A Note from the author: THIS IS A SLOW BURN AT THE START! This was not originally written as a web serial, so I didn't have an episodic formula in mind. I take my time to dip the reader's toes into this world after the actual "isekaiing" happens. A lot of people who read the old manuscript say around chapter 12 is where it really begins to pick up. If you're expecting immediate, fast paced action, this may not be the story for you. There are action scenes, but they're down the road a ways. 

Also, I'm going for a somewhat realistic portrayal of schizophrenia, which means that for the first few chapters, the narrative often becomes surreal and at times, incoherent. Vincent's mind is fragmented. This can turn a few people off, but it's a stylistic choice I made to give gravity to a plot development that happens in chapter 12. So if you can hang in there, awesome! If not, no worries. (I'll be posting chapters pretty fast until we reach 13.) 

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Thal’rin Cyos, the leader of the city of Meldohv Syredel, bowed his head in silence. His hands were clasped under his snout and his wings were tucked behind his back. In front of him was a platter of pastries, but he had lost his appetite. So, instead, he sat and waited, listening to the quiet brick and ancient stone.

He was deep underground, in the underbelly of the city’s archives. The floors far above, connected by a central lift, were full of ancient tomes, books, and weathered scrolls. Lost peoples, dead cultures, scattered knowledge, their memories lived on in those dusty shelves and cobwebbed bindings. It was a treasury filled with lore. Scholars riffled through pages and lost themselves in old transcriptions. But down here, there was only silence.

Thal’rin painted an odd scene. The table he sat at was small, basic, and it resided in the middle of a large archway carved into the stone. A nytic lantern, hanging above, painted his scales in its blue light. Blue signified danger. It meant that the winding vaulted hallway at his back led to a place filled with dark and unknown lore. It led to the Runite Vault. Only a handful of people were allowed access, for many of the objects within were either cursed or malefic.

As he sat and pored over his words, his ears twitched. Somebody had activated the lift. The mechanisms rattled to life and its carriage, a cage formed of wrought metal, slowly rose into the ceiling above. It ascended into the shaft, drifted into the distance until the silence fell once more. Thal’rin was alone, alone with his thoughts to haunt him. He was Meldohv’s protector, yet he was afraid. How long had it been since he felt this abject terror?

A few minutes later, he heard the lift returning, chains rumbling. He got to his feet and held his hands behind his back. The carriage descended into view, carrying in it two occupants. One was the head tuhli of the archives, Master Arlock. He was a seasoned historian whose experience was etched on his weathered snout. Standing beside him was a youth with a tussled mane, shifting from foot to foot. When the lift came to a stop, Arlock lifted the latch and opened the gate. The youth, straightening his posture, followed behind him.

“Master Arlock,” Thal’rin said.

“High Channeler.” Arlock folded his wings in front of his chest, a sign of respect.

“And you must be Salish Rahkeel,” Thal’rin said to the young man standing beside him.

“Y-yes, High Channeler,” Salish said. Emulating Arlock, he too, folded his wings in front of his chest. Thal’rin returned the gesture. Salish was both nervous and fidgety. His clothes, like his mane, were disheveled and there were ink smears marking his garments. Thal’rin had seen this look many times. Young scribes were messy, always getting ink all over their garments as they wrote.

The nervousness was also familiar. Thal’rin had power. The people of Admoran made him into a legend because of it. In Salish's eyes, he was a man who could destroy entire armies. Salish kept avoiding his gaze. Thal’rin wished he could have this meeting inside his home, where he could put the young man at ease, shatter any illusions he had, dismantle any myths.

“I am sorry for awakening you at this hour,” he said, “you must have questions.”

He could see the unspoken inquiries in Salish’s eyes. From what Thal’rin had heard, the young man was a passionate historian. He knew where he was standing and knew he wasn’t supposed to be here. However, Salish didn’t say anything.

“Here, come over here, have a seat.” Thal’rin invited him to the table and sat down in his chair. Salish hesitated, then he approached, pulled out a chair, and sat across from Thal’rin.

“Master Arlock,” Thal’rin said, “can you go get the vault ready for us?”

Arlock nodded, then headed down the hallway. Salish watched him leave. He pulled an inkstone from his pocket and began to fidget with it. Then, when he realized what he was doing, he put the utensil back in his pocket and wiped his hands on his clothes, embarrassed.

