deborah stand together on the mossy rocks where the sea folds itself in. Vibrant fields, splendid cities, and the ancient grand temple they know so well, together form a spectacular vista before them.

When she speaks, her voice is soft and calm, but her eyes burn with a fervor surpassing any worshipper's.

...

Miryam kneels alone at the foot of the statue. The prayer flows from her mouth with fluent clarity, like a brook running from green hills.

The brook swirls and trickles through the room, forming an opaque curtain that separates her from reality.

The eternal void of the spirit realm greets her soul. No discomfort, anymore, after these years, only breathtaking warmth remains.

Specks of light glitter in the darkness. Threads of light unspool from each spark, like tendrils.

Where the gleaming rivers converge, a vast bright outline sears a region of everlasting translucent ivory into being, like the pale moon burning alone in an empty sky.

Her consciousness drifts through the veil of the spiritual realm, drawing near the statue woven from starlight. She reaches devoutly toward the beams...

Crack!...

Before her hand can touch the beams, the statue shatters. The beams collide and scatter in every direction.

A violent rush of force throws Miryam backward and knocks her to the ground.

The darkness dissipates. Miryam rises in confusion, dust thick across her sight. Uneasy with foreboding, she stuggles to make out a massive stone in the haze, fallen, somehow, through the temple roof and crashing down upon the statue of the Lord.

The fragments, once tentacles and a head, lie shattered across the floor. Only half a body remains upon the throne. Raindrops fall through the broken wall and soak the once-sacred ruins.

Miryam kneels before the broken statue in panic.

The old priest's cough echoes through the prayer hall. For a man his age, a few years can feel like decades. He stumbles across the rubble, fingers trembling as he waves away the choking dust.

He walks to the ruined statue and slowly bows in reverence.

Miryam notices his eyes. They still hold their sharpness, but there is something behind them she cannot understand.

Bewildering, tangled, divided. A gaze like a newborn meeting a strange world, or a traitor facing the homeland he still loves, or something between the two.

She bows in reverence. After honoring the statue, she turns to her teacher with zeal and anticipation.

He turns around, his face stern, unmoved.

He looks at Miryam and watches the light go out in her eyes. He sees her frozen there, her hands, so used to the gestures of prayer, now stiff and stunned, lost without a place to rest.

Just as lost as he himself had been, when he first learned of these prophecies.

A smile, unbidden, appears on Miryam's lips.

A joke? Or some kind of test? It must be. It has to be.

He doubts me, perhaps. He has grown displeased with my devotion...

I must be more devout. I need only be more devout...

Miryam forces herself to think it. Her hands clutch the base of the broken statue, as if it were the last reed afloat in a stormy sea.

The sharp edge of the broken statue cuts her palm; blood drips unnoticed.

Beside her, the old priest shakes his head. His gaze, still tangled with emotion, lifts past the shattered statue and the thick stone slabs of the roof, reaching toward the distant sky.

Sharpness and authority fade from the old priest's eyes. Weariness and emptiness rise in their place. Hunched and faltering, he walks out alone.

...

He gazes into the pool.

Countless slick heads rise from the water, then sink again. Rise. Sink. Filthy ripples disturb the surface.

Huge eyes bulge on both sides of each fish-like skull, rolling blankly, fixed on him as he stands above. Slack-lipped mouths open and close, murmuring syllables he cannot understand, as if trying to ask him something.

Behind him, the great stone doors slide open.

Inside the gloomy chamber, only the Crown of Lemuria still glitters. Its massive scale sits oddly upon His thin teenage body.

And yet the Crown does not seem out of place, not in the slightest. It rests upon Him as though it were part of His body.

His sleepy eyes settle on Miryam's face, eyelashes flickering, like the breath of the deep sea. A tranquil mask hides His youthful features; not a single boyish emotion shows.

Tulu lifts his gaze from Miryam's face.

No bursting cries. No hysteria. She looks into Tulu's eyes and asks every question. Within her words, a silence unravels. Within that silence, a collapse left unspoken.

There is no thoughts or emotions in her eyes, vacant like those of the fish-people who surround her.

Like a firework guttering toward its end, yearning, burning, longing for the distant dawn with her last spark.

Tulu closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. In that moment, the eyes of Miryam, of the fish people, seems to have brought many things to his mind.

Perhaps he recalls the people who have lived in deception for generations.

Perhaps he recalls the worshippers who gave up their intellect, their feelings, their dignity, and those who offered their souls only to be twisted into something else.

Or perhaps he simply recalls that, before this deception of eternal slumber began, he too, like every Lemurian, once believed he could bring a new dawn to this land.

To offer hope to his people is the natural duty of a sovereign, the sole meaning of this deception. Then the lie shall continue.

Tulu opens his eyes and steps toward Miryam.

Miryam's head jerks up.

His eyes evade Miryam's. Turning away, He walks toward the throne.

Tulu sits back upon His throne. He props his chin in his hand, leaning wearily.

He does not look at Miryam's face, at the astonishment and the struggle there. He knows she does not fully believe Him. No one can truly believe such words.

Which is crueler, lies or truth? He has pondered the question long, and still cannot find an answer.

If he has already made the wrong choice, then let it all end in wrongness.

