I. Jharna’s Story 

​

    First, the ending. They died, I failed, and the world turned to shit. The web holding our world together burned away and the Aphradia sunk back into chaos. At the height of its power and size, the Dokan Empire, collapsed, rupturing and breaking into a thousand factions. And whatever order there was disappeared. Though perhaps the Empire’s sense of order was always a lie. It sure felt that way in the capital. The façade of control simply a thinly spun thread held together by veiled words, espionage, and hidden political agendas, which burned away far quicker than it took to spin. 
   Once I understood the way of the world, or I thought I did. I was a recent graduate of Firelite Academy, educated and refined. A finely sharpened blade with a scholar’s mind and a soldier’s sense of duty. I was top of my class, trained for war. I knew my place. I belonged. I was strong and driven, in my prime and the only problem—my only problem—was that I had been assigned a job I didn’t want. Can you imagine? What I would do to go back to that; a world where I had only one—one!—thing to complain about. One thing to make life difficult. 
   And the job itself, in Dia’s name. It was one of the most powerful positions across the entire Aphradia and I was ungrateful. Partly because I was ignorant, partly because I was inept. How young I was. How incredibly obtuse. 
   And here I am today, before you. Washed up like a pile of decomposing kelp with only a story to my name. A story that I desperately need you to believe. Without your trust, well… I know what will happen. I only request that my end is swift.  

    

   Right. Yes. It is difficult to find a beginning. It feels as if I was always bobbing along to an unknown current, completely unaware of the debris hurtling my way. Do I go back, farther than the edge of time? Before beginnings could even, in a literal sense, begin? Do I place my story’s start there, give it full context, give it space and time and a depth of true origin? \

   Make it clear how very little my story matters in it all. 

​

   I have come to you for help, you know, but you have chained me to this chair, caught in another net, and what I knew yesterday no longer exists; so yes, I’m allowed to be cynical. I’m allowed to feel jaded. You! You were at fault in this too. We all were. And the Jharna of yesteryear, Jharna the Bear, the Jharna that studied and schemed and fought—she no longer exists anymore. She’s gone.

 

    Yes, the beginning. Which one do you want? 
    Should I start with Firelite? Tell my journey of how I found myself amidst the world of military education and training? How I found my calling through scrolls and young love and overcoming my childish fears? How I never doubted myself again?
    Hah!
    No, I’ll begin a little later, when the real self-doubt kicked in. When reality showed up and sank its teeth in. I’ll start with the ship from Firelite, when I still believed in the integrity and truth of the stories I’d been told. I’ll even suggest the history of the Aphradia. Oh yes, I’ve been given the real story there. 
   If I must tell my story, then I will tell it my way. I will say everything, including those old secrets he doesn’t want dragged up.
The truth. 
   You sure you want the scribe to stay?

 

   I’ll be a good orator, like Dimitar Draginev or Phan no Nitoka. I will go through the motions, follow the proper format and order of things. I’ll take a moment to think of my words and my language. Remember what Phan said: “You must begin with poetry; the rest can be prose.” I can wax poetic. It doesn’t happen often, but I can do it. I’ll even begin the traditional way. 
I’ll go first into the water, deep down below, beneath the ship that was carrying us to Kivos, start with the cave that opened again. With her. It’s fitting. 
   I’ll give a beginning to our end, a beginning to our chaos.

 

   Between sky and sea, my story…

II. The Amano

 

    I always thought that the Amano, the abyss, was a myth. A bedtime story to frighten children from climbing up the rigging of their parents’ fishing boat. A story of dark waters and mystery and the unknown. 
But I was shown it.

 

    Later. Much later. After the fire. She did it, she showed us.

​

    Yes, of course, she did.

 

    It is hard to imagine, perhaps, that place of unfathomable depth and water so dark and still. We humans after all, swim where the sun still reaches. We go where light still touches. So, it is hard for me to even describe that place. But I will try. Try to explain what was shown to me.
    I do not quite know where it is, that inky black slice that cuts through the ocean floor, but I was given a vision of its darkness, of its depth and stillness. And I was shown the cave that sat at its heart, deep beneath leagues of cold darkness, deep, deep down in the Amano. It felt as if it was at the center of the world, the heart of the planet, beneath all the islands of the Aphradia. 
    In that slice beneath the ocean floor, in the heart of the Amano, a cave sat surrounded by frozen waves of rock held in a tender caress by black waters. Rippling and rolling, an exquisite sculpture of rock fixed in time. A natural testament to the powers of a long-ago collision, where the ocean reached up and out and grasped the hand of the sky, and in that moment of contact, the earth bloomed into orange tangles of magma and ash.
    To think that there, beneath our passing ships, for all this time, was the moment of first creation. A moment of matrimony forever encapsulated in sharp edges and swirls. 
    For eons, the cave had sat in a world of stillness, a world without light and motion, reminding me of that moment in time, that long pause, after a last dying breath escapes. Nothing stirred and nothing swam. In that strange, muffled space, barren of life, only death floated quietly down from above. 
    It is difficult to explain. I think my human brain could not quite understand what I was seeing, what seemed to be beyond comprehension, but this cave extended down past the edge of the world. It was fathomless and seemed to evoke a presence of its own. 