“Are you hungry?” Thal’rin pushed the platter of pastries toward Salish with a wing. “I bought these from a baker down the road. They have scrat meat in them, if you can believe it. They aren’t bad.”

Salish raised a hand, paused, then selected a pastry, and gave it a try.

“I’ve been told you are a bright young man,” Thal’rin said, “one of the smartest pupils the masters have ever seen. You have an uncommon passion for diving into our past.”

His words reverberated into the hallway before dying into silence. At first, Salish didn’t know how to react to the compliment. It took a moment or two to receive his response.

“I-I do,” he said, “I...I’ve been told I study too much. That I should sleep more.”

“Sleep more?” Thal’rin repeated.

“I stay up late. Reading, studying, transcribing. Even when I lay down, my mind is still thinking. It won’t let me sleep.”

Thal’rin grinned. He knew the feeling all too well.

“Did you ever think you’d be invited to eat pastries with the diac of Meldohv Syredel on the doorstep of the Runite Vault?”

“N-no. Is that why I’m here?”

“No Salish," Thal'rin scoffed, "that’s not why you’re here. That was a joke.”

“Oh...” Salish was flustered. “Then why...I mean, Lord Thal’rin, why am I here?”

“Just ‘Thal’rin’ will do, Salish. Those who work with me know I prefer to be called by my name. Formality has its place, but ‘High Channeler’ and ‘Lord’ are just titles. They’re roles I serve. I’m just an old fool, like any other old fool.”

“Yes...Thal’rin,” Salish said, “why am I here? This...” He looked around in disbelief. “It’s been my dream to see the Runite Vault, but I'm not…I don't have the…" His words got away from him.

“You’re here because we could use your help, Salish.”

“My help?” he asked, “with what?”

Thal’rin folded his hands on the table. “Before I elaborate, I want to verify...Master Arlock had you swear an oath to secrecy before he brought you here, is this correct?”

“He did, Lord...I mean, ‘Thal’rin’,” Salish said, “he said that I was needed. He couldn’t tell me why. He just had me swear an oath to secrecy, then he brought me here."

“I am going to give you a second chance,” Thal’rin said, “you were woken up in the middle of the night, you were tired. That oath is not binding. Now that you're awake, I want to ask you to take it again."

Salish stared at him.

"There is an object in my pocket," Thal'rin continued, "taken from the vault behind me. When I show it to you, your life will change. But I will only do so if you reaffirm your oath to secrecy. You cannot share what you see with anybody, except for those we, that is, Master Arlock and I, deem necessary.”

As he spoke, he gauged the young scribe’s reaction.

“The alternative, is that you turn away. Go back to your studies. I wouldn’t judge you for it. What I have to reveal will be a heavy burden. It will be a difficult secret to keep for a young man like yourself. If you noticed a solemnness among your superiors, the object I am talking about is the reason for it.”

Salish chewed on the decision. “May I have more time to think about it?”

“I am afraid not, Salish. The decision has to be made now.”

“Then...then I reaffirm my oath. Whatever you show me, I won’t tell anybody.”

Thal’rin sighed. Part of him was hoping Salish would turn away. He was too young, younger than his sons. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a necklace with a medallion hanging from it. He placed it on the table for Salish to see. The medallion was a simple stone disk with a depiction of an eye on it. Dark tears wept from its lids.

“Go ahead,” Thal’rin said, “take it.”

Salish reached forward, but then he froze. Recognition blazed in his eyes. Thal’rin waited patiently as the scribe processed what he was seeing. Finally, he picked up the medallion with trembling hands and turned it over, inspecting it. Half-formed words appeared on his lips.

“I take it you know what that is?” Thal’rin asked.

“...yes.” Salish put the medallion back down and pushed it away. He stared at the table. “That...that’s not a replica?”

“I wish it was, Salish.”

“But, I thought it was impossible to remove from Ayrlon’s neck.”

“You are correct, it is impossible. Thieves, rulers, craftsman, many have tried to remove it. All have failed. And yet, there it is,” Thal’rin gestured to the medallion, “a keeper found it on the ground beneath Ayrlon’s statue last night. We don’t know how long it had been there.”