Miryam leaves. Tulu slumps on the throne, staring at the empty room, the fish people, and Miryam's figure, shrouded by hestiation.

The conversation between the King and the High Priestess of Lemuria came to an end. In the countless days and nights of the millennia to come, this would be their sole meeting.

The howling gale drives the torrential rain down upon the worshippers crowded in the square.

It has been a long time since rain so heavy fell on Lemuria, yet the shouts and chants of the worshippers still drown out the roar of the storm.

Zealous cheers crash toward the altar like waves.

The surging crowd reminds Miryam of the fish-people in the pool, their wide-open eyes. Rise. And sink.

She feels as though she has been plunged into salt water, every sense smothering. Images blur. Sounds tangle into noise.

The noise recedes into the background, like fish swarming around her. Blue water forms a barrier between her and them, hollow within, lit by sunlight from above, and her own voice rises through it, clear as glass.

CRACK...

A bolt of lightning splits the skies of Lemuria.

The crash silences the crowd.

Miryam steps out from the guards' protection and approaches the altar.

Countless hands reach out, worshippers surge toward her, desperate for the blessing of Lemuria's High Priestess.

She glances around, her eyes calm, almost smiling, but the gaze itself quickly silences the clamoring worshippers.

In the clamor of the storm, she reaches out and touches one worshipper's forehead.

The worshipper clasps their hands to their chest and kneels.

She surveys every face in the square.

In the raging storm, every soul kneels, throws their arms wide, and turns toward the throne within the temple.

Boom...

Enormous tentacles erupt from the earth beneath the temple, accompanied by a majestic roar.

Worshippers raise their arms, cheering in ecstasy.

The tentacles sway gently in the storm, deepening their already-firm belief that the great Lemurian deity possesses the power to ward off every disaster.

She turns and gazes into the temple, then kneels.

In her eyes, eyes no one can see, there is no trace of priestess-pride or dignity. Only confusion.

Amid the mad shouts, the tentacles begin to dance. A silent abyssal aura spreads from them, flowing from the Temple into every inch of Lemuria, sinking into every Lemurian's senses.

Crack...

The rumbling thunder rolls on, but the cheers begin to fade. Lightning lights the lonely land of Lemuria from the sky above.

At the height of their jubilation, the worshippers' movements come to a halt, frozen in their praise and faith for the Supreme Lord, frozen in their boundless hopes and dreams for the future.

Under the heavy rain, the people of Lemuria fall into sweet dreams.

...

The stone doors close with a long, heavy sound.

A thick reek of fish fills the prayer hall. The once-spacious chamber is cramped now, unbearably so.

All the fish-people have been pulled from the pool and laid out across the floor.

The guards do not know what their High Priestess means to do, and they will never have the chance to find out.

Miryam crosses to the corner of the chamber, crouches down, and touches the nearest fishman.

The fishman's gills flutter, its lips trembling around a meaningless whimper, no different from any other day.

Miryam moves to the second, crouches down, and touches it.

Its huge eyes wander aimlessly over this unfamiliar place, with no interest at all in the High Priestess before it.

She moves to the third.

The fishman stares at her, blank, as if at a stalk of swaying purple seaweed.

Miryam turns to the next, then the next... she crouches at each one, touching it, kissing it.

Her teacher gave her duty; the Lord gave her hope. But the one who would listen to her fear, her despair, her grief, the one whose rough, broad hand would gently touch her head and stroke her hair, is long since lost in the dark.

She leans close to each of the fish people, whispering her desperate longing, searching for the slightest trace of him.

Is her father still alive? And if one of these fish-people is him, is it still her father at all?

She does not know. She does not care.

The sound of the heavy rain comes through the walls. In the vast prayer hall, countless fish-people lie on the floor, twitching their limbs and tail-fins.

A violet figure moves among them, searching, confiding.

The half-ruined statue sits upon its broken throne, watching her in silence.

...

CRACK...

Thunder roars above the old man's head. He pays it no mind and climbs the last stone step.

He is too old. Climbing this mountain alone has cost him dearly.

He collapses on the barren summit, gasping for air, his lungs wheezing like a rusted windmill, groaning with age.

The rain pounds his withered body; the wind nearly throws him down. From the highest point in Lemuria, the old man gazes out over the vast island.

The sharpness, the age, all of it drains from his eyes. They are clear now, alive, curious, like a newborn's, gazing in wonder at the scarred land.

The old man raises his head, his gaze moving from the sleeping people of the island, to the churning sea on the horizon, to the merciless thunder and rain above.

He rises unsteadily, warmth dissolving in his deep eyes. His beard and robes stream in the wind, and his eyes, sharp once more, pierce the sky like blades.

He flings away his cane, throws his arms wide, and embraces the storm. He roars.

I am your accomplice. Let us bury Lemuria together!

...

CRACK...

A muffled sound passes through wall after thick stone wall, echoing into the temple's bedchamber.

Tulu sits on the throne, his chin resting in one hand, His eyelids heavy with weariness.

The Lemurians have fallen into endless sleep. He has spent the last of his power to grant them a beautiful dream, a mirage of the promise he made.