 

    Yes, she explained its purpose.

​

    Once, long ago, the cave was the gateway between worlds, between the unknown and creation, between life and immortality, between something and nothing. The gods had entered its walls and left, swinging through, passing by, breathing life. The world had pulsated from its mouth, and it was a space like none other, able to move places, able to be both a cavern and a passageway. For a while, the cave had been deep in a mountain, then atop a hill, then on a beach.
    It had been more, far more than what it was now: a simple cave. 
    Well, the cave was not just a cave, it was also a prison. 
    Once it had been endless, now it was an end. The same could be said for the prisoner within. Trapped at an end. She was barely a shell, void of it all. Absent. Something less than darkness, for darkness can be pregnant with many things. Something far more empty. Above the world rotated, skies changed, the world went on, but down in the abyss, the prisoner within did not. She remained in a permanent stasis of not being. 
    A stasis partially chosen by the prisoner within, I think, for she fully had the power to move. She could change, after all, but she did not. And so, the stillness remained, as it had for eons.

The darkness moved first, it shifted up and around the prisoner, folding and separating like a blanket. It flattened and expanded, rolling out with the curl of a wave. Then her hand twitched and the interior of the cave shivered, vibrating. The saltwater swayed and began to shift in a current, stirring the dust and debris.
    Her other hand moved. An eye opened.
    The emptiness turned into something and the stillness immediately changed too, evaporating into action. The prisoner, who had been forever at the back of the cave, closest to that other side where there was once a doorway that was now permanently closed, turned her head towards the mouth of the cave.
    The Amano came alive with vibrations and energy. With each of her movements, the water quivered, spreading waves and rippling out. The saltwater pushed away from the cave, picking up dust, and rebounded against the far wall. 
    It seems strange—this all must sound strange—but as she moved, the cave changed too. It seemed to rear up and roll out, becoming larger and wider, expanding into a wide door. 
Knuckles trailed against the cave interior, creating the first sound. It was a hushed sound of soft murmurs and sighs. She stood at the edge of the cave, placing long fingers on the inside wall of rock at the entrance, greeting her prison like an old friend, just as one greets the wooden doorframe of a treasured home. 
    A few happy stalagmites unexpectedly burst forth around her. 
    The prisoner acquiesced with a gentle pat against the rock, then turned to look out beyond the opening. It was clear that she could not move forward, blocked by an invisible wall of an impenetrable power. 
    A power meant to lock a monster in.
    A soft murmur filled the cave. “At last you wake,” another presence spoke from outside the barrier. The voice spoke with the sound of a thousand whispers and hushed prayers and quiet snores. 
    “Notos,” the prisoner said, breaking eons of silence. She looked out at the darkness with eyes that were at once calculating, sad, loving, angry, and tired. 
   “Why now?” Notos asked. If there was any light, they might have become the shadow of a supplicant, begging for an answer. There was hurt in their voice, similar to a child abandoned or a lover cast aside. 
    Again, she did not respond. She waited patiently, boiling with conflicting emotions. Her eyes looked up towards the far-off surface of the ocean above. 
    “I cannot help you.” Notos was small, a lonely owl on a midnight hunt or a dog in a cage. “I am nothing without Lhos.” 
    At this, the prisoner stared at Notos. 
    “You are yourself, Notos, and that is more than enough,” she replied. The prisoner spoke in all tongues, in all languages and voices, a cacophony of sound and song that was at once discordant and harmonious. 
    “You cannot escape,” Notos hissed from the shadows.
    “You have forgotten who I am; there are many ways I can escape.” She examined the invisible wall for a long time, then placed her hands on the invisible border, which pulsed with energy under her strength, shaking the sides of the cave. A few pebbles slipped off a nearby ledge. 
    Concerned, Notos spat: “There are rules now, order—” They changed tracks. “Would you be the world’s destruction? The end of all life? There are whole civilizations up there, humanity on nearly every island, with stories and lives to live and deaths to incur. Would you destroy all of that?”
    “I am change.” 
    “You are the madness that curls in my nightmares. The insanity that aches to shred everything apart. I know what you are,” Notos accused, “but your role is played out. We—”
    “Enough. It is time. Things are ready.” The prisoner lifted a hand and there was enough authority in her voice that Notos fell silent. Again, her hand moved forward and rested on the invisible wall, which began to hum as if straining against her power. 
     “What are you going to do?” The humming increased, filling the depths of the Amano. 
     “I cannot fully escape—yet—but I will.” 
     The humming became to scream against the barrier and the hand. Volume continuously rising, ricocheting up and around, over and over, gaining in intensity. From where the hand contacted the wall a crackling occurred, a breaking of matter, a fracturing and splintering, and then light pooled through, burning a space through the invisible barrier. A flash of white, blinding light. 
    It was the first time light had radiated against the volcanic rock in millions of years, its prayer of warmth and radiance dazzling against the walls of the abyss and the entrance of the cave. 
    Then, when the sound and the brightness were hot and loud enough to almost break reality itself, a force of energy burst through a tiny hole in the barrier, pushing through the darkness of Notos. Barely the width of a thumb, the single bolt of radiant energy shot through, leaving the prisoner and Notos behind. It swarmed over the swirling rocks and dust and then upward it moved, away from the cave and the darkness and the prisoner. 