“Then...” Thal’rin could see Salish processing what this meant. “Ayrlon is weeping? Her tear is alight?”

“Yes, Ayrlon weeps.” A hush filled the cavernous hallway. Thal'rin could almost feel the weight of the stone surrounding them, clenching as he said those words. The dead air felt heavy in his lungs. He took the medallion and tucked it into his pocket. Salish looked empty. His hands gripped the table as if he meant to rip chunks from it.

“We will need all the help we can get," Thal'rin said, "including yours.”

“My help...” Salish repeated.

“You are young,” Thal’rin said, “your mind is fresh. You think of things the masters haven’t conceived of. I’ve been told you’ve caused some of them to reconsider old ideologies in a new light. I’m afraid us old coots can get trapped in our own paradigm, so that is an impressive feat.”

Thal’rin could see that Salish wasn’t hearing him. He was still staring at the table, gripping its edges.

“Salish,” Thal’rin said softly, “look at me.” Salish's eyes drifted upward until he met the High Channeler's gaze. “I know this news is dire. But we are strong.”

“What...what color is it?” Salish asked, “what color is her light?”

Thal’rin picked up a pastry. However, his appetite failed him again, so he put it back down. “It is not an easy light to describe. Which is why I brought you here. I want you to see it for yourself.”

“You’re letting me into the vault?”

“With supervision,” Thal’rin said.

At that moment, he heard footsteps. Arlock was returning. Thal’rin got up and stretched his wings. A few bones popped.

“He has reaffirmed his oath?” Arlock asked.

“He has,” Thal’rin said. Then he turned to Salish. “Shall we go and see Ayrlon?”

Salish got up. There was a slight stutter in his step, but he followed. Their footsteps echoed down the hallway leading to the Runite Vault.

“What can you tell me about Ayrlon and her tear?” Thal'rin asked. It was a simple question. Every historian knew about Ayrlon and most would feel condescended to if asked such a question. But Thal’rin could tell Salish was dumbstruck. Terror was taking root. He needed to get the young scribe talking.

“Lord Thal’rin?”

“Just... ‘Thal’rin’, Salish. Remember, I’m just a man.”

“Yes, sorry.”

“What can you tell me about Ayrlon?”

Their voices reverberated with a throaty, cavernous inflection.

“Well...we don’t know who created her,” Salish said, “but we know her tear is an omen. Most of the time, it's dark. But when it glows...”

Salish trailed off when they passed a study filled with books and trinkets.

“Go on, Salish,” Thal’rin said.

“When it glows, it's a warning,” Salish continued, “the jewel is warning us about impending disaster. The color that the tear glows with is a hint. It glowed blue before the outbreak of The Sapphire Plague. Orange right before fires spread across Admoran and destroyed hundreds of villages and devastated crops, sending us into a famine. When the calactics infested our waters, it was glowing with a gray light. And for the bark reavers, it glowed green.”

“She foretells catasrophe,” Thal’rin said.

“Yes. W-when I was child my mother would threaten me and my brothers if we made trouble. She said Ayrlon will weep over the consequences.”

Thal’rin grinned. He had heard his wife make similar threats toward his sons.

“And the medallion?” he said.

“It can only be removed when she’s weeping,” Salish said, “many think that whoever created her, wanted it to be removed so it could be shown to all nations and unite them against the threat.”

They came upon an alcove. Set in its center was a massive door. Arlock raised a ring on his finger and tapped the wall with it a few times. The door grumbled to life and opened. The Runite Vault seemed to yawn before them, releasing stale air from its depths.

“Remember Salish,” Arlock said, “do not touch anything. Keep your wings tucked in and mind your tail.”

They stepped inside. Salish pulled in his wings and kept his arms close to his sides. The Runite Vault was cavernous, but it was packed with dark and dubious artifacts, furniture, and books; items whose dark lore warranted isolation. They navigated through forests of cursed cabinets and troubled trinkets. Salish turned his snout left and right, questions brewing in his eyes.

There was something else in the air, a silent thrumming, a pulse that worked its way into Thal’rin’s skin. His scales quivered and his flesh felt like it was recoiling. It was an uncomfortable, grotesque sensation and it was growing stronger as they made their approach to Ayrlon’s statue. Salish felt it too, apparently. He kept rubbing his arms. No doubt he had read about this phenomenon and its association with Ayrlon’s weeping. They were approaching unknowable knowledge.