He lifts his head, his gaze passing through the stone of the roof, through the driving rain and the gathering clouds, until it reaches the deep starry sky, and the dream that lies deeper still.

He slumps on the throne, his chin still resting in one hand. A deep sleep takes him.

He enters the same dream as his people. There, the sun bathes their upturned faces in a divine glow; the sweet sound of laughter drifts on a gentle breeze.

He brings Lemuria the Divine Realm it longed for. He brings Lemuria the lie it longed for.

He bids his homeland farewell with one last lie. This is his final act as King of Lemuria, the last of his power, the last of his mercy.

...

CRACK...

Rubble falls from the statue. The silent statue, once grand and splendid, now stands on the verge of collapse.

In her arms, a fishman blinks its huge eyes, looking around blankly.

She cannot find Enos. And so every fishman is Enos.

The rhythm of the torrential rain grows impatient, roaring beyond the temple wall, while the rhythm beneath her hands stays gentle, soothing, stroking the fish-people's glistening scales. A damp stench fills every corner of the chamber.

She smiles, whispering softly. Tears stream down, her words dissolving into them, true or not, she no longer knows, and where the two mingle and fall onto the fishman's scales, tiny tides form, glimmering with faint light.

Boom...

The ground shakes violently beneath her. The temple's pillars struggle to hold, but the stone of the roof cracks, buckles, and shatters down upon the floor, beyond saving.

What remains of the statue breaks apart under the same savage force. The roar of storm and earthquake drums against Miryam's ears.

She closes her eyes, kneels before the ruined statue, and takes little Miryam's hand in hers.

The shaking will not cease. Darkness gathers beneath the vast turning clouds and blots out the sunlight; from the distant ocean, a leaning wall begins to rise, its indigo staining the whole sky...

The ocean rises like a waking giant and strides toward Lemuria.

Before the ocean, this glorious kingdom is as small, as fragile, as a single withered leaf.

Raging, portentous winds strike the temple as if to tear up a weed, ripping away the heavy stone and tearing at the foundations.

The sea that once crouched beneath the sky now stands upright, shutting out the last fleck of dismal light. Amid the ruins, she holds the fishman tight.

Tears flood her eyes. The stench of death surges toward her from the ocean's depths.

...

For the last time, she lifts her head, gazing in desperation at the place where the Lord's statue once stood.

There is no statue there. And there is no Lord.

...

BOOM,

The ocean comes for the withered leaf.

...

In the year @3 of the old calendar, Lemuria sank into the abyss. There were no survivors.

In the name of @3, I call upon you, my child...

Let the embrace of family soothe your weary body; let the scent of home heal your wandering soul.

Consciousness and sensation slowly return to Miryam. Half-awake, she feels as though she is wrapped in warm seawater.

The voice echoes faintly; the sun's outline pierces the water, wavering, far above.

It has been a dreamless sleep. Miryam does not know how long she has slept, a day, perhaps? A week?

Slowly her mind grows clearer, knitting back into her body. Dimly, she sees a group of figures reaching down to her from the surface of the sea.

Father, mother, sister, the old priest, the King, Deborah... all of them reach out their hands to her, beckoning.

She opens her eyes with a start and bursts up out of the water.

Miryam finds herself in a vast, opulent hall, kneeling at the center of a ritual formation.

The people around her have faces she has never seen, dressed in garments she does not recognize, shouting in excitement.

A middle-aged man stands outside the formation, watching her with both exhaustion and excitement.

The maidservant, the one who looks somehow familiar, stares at her in confusion.

His gaze on Miryam grows more and more intense. He steps toward her and reaches out to lay a hand on her forehead.

Reality vanishes for a moment. Countless fragments of knowledge pour into Miryam's mind, drowning her like an ocean.

She sees her homeland sink. She sees the seas change, the lone island joined to a continent.

She sees new civilizations born, new nations raised, new worshippers chanting new prayers, new kings climbing new thrones.

She watches the long ages rush past, day into night into day, until Lemuria has vanished from the memory of the world without a trace.

Miryam pays no heed to Talis's urgent questions; she is still lost in a daze.

The changes in the world, the loss of her homeland, ten thousand years gone by, her newly woken mind cannot begin to hold it all.

The maidservant taps her own forehead and sighs.

The commotion comes from somewhere far outside.

A guard runs, shouting as he comes. Before he can finish, a great harpoon flies in from the distance and pierces his heart.

A band of dark-skinned warriors, bare of armor, surround the hall on every side, howling strange battle cries.

Miryam sits slumped on the floor, head bowed, lost in a daze. She does not answer.

You savages! This is Ornn family land! Unless you want the Ornn army to wash this place in your blood, get out, now!

Splurge...

The harpoon pierces his shoulder. He screams and clutches the wound.

Everyone in the room is subdued; the guards outside lie dead beneath the harpoons. The Philistines pace the room, eyeing everything with greed.

Beside him, another Philistine warrior eagerly raises his harpoon.

The Philistines' laughter echoes through the room. The captain shakes his head, seizes Talis by the hair, and draws a dagger.

He turns toward Miryam. A small statue dangles at his waist. Her eyes go suddenly wide.

The Philistine captain lowers his knife and glances down at the statue at his waist.