 

    How did she look when she told me this part? Well, she smiled. A wild, gleeful smile. An image I’ll never forget. 

​

    The pulse of light, of energy, shot forward like a lightning bolt. Up along the Amano’s walls, up and out of the trench, past shelves of rock and volcanic vents. The bolt moved faster, further, speeding out into deep ocean, where leviathans swam and nightmares lived. Up and up and up, zigzagging far away from where it began, past whales and squids and krakens, past stingrays, sharks, shrimp, and octopi. Up past debris and schools of fish. As if cheered on by the first trickles of true sunlight, the energy zipped forward, gaining even more speed.  Then like a shooting star, it met the surface. 
    At the point where the sky and the sea met, the bolt exploded into a great burst of wind and a sprinkle of sea turtles and guppies and a sudden surge of water. The energy and creatures spread far and fast. Deep-sea currents picked up, abruptly carrying the waters of the Aphradia in many different directions. The air above jolted into action too. A great storm brewed and formed and rolled out, spreading across the full horizon. 
    The sea and the air changed course, and the world followed after.

    This is not a happy story, you know. This is a tragedy. My tragedy. But I am thinking too far ahead. How do you tell the story of before when all you can think about is the schism, the great hacking fissure of events that nearly broke me? I’m overthinking, as usual. I need to, as you just muttered: “get on with it.” 
    So, I will. Just for you. 
    My story, or at least my part, begins on a hot summer’s day, on a ship in the middle of the sea. The Aphradia. 
    Fitting, right?

III. A New Current

 

