Act I Part 2 Chapter 2 – Dealing With a Clinging Ex.

November of the Sainted Year (Second Civil Month)

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Grenar Krevoski cursed under his breath. Something had gone wrong—again. Masha was gone. That wretched woman had shoved her into yet another body and left her frozen. It was Thursday, way off the timeline they’d planned for. Nothing about this sequence matched what they had prepared.

And yet, just yesterday, everything had seemed to fall into place. Grenar had manipulated his gullible, gold-blinded adoptive brother to perfection. The man had signed away far more than he understood, and Grenar had hardly needed to push.

From the very beginning, their hazardous scheme had unraveled at every turn. Nothing had gone to plan. Just a week ago, Grenar had been forcibly retired, his commission revoked without ceremony. They had stripped him of everything—uniform, armor, weapons, even his boots. A few items he had managed to hide. It would be some time before anyone noticed.

Now reduced to scrambling for income, Grenar had taken to accepting night guard work—the kind reserved for schoolboys or young men too hesitant to fully enlist. Exhausting, demeaning jobs, but they paid in coin, and coin he needed.

The worst blow had come with the revocation of his status. With it vanished his facility access, his permits—every privilege he’d once taken for granted. Normally, even forcibly retired soldiers were issued downgraded permits like basic access to food centers, low-tier mana facilities, and fishing rights. However, Grenar had been excluded entirely. Even his fishing permits, which should have been maintained, had been partially revoked. Now he had to fish at a spring so polluted that no one else dared approach it.

He’d gone anyway