The statue is carved from some ancient, dull stone, in the shape of a figure seated on a throne. Strange tentacles sprawl outward, hiding its face.

The captain is still speaking when he notices the woman before him rise to her feet.

He looks her over with interest, her strange garments, the bizarre and costly ornaments she wears.

The black mist appears in an instant.

The black mist gathers into several enormous serpents that lunge, ravenous, at the Philistine warrior.

The knife jerks away from Miryam's neck, and the hand that held it is bitten clean off, blood spraying, soaking Miryam's robes.

The black serpents surge toward the Philistine and devour him before he can scream again.

Only a few scraps of flesh and a pool of blood remain on the floor.

Everyone in the room freezes, stunned, doubting their own eyes.

Miryam looks down at her hands. A smile spreads slowly across her face, brighter and brighter.

She looks toward the Philistine captain, not at him, but at the statue at his belt. Tears fill her eyes.

The fearsome witch is lost in a tangle of emotion. A lifetime of raiding and slaughter has given the Philistine an animal instinct for danger, and he knows this is his only chance.

He roars, knife in hand, and charges at Miryam with everything he has.

Hiss...

The black serpent appears from nowhere, in a shape his mind cannot grasp, and drives clean through his body.

Inside the hall and out, some Philistines charge in with weapons, some scatter and flee, some fall to their knees and beg for mercy.

Miryam does not care which they choose, courage or cowardice. The black serpents appear and vanish, toying with these lowly lives, biting them, hunting them down.

Soon, not a single Philistine voice is left in the hall.

Miryam seems oblivious to all of it. She crosses to the remains on the floor and lifts the dark statue with reverence, studying it closely.

So this is a golem... this is the power of a golem!!

@2@3...

Talis rises, his face flushed with excitement. He chants a spell and sweeps his hand through the air.

Miryam feels a surge of power travel down the Link toward her, but it dissolves before it can do her any real harm.

Miryam gazes at Talis with a strange, fervent look, as though her eyes pass straight through him, fixed on something far beyond his understanding.

Her gaze is scorchingly fierce as the sun, yet dark and cold as the deep sea.

Miryam bows to Talis and walks out.

Blood drips from the dark statue. Behind Miryam, black serpents spread like wings and bare their sharp fangs.

Absolute silence. Absolute darkness.

She stands in the darkness, and no matter which way she turns, there is only the eternal Void.

Miryam feels like a star without light, her power drawing together toward some single point, a sensation achingly familiar, and full of longing.

She gazes toward it. The light surges, gathering into a blurred outline.

The figure of gathered light sits slanted upon the throne, one hand resting at His chin, watching Miryam in silence.

She gazes at the shadow, hungry for an answer.

The shadow says nothing. Light and tendrils veil His face, His expression beyond reading. He lowers His head and lets out a soft sigh.

The faint sigh breaks like thunder across the Void, and the light begins to scatter and fade.

The bright light stings Miryam's eyes.

As her vision clears from blur to sharpness, the statue sits steady on the windowsill.

The dark stone is carved in fine detail: the King, His chin resting on one hand, reclines on a throne wreathed in tentacles, watching Miryam in silence.

The sun rises behind Him, throwing His outline into blur.

Miryam smiles and bows to the statue with devotion.

The maidservant steps forward and gently touches her forehead. Miryam stares back at her, blank.

The face of that friend from her memory overlaps with the maidservant's.

Priest Deborah once helped Miryam become High Priestess; perhaps this maidservant Deborah will help her usher in the Divine Realm as well.

What a wonderful coincidence. What a sacred fate. Miryam looks at her and smiles without knowing it.

She smiles and takes the maidservant's hand.

...

Miryam says it lightly, her smile never wavering, not the faintest trace of surprise on her face.

Realizing she's let it slip, Deborah turns red and claps both hands over her mouth.

She smiles and pats Deborah's flushed cheek.

Talis's somber voice cuts into their conversation.

Talis glances at Deborah and waves a hand, impatient.

Deborah bows to him, throws Miryam a discreet wink, and slips outside, locking the door behind her.

The moment they were alone, Talis's voice turned warm.

His grip on the hilt tightens, veins standing out, then slowly eases.

He draws a deep breath, grips his knife, and gazes out at the ocean beyond the window.

...

A few days later.

Out on the sea, a single wooden boat drifts alone.

The giant lets his blade fall, leans back against the mast, and closes his eyes to rest.

The wounds from battle; the scheming and betrayal of his own kin once he'd fallen... It was his own carelessness. He has no one to blame.

But even he feels the weariness now.

The giant opens his eyes and looks out over the boundless sea.

Talis bows; Miryam, standing behind him, gives a slight nod to the old man in the high seat.

The old man waves impatiently.

A burst of hurried footsteps sounds beyond the door. A young man who looks something like Talis appears in the hall.

Talis smiles and bows to him.

The second son steps forward and takes the old man's arm. The old man pats the back of his hand gently.

He glances at his other sons.

He lifts his head, fixing his eyes on Talis.

The old man seems to have expected the answer, and leans back in his chair.

Talis lets out a smile of pure relief.

The old man raps on his chair, and a squad of guards bursts out from behind the curtains, surrounding Talis and Miryam.