    The heat hung heavy in the air. The sails remained unfurled and the ocean barely rose to lap at our hull. The crew trudged about, moving like slugs through the oppressive air. A few stray passengers sat in small patches of shade while most remained below, spread out on rough blankets, fanning hot breezes at the bugs and humidity. The ship seemed to tremble with whispered grumbles, a tension, and slight unease made worse by the fact that this was the third oppressive day of heat.
   It was the type of day where everything seemed too hard, too difficult, and too long. Too much energy to untie a knot or slop around a mop. Too much movement to even raise a hand. The air felt tangible, like warm butter pressing down on slick shoulders, limbs, and the back of thighs. A day where eyes droop, sweat drips, and even the seagulls disappear. 
   It was the type of day I loved to train in. 
   “It’s too hot, Jharna,” Meara whined, backpedaling out of one of my strikes. 
   “You’re wasting energy talking,” I grunted, echoing our sword-training Master. 
   “So are you,” she smirked, always one to trap me in a battle of words. I took advantage of her retreat by swinging up towards her armpit. I met empty air. Beads of sweat coursed down my neck and dripped down my back. Every part of me seemed slick, shimmering in the heat. At my right wrist, a thin sheen of perspiration glimmered over my Bear tattoo. My muscles were taut. I was in my prime. Strong, healthy, and wild with pride, shimmering with the vigor that comes with youth and years of training. 
   “Getting a little slow?” she teased, emphasizing each word with the punctuation of movement. She rotated her small, wood sword and used her elbow to knock my grip from my shield. The shield clattered to the ground with a loud thunk. Meara jumped forward, thrusting at my exposed stomach. Jumping back, I found a comfortable space of empty air and brushed back the unruly tickle of black hair around my ears. It had grown far past its military buzz and would need a cut soon. 
   Meara threw back her head and barked a laugh, exposing the body of a lethal Viper tattoo wrapping from clavicle down to disappear along her sternum. Trained in the arts of secrecy and assassination, she was a force to be reckoned with. While strong in ways of stealth and strategy, she was not, however, overly fond of intense close combat. She preferred the subtler arts of espionage and shrewd takedowns. 
   Normally, this worked in my favor.
   But on that day, she was not having it. With a wicked grin, she pushed forward, dancing with a light foot and incredible balance. She targeted my open side, slashing and slicing as we moved around the deck. She probably surmised that the faster she won, the faster we were done.
   But I was ready for her wily moves. She was my kindred spirit, my comrade, my dearest friend. As close to a sister as one could reach. I aimed low, whacking her with the flat side of the sword on her calf. She used the hit to retaliate, nearly landing a blow on my shoulder. But I sidestepped, slipping my sword arm around and at her throat. Even with a practice sword, the movement could kill someone, crushing their windpipe, but she was already avoiding the slice. We broke apart, taking a moment to collect, then we were back at it again, moving around the ship. The eerie stillness of the Aphradia glimmered bright sunlight into our eyes as we danced around. 
I kicked off from a nearby crate and used the momentum to propel an overhead cut. She blocked, but I had taken the offensive. I was a volley of thrusts and quick jabs at Meara’s weak points. Her wrists, armpits, thighs, then, in a quick twirl of my sword, I tossed it to my other hand and slapped the dull sword on Meara’s rib cage.
“I hate that move,” Meara spat, jumping away and out of my reach. I would normally have taken this moment to follow through, never letting my adversary escape and all, but I needed the break as well. I stepped back, keeping my sword high and ready to fight. 
We both panted with exertion. Meara wiped at her forehead, pushing back long strands of hair that had loosened from her ponytail. Her tunic and trousers were damp with sweat. Though she may be a master of secrecy, she could never outright hide in a crowd. She was tall, shapely and curvy, her straight hair a thick, glorious black, and her large, monolid, almond shaped eyes were a radiant brown. 
Meara commanded any room with her enticing looks and expressive personality. In Dokan, she was considered the epitome of beauty. Once, a visiting artist had even immortalized her in one of his paintings. She had often failed assignments in disguise—wherever she walked, eyes followed. And instead of hiding as other Vipers were wrought to do, she used her femininity to her advantage, beguiling and distracting, teasing and tantalizing. She was a master in manipulation, a silver-tongued wordsmith, and an encyclopedia of poisons.
She was also the reason a crowd had formed on the deck, even in the hot summer sun. They wanted to watch her move, see her smile, and hear her honey-dewed laugh. The crowd murmured and laughed at our antics. A few men had even booed when I had whacked her.
“Pick up your shield, I hate it when you switch hands like that,” Meara nitpicked. 
I nodded and bent to pick up my small, round shield, but I switched hands, holding the shield in my right. I flashed her a smile before charging forward for another round. 
   Meara rolled her eyes. 
We met with a clash of force and speed, moving back around the deck. Crew members ducked out of our way or made irritated comments about not being paid enough. The sun beat down and the air sweltered with heat in the summer afternoon. Hazy dark outlines of a few islands speckled the far-off horizon, but close-by, our ship was simply surrounded by the deep, still water of the Aphradia.