Ayrlon resided near the middle of the vault, isolated in her own open space from all the other objects. They approached the grieving statue. She was on her knees, frozen in perpetual weeping. Sorrow and terror strained her body. Pain permeated every angle, every curve. A bag covered her head, hiding the tear from view. Thal’rin nodded to Arlock. The master approached the statue and removed the bag. Salish gasped.

Ayrlon’s snout was buried in her hands as she keened, a single glass tear wept from between her fingers. It was neither orange, green, blue or gray. The white light pouring from it thrummed and pulsed, radiating with a blinding brightness. But whatever the light touched, was cast in a darkness that flickered and throbbed. The tear blackened the three of them.

“It’s not like the light of a fire, is it, Salish?” Thal’rin said, after giving the scribe a moment to process it. “You sit next to a fire, and you’re cast in the light emitted by its orange flames. And yet... Ayrlon’s tear shined with a brilliant white light. However, its subjects reflect only darkness, as if she radiates shadows instead of light.”

As her emanations thrummed against Thal’rin’s flesh, the light ebbed and pulsed. The darkness it radiated matched its fluctuating rhythm. It was a chiaroscuro of conflicts. It was unnatural, it defied reason.

“Throughout history, Ayrlon’s tear is not the only warning we had,” he said, “there were other signs. The fires you spoke of were preceded by a severe widespread drought. For years, the calactics slowly came up from the depths of Xytan’s Maw before they hatched. The Sapphire Plague first manifested itself in crawns before it infected us. The seeds of tragedy were already there. If we were only looking, we would not have needed her light to warn us.”

He turned to Salish, who was transfixed by the light. His snout was limned in shadows.

“Salish, it has been five-hundred years since she last wept.” Salish’s eyes were glued to the tear, but he pulled away to look at Thal’rin. “Never before has a light like this been documented. We need to find out what it means. The masters of the archives will be working in conjunction with the shandan and very select kiolai, who will be scouting Admoran, looking for the signs of the disaster this odd light foretells.”

“But I’m just...I’m just...”

“Just an apprentice? A student?” Arlock said.

"Y-yes…"

“We need fresh eyes, Salish,” Thal’rin said, “as of tonight, you’re no longer a student. You will be working alongside the masters to see if you can find a pattern, any indication of calamity. We need to see if there is anything going on in our land. We need insight like yours.”

Salish looked back at the tear and nodded. Arlock put the bag back over Aylon’s head, dousing the light. A few shadows bled out from its opening.

“You will start tomorrow,” Thal’rin said, “get some sleep.”

“Yes...Thal’rin.”

Later that night when Thal’rin returned to his home, he wandered its halls. His beloved abode, which used to echo the laughter of his sons, now seemed threatened. He had hoped his sons would have children of their own to bring here and fill his home with children's laughter once more. Perhaps they would, but for now, an uncertain future loomed over all of Admoran.

He navigated the corridors until he came upon a special chamber. He opened the door and stepped into silence. The designs which bound the chamber in secrecy would prevent any sound from escaping. Here, he could meditate as he listened to the trickle of water that poured from a spigot in the wall, cascading down a small cairn before trickling away into a hand-made creek in the floor. He closed the door and walked slowly into the middle of the room where a circle of pillows resided on the floor.

Thal'rin had known true terror and helplessness. He had come face to face with his own inadequacy when he had earned his legacy as Meldohv Syredel's protector. He became a myth across the continent. The people of the land called him powerful. Some even went so far as to call him a walking army. He supposed only a man who faced the creature he had faced would see the truth: that he was small and inadequate. This recognition, not any self-earned prowess, was what enabled his victory.

They did not know he still had nightmares about that day, when he confronted a primal force older than civilization itself, capable of rending cities. Thousands had been killed and yet Ayrlon had not wept for that clash. Her tear had remained dormant.

But now, she weeps. Far worse things were coming, things that made that encounter pale by comparison.

Thal’rin, the leader of Meldohv Syredel, fell to his knees and felt a scream building in his lungs. He allowed himself to surrender to the fear for a few moments. But all that escaped was a choked whimpering and a gasp. He wrested himself back under control. He had work to do.