Beside him, the second son's eyes go wide, his voice turning hoarse with strain.

The soldiers draw their swords and advance. Talis waves a hand, and Miryam steps forward, black mist gathering behind her.

The soldiers sense the danger and lunge at the pair.

Swish...

A snake of mist sweeps across his face. The next moment, a headless body crumples to the floor.

Before the other soldiers can react, serpents of black mist appear beside every one of them.

The black mist coils about their bodies, flicking its tongues, savoring them.

A few wisps of black smoke linger in the air. The black serpents bite down on their prey, and scream after scream fills the room.

Soon the screams die away. The Ornn family lie collapsed on the floor, among the gore and the blood, their throats able to manage nothing but faint whimpers.

Talis watches the old man tremble, beyond speech, and smiles his satisfaction.

Thunk!

The sharp knife drives into the old man's withered chest. The last thing he sees is the bastard's triumphant smile.

...

Tink, tink, tink...

A silver spoon clinks against an intricately carved crystal goblet, a clear, crisp note.

The clamor of the banquet hall falls still. Every gaze turns toward the high seat.

The bloodstains on the seat have not yet dried. Talis breathes in the lingering reek of blood and looks out, satisfied, at all the eyes fixed on him.

He rises, lifts his glass, and tips it toward the corner.

Under the watch of a squad of soldiers in full armor, Talis's younger brothers sit at a single table, fearful and silent.

He draws his blade and drives it into the wooden table.

The guests may once have been friends of the old head of the family; no longer. Now they are friends only to the victor.

At Talis's lavish words, the guests raise their glasses.

Drink!

...

Glasses clink; voices rise. The guests, some in earnest and some merely playing along, melt into the banquet and become a part of it.

Miryam stands to one side, smiling, watching the guests, watching the laws of this new age.

Talis, drunk with triumph, sinks back into the high seat. He raises his glass to one and all, drinks deep, and savors this moment, the happiest of his whole life.

His drunken eyes snap wide, and all at once he hisses out a vicious, soundless incantation.

Miryam drops to her knees. A needling pain stabs through her mind, agony so vast she can barely stay upright.

Like an unseen rope drawn ever tighter, the pain in Miryam's mind grows fiercer.

Talis glares at Miryam, chanting his spell. The unseen rope draws tight into a noose about Miryam's neck.

Talis jerks the noose tight...

The noose is still there, but Talis can no longer feel his grip on it. However he casts, the rope only lies there, unmoving.

Shhhhkkkk...

Sharp pain surges through Talis's body. A long, straight wound opens across his chest: fresh, as though some hand had drawn a dagger across it slowly, with reverence.

The guests in the hall fall silent at once, frozen where they stand. The guards close in, weapons leveled, but none dare come any nearer to Miryam.

Miryam rises to her feet and brushes the dust from her robes.

Miryam says nothing. Another deep wound opens on Talis, and the blood comes gushing out.

Miryam glances at him and nods.

More wounds keep opening across him. The lines of blood and torn flesh weave together into a pattern out of some ancient civilization.

At the same moment, the same lines bloom across most of the guests and the guards. Screams and spraying blood fill every corner of the hall.

The opulent hall becomes a hell of blood and butchered flesh, ringing with the wails of the Ornn family.

Talis's face begins to twist out of shape, fish-scales surfacing across his skin. His once-piercing cries turn hoarse and muffled, tinged now with the reek of the deep sea.

Talis's anguished cries have all but ceased. Under Miryam's power, his change into a fish-man is even more complete than that of the old Lemurians.

She leans down and touches Talis's misshapen face, his scale-covered arms. Amid the blood and the cries filling the room, she weeps, and she smiles.

She gives the writhing fishman her deepest, most loving regards.

With a grunt, the giant pulls the sharp arrow from his shoulder.

Poisoned blood spatters from his shoulder onto the deck, pooling into a patch of filthy black under the sun.

His vision blurs, his mind going dull. He can hold on no longer, and collapses to the deck with a thunderous crash.

The Philistines who once feared Goliath's power now swarm around him: frantic, rapacious, like hyenas that have spotted a lion's carcass.

Worthless. The giant casts one last look at the dying follower beside him, a malicious grin on his lips, and closes his eyes.

For our light, we sigh. For our hope, we mourn.

Borne on this fate of exile upon the sea, we wail, we lament, we weep until no tears remain...

The visions that come before death, the giant thinks. So this is one of them.

An ancient, uncanny song reaches his ears. Through the thick mist, a woman's figure surfaces in his darkening sight.

A soft, cold touch spreads from where the black serpents coil at her neck. The giant's murky, darkened eyes slowly clear.

What befell the Ornn family has spread across the seas. Now she steps from the mist of legend and stands before mortal men.

The Philistines begin to grasp what is happening. Some flee; others leap onto her small boat for a last desperate fight.

Miryam looks at the stunned giant, smiles a mysterious smile, and points into the distance. Then she pats Deborah, and they turn the boat around.

The hyenas' scrambling and struggling hold no interest for her.

The black serpents slither, hunt, bite, devour. In the thick fog over the sea, broken corpses surface one after another.