“I hate summer,” a female passenger mumbled as she came up from the lower deck. She glanced around at the scene, two women fighting while men ogled on, and tutted with annoyance beside us. The hatch door instantly slammed as she sank back down below, probably holding her brimming bowels for a later time. 
   “I win!” I whooped, plunging my sword at my friend’s throat. For a moment, Meara’s brown eyes widened in shock before deepening into a furrow. I chuckled, pushing back the fuzz away from my ears again. I stood with my sword pointed at Meara’s jugular, enjoying the moment. The small crowd politely clapped or booed from the shade.
   We made quite the pair. Meara with her tall, classic beauty from the Dokan Empire—or as they would call it, Dokan beauty—and me, a short muscular woman with dark copper skin and onyx black hair. I was stocky, angular, and almost too toned, like a reptile, too many hard edges and boney surfaces. I was spitfire to her glowing hearth.
“And such a big ego.” She rolled her eyes again.
“Well, not everyone can be like—”
I stumbled, falling sideways towards the ship’s railing. Meara instantly seized the advantage and swiped at me, pretending to stab me in the heart. But as her wood sword smacked my chest, the boat shook again and Meara slid into the railing beside me.
The boat rocked and rolled, vibrating with motion. Its boards creaked and groaned, and the main mast jittered. 
   “Dia, what the—” I spit, clambering to my feet. Across the deck, passengers had fallen over and crewmen were regaining their balance. The crew hollered at one another and the entire ship stirred with startled calls and movement.
The ship shuttered and vibrated. 
“What is that?”
“What’s happening?!” Several shouted pointing. 
I stared over the railing, but all I could see was the blue water of the Aphradia. 
   Wait. No. Were those turtles? 
   Fish jumped out of the water all around the boat, a wave of slick bodies, shimmering scales, and splashing fins. The water moved and parted, and then there were fish of all types and sizes and colors swimming past us. Hundreds of fish, no more than that, thousands. They dove and jumped around the ship, flying by. A few unlucky ones were hurled up and over the railing, to slap against the deck, gasping for air. There was more to the swarm. More than fish and turtles, there were clattering dolphins and great sharks and rays and the deep shadows of whales and creatures I had never seen. Things with long tentacles and glowing bodies and spear-like horns. All of them there suddenly moving past us, beneath us. 
    It was the most bizarre sight. As if thousands of sea creatures were swimming up and away through the ocean together, like an enormous stampede. Moving somewhere or, more likely, away from something. 
    As if we all had the same collective thought, the crowd aboard the ship all met eyes, our fear sparking a simultaneous tremor in our expressions. 
    And then the ship was moving. Moving fast. The hull creaked as it was all too quickly pushed forward, tipping its bow sickly forward and down. Passengers shouted and I grasped the railing for balance. The wind also picked up, tugging at my tunic. It was a fast gust, tainted with a dreary chill and the spray of salt. It pushed at passengers and one man slid several feet along the suddenly slippery deck. 
    The crew came alive. In a rush of newfound energy, they scrambled around the deck, trying to catch the breeze and keep the ship steady as it was pushed forward from both above and below.
    “How are we moving?!” The Captain yelled, slamming through his cabin’s door. He must have been in a similar summer daze. 
    “No idea, Captain,” a sailor replied, pulling the rope to unfurl a sail. 
    “A storm?” He asked moving across the deck to assess the weather. 
    “There’s a current, sir. Look,” the man gestured to the fish and moving water.
    “What?! Below us?” The Captain stared hard at the strange sight. A fish tumbled through the sky and slapped at his feet. Meara and I glanced at one another, he knew as well as us that there were no large currents through these waters. It was one of the “Dead Zones” in the more southern part of the Rudo island chain, where most ships had to rely on favorable winds. In summer, ships could spend several weeks in this region, waiting out the stall. 
    The Captain rushed to where we stood watching sea animals jump and bounce around. The ship was being pushed, pushed hard, and it moved fast even without all its sails unfurled. The parallel of moving air above and water below disgusted him. 
    “Witch magic,” he muttered 
    “Captain?” The first mate had followed the old man, clearly seeking guidance or answers. 
    The older man stroked his gnarly beard, then spat into the wind. He shouldered up, “Let’s use this. All sails set and keep her steady. Norkon, I want you steering.” He addressed the first mate and crew. “Don’t know how long this will last, but it’s in the right direction for Kivos.”
    “As if we’re being pushed there,” a crewmate muttered. Stern looks cut him off. Best not to out the superstitions quietly floating through everyone’s minds. 
    “Norkon, make sure we don’t crash headlong into anything.” 
    The first mate ran off, his eyes fierce. The Captain turned to watch the Aphradia, watch the waters bursting with energy. Dark, heavy clouds curled overhead, seemingly out of nothing. “This is not right.”
    The air dramatically cooled and the wind chilled the sweat on my skin. Meara nudged me, pointing at the far off blue-blue sky that remained on the horizon. The random storm seemed to be localized right above us. Only above and below us. 
    A shiver ran through me. 
    “Will we be alright, Captain?” Meara asked; many passengers leaned in to hear his response. The Captain turned as if torn from his thoughts. He looked at us, two women soaked in sweat and the crowd standing behind us. He stared for a moment, looking at each of our faces as if trying to remember them in the event of our death.
    “Get below deck. Don’t want any of you in our way.”