The silent slaughter ends swiftly, leaving behind a sea stained red and the giant's bewildered face.

...

A voice pierces through the thick mist. Deborah sticks her tongue out at Miryam and slowly brings the boat to a stop.

Soon a battered wooden boat draws up before their own.

Miryam gazes at him in silence. After a moment, she nods.

Goliath glances at the great blade that has served him for years, grits his teeth, and casts it into the sea.

The boat shudders, as though something is stirring in the sea beneath them.

Miryam reaches out a hand. The great blade leaps back out of the sea, giving off a dark glow it never had before.

The massive blade settles into Miryam's hand, light as a feather between her slender fingers.

Goliath smiles and drops to one knee before Miryam.

Miryam lays the great blade against Goliath's neck.

Thunk...

The massive blade bites into Goliath's neck, cleaving clean through, and the blood comes spurting out.

Before anyone nearby can react, a faint purple-black light flickers at the wound on Goliath's neck.

It moves, carving an intricate, ancient pattern into his dark skin.

Intense pain surges through Goliath. It does not come from the wound alone, but pours through his whole body.

Sweat rolls down the giant's forehead. He grits his teeth, his whole body shaking as he fights the pain.

Through the excruciating pain, fin-like blades sprout from Goliath's ears; his teeth grow sharp and layered, row on row; his eyes turn crimson.

It is an endless process. Goliath feels as though he has endured a whole year of agony. In that long stretch of time, he dies in pain, and in pain is born again.

When Goliath's mind clears again, he finds the ritual has long since ended. He is lying face down on the deck, the sweat of his ordeal soaking the boards beneath him.

He gazes at his reflection on the water. The features of a fishman stand out plainly on his giant frame. A savage shark, laid bare before them all.

A surge of power he has never known floods through Goliath's body. He lifts the great blade beside him with ease and swings it at the water.

Boom...

The calm sea heaves up into massive waves, flinging the two small boats about until they pitch and rock.

Amid the violent rocking, Goliath roars with laughter. He turns to Miryam, red light flashing fierce in his eyes.

Goliath swings his blade at Miryam without warning. But as the mighty edge nears her, it freezes in the air, all its force draining away.

The scar on Goliath's neck flares with a snake-like purple light. He crumples in agony as that piercing, bone-deep pain comes flooding back, and the power within him vanishes without a trace.

Miryam looks at Goliath, a little surprised. After a moment, she smiles.

Goliath smiles and holds out his hand. Miryam ignores it and turns to walk toward the boat's canopy.

Goliath draws back his hand and touches the mark on his neck. He smiles out at the sea, his new fangs glinting sharp in the sunlight.

The boat's hull scrapes over the fine sand and comes to rest at the shore. Miryam steps down onto the beach and gazes at the lonely island before her.

The island is very small, no more than a rugged reef. Ancient, tangled vegetation covers it over, telling of long ages of solitude.

Miryam runs her fingers slowly through the fine sand at the shore. She remembers the fall of her homeland: standing among the fish-people, watching in despair as the sea swallowed everything Lemuria was.

Now she stands here once again. And soon, she will bring Lemuria back to these waters.

The purple light at his neck flickers, and the stab of pain makes Goliath suck in his breath.

...

The black mist parts the weeds and dense brush, and a small bay opens before them.

A light of excitement begins to fill Miryam's eyes.

Goliath points to an altar a little way off. It is so overgrown with weeds as to be almost unrecognizable.

Deborah brings out the statue of Tulu and sets it on the altar. The base fits the altar exactly.

He looks at Miryam, a question in his eyes. She goes to the altar, draws a dagger, and cuts her finger.

A drop of crimson blood falls from her pale fingertip and lands on the statue.

Shhh-

A ripple seems to pass through the very air, and the lonely island begins to shake beneath their feet.

The shape of the bay blurs as the seawater swirls and rises up on end, forming a vast whirlpool: a great gate, opening in invitation.

Miryam walks eagerly toward the heart of the whirlpool, deaf to Goliath's shouts. Goliath curses and goes after her.

A narrow stone stairway appears, descending toward the unfathomable seabed. They follow Miryam down.

After how long, none of them can say, the stone steps bring them to a magnificent ruin.

The dark stone pillars stand solemn as beheaded guards, halberds still in hand, ranged along either side.

The walls and roads of great stone blocks lie cracked and rotting, foul algae creeping over their remains, telling of glory long past and ten thousand years of solitude.

The group trudges through seawater and broken stone, mounting the shattered steps.

A broken stone throne stands at the end of the path. Upon it, a long-dead skeleton sits with its chin propped on one hand, gazing wearily out at the wreckage of an old dream.

Miryam bows low in devotion and kneels before the bones.

She rises, and reaches her hands into the foul remains. When she draws them out, a faint silver light shows in the dim ruin.

A silver orb rests in Miryam's hand, light flowing and shimmering across its surface, throwing dreamlike reflections through the water. Miryam leans closer, listening to it breathe.

She draws the dagger.

Thunk...

The ritual dagger drives into Miryam's chest, then twists, carving out a bloody hollow.

Blood sprays out without end, mixing with the seawater, swirling around the ruined throne. The skeleton bathes in the warm blood, watching the scene before it, cold and unmoved.

Miryam seems to feel the pain not at all, her smile only growing more fervent.

She lifts the molten silver orb and presses it into the hollow in her chest.

The instant it enters Miryam's body, the orb blazes with light and writhes wildly. It is fighting her.

Miryam's life pours into it, is devoured, and then is cast aside.

Flames sear every inch of her skin; blades tear at every scrap of her flesh. Endless pain overwhelms Miryam, and still she fights to keep that twisted smile.

Thud...

Miryam can hold on no longer, and faints dead away.

...

The mist and the waves have died away, and the island has shrunk to a lonely black speck in the distance.

Goliath leans against the rail, savoring the gentle roll of the boat.

Goliath watches the flock of seabirds wheeling over the water, then closes his eyes, content.

A crimson gleam flickers in his eyes; he licks his lips and smiles with pleasure.

The giant gives Abisha's shoulder a gentle pat, then rises and crosses to Miryam's sickbed.

...

Blood seeps through the bandages over her chest, but Miryam takes no notice. She lies there weak and spent, staring blankly out at the endless sea.

Goliath sees the pain and confusion in Miryam plainly. Then, in an instant, they are gone.

Excitement blazes in Miryam's eyes. She lurches upright, tearing at her wounds, and breaks into violent coughing.

Miryam turns her head a little and glances at Goliath.

Goliath gives a wicked smile.

Along the winding coastline of the Ornn family's lands, the strange fish-people, drawn by some silent call, stand massed along the shore, awaiting their master.

Goliath looks them over with satisfaction: their strange shapes, the blades in their hands, the loyal, witless look in their eyes.

He gazes past the fish-people at the endless rich lands beyond, like a shark eyeing a dying whale.

The old man's words still keep a basic aristocratic polish, but he makes no effort at all to hide the disdain in his tone.

Old Edmond's body tenses suddenly, and he sits up a little. Goliath takes it all in and smiles at him.

The guards carry several chests into the parlor. When the chests are opened, dazzling golden light spills across Old Edmond's face, and for a moment his eyes glaze over.

He leans in close to Old Edmond's ear.

The old man looks at Goliath with a knowing smile.

...

Miryam wakes in a cold sweat, her back soaked through.

Her father and sister fade from her sight, and in their place is Deborah's worried face.

Miryam can say no more. She leans weakly against the bed rail.

Deborah lays a handkerchief on Miryam's forehead and gently pats her back.

Miryam shakes her head and explains no further. She gazes at Deborah's swollen belly, her expression hard to read.

Miryam bends down and leans close to Deborah's belly.

Miryam gazes at Deborah's belly, and a complicated smile crosses her face.

Deborah pulls a face at Miryam and slips off to the next room. Goliath comes in, watching Deborah's figure with a thoughtful look.

Goliath grins with malice, baring his sharp, shark-like teeth.

Goliath leans back in his chair. Then, seeing where Miryam is looking, and the look on her face, he sits up sharply.

Miryam turns her head slightly and looks at Goliath. Her eyes send a chill up his spine and into his skull.

...

The door swings open, and the soft light of the setting sun falls on Deborah.

She hums a local tune, one hand stroking her swollen belly, perhaps wondering what to make ready for the baby, or what name to give her.

Seeing Miryam come in, she waves to her.

Miryam smiles at her. Deborah has known her too long, and catches the weariness in that smile at once.

She holds Deborah close, burying her face against Deborah's belly. Tears fall, soaking into Deborah's dress.

She lifts her head, wipes away her tears, and gently strokes Deborah's face.

Old questions come back to her, ones she had forgotten long ago. Buried by the years, they surface again now, drifting through her mind with the smell of settled dust.

Deborah has no time to feel afraid. Before she can finish, a serpentine black mist slips into her body. A wave of dizziness takes her, and she slumps onto Miryam's shoulder.

Miryam's voice is calm, as though stating some plain fact that everyone ought to know.

Little Miryam looks at the self she has become. Confident. Resolute. Strong. The undisputed High Priestess of Lemuria, the lonely emissary of the Divine Realm.

That little girl trembling beneath the ruins, crying out for her father: she has nothing to do with this woman anymore.

She stares at her older self with sorrow.

She knows it is the last blessing, the last farewell. Little Miryam goes, as if she had never been. Miryam does not so much as glance at the place where she vanished.

She holds Deborah close, patting her back gently, softly humming a Lemurian lullaby, as though soothing a child to sleep.

Outside the window, the sun has gone down, and the stars begin to tread their appointed paths.

The moment the stars stand right is almost here.

Ornn Family Lands, the Altar

Drip... drip...

The sound of dripping water reaches Deborah's ears, clear and close. She slowly opens her eyes.

A chamber walled in dark stone slabs, starlight falling through an opening overhead and shining down on her belly.

She is naked, her belly swollen high, the veins across it plain to see in the starlight.

She tries to rise, only to find her body and limbs strapped to a stone altar, unable to move at all.

A pair of hands reaches out and closes over hers. They are cold and slick, like a pale snake.

She gently strokes Deborah's face, wiping away her tears of fear. That cold, slick touch makes Deborah tremble beyond all control.

Miryam gazes at Deborah with tenderness, her voice growing gentler still.

...

Edmond Family Lands, the Banquet Hall

Warm cheers rise through the empty hall. Goliath steps onto the dais and slowly scans the room.

Edmond, Pappas, Enom... the heads of every great family have gathered here.

Their ornate finery is written over with a history of slaughter, and their laughing eyes gleam with greed.

They are the masters of land and history. They are the slaves of power and desire.

Goliath smiles at them.

The crowd cheers and lifts their glasses. Course after course of fine, lavish dishes is carried in.

The banquet begins, and the nobles raise their glasses to the spoils they are sure are coming. The din drowns out every sound from beyond the doors.

Outside the doors.

Abisha pulls his blade out of the guard's body.

He glances at the fishman soldier beside him and lets out a sigh.

...

She devoutly sets the statue of Tulu beside the altar and bows to it.

She rises and walks softly toward Deborah. In her pale hand, a strangely shaped ritual dagger glints with a dim light.

Miryam recites the prayer as she comes to Deborah's side.

Sharp pain tears through her belly. She looks up to see Miryam's pale, snake-like hand driving the dagger, carving a crimson line across her belly.

Miryam neither hears Deborah's piercing screams nor sees her face, twisted with fear and agony.

The dagger moves steadily, and warm blood sprays across Miryam's face. She chants in devotion, climbing the stairway to the Divine Realm.

...

Glasses clink, and naked greed mingles with the smell of wine and roasted meat.

Goliath licks his lips, savoring the flavor.

He looks at the mirror-smooth tiles beside him and sees a face that is turning into a fish's.

Wounds open across his chest as if slashed by unseen daggers. His ears and eyebrows are vanishing, and his eyeballs swell fast, bulging out to the sides.

The pain cuts through the fog of wine and adrenaline and reaches him at last. He crumples to the floor, crying out in belated agony, hands clawing wildly at his own face.

One, two, three... across the lavish banquet hall, the nobles drop to the floor one after another.

Crimson wounds open across them one after another, blood and flesh shaping an ancient pattern over their bodies.

The wails of agony swell into a grand symphony; blood sprays out, filling every goblet.

Goliath looks as though he has just heard a fine joke. He rises from the high seat and takes up his blade.

A massive blade comes down straight, splitting the young noble in two, and with him goes any chance to prove his honor.

The doors all around the hall swing open, and countless fish-people come flooding in like a tide.

Blood stains every corner of the hall, screams ringing off the walls like a symphony out of Hell.

Those who had not drunk the poisoned wine, still themselves, are shaking too hard to draw a sword or run.

Goliath takes in the bloody scene in the hall, savoring the terror on the nobles' faces. He lets out a satisfied sigh and lifts the massive blade.

...

The piercing scream strikes the stone slabs and comes back as a dull echo.

She wants to struggle, to escape, but her body is wholly in Miryam's grip, unable to move an inch.

She wants to faint, but her mind stays painfully clear, made to face every part of the pain and the fear.

Deborah's blood spatters all over Miryam. She remembers how, many years ago, on the temple altar, she bade farewell to her father in just this way.

Parting is for the sake of a better reunion. Is that not so, my King?

She gazes intently at Deborah's belly as the dagger moves to finish the last stroke of the pattern.

Miryam's hand reaches into Deborah's belly, stirring, tearing.

Deborah's hoarse voice screams in agony, her bloodshot eyes flung wide, staring straight down at her own belly.

Miryam tears something loose. It should have hurt. But Deborah can no longer feel anything.

Her mind has gone numb; emotion and sensation have all left her.

Dimly, she sees Miryam lift a bloody mass out of her belly.

Sarah. Miryam had once told her it was her little sister's name.

She and Nord had agreed to give their daughter the name, but she never got the chance to tell Miryam.

Name her Sarah, Deborah mouths, but no sound will come anymore.

Miryam kisses her goddaughter tenderly, the baby's blood staining her lips. Blood drips from the corner of her mouth as she gently closes Deborah's eyes.

...

Tap, tap, tap...

Faint footsteps sound from within the hut.

This humble hut, built of dark stone slabs, looks exactly like the home where Miryam once lived.

In that home, she said farewell to her mother, her father, her sister, her friends.

In this home, she will be reunited with them all.

The footsteps stop at the doorway.

Goliath kneels. Behind him, countless fish-people cry out the same words and kneel as one.

They surround the hut like waves without end, awaiting the command of the deep sea.

Miryam carries the bloodied infant toward the crowd. The fish-people part to make way for her.

The fish-people cheer and dance in a frenzy. Miryam stands in their midst. Starlight falls on her face, streaked with blood and tears.

Cold and burning eyes turn slowly. Miryam looks over her soldiers, her subjects. She gives them the smile of a High Priestess.

Amid the deafening chorus of the fish-people, Miryam lifts the baby high in both hands.

In place of her heart, the Holy Embryo gives off a pure white glow beneath the stars.

Waaaah!

All falls silent. The blood-covered baby squirms, and in the ancient ruins her belated first cry rings out.

The silent stars listen to that oracle-like cry. A single star falls, drawing a mournful line across the night sky.

Another story of the stars is about to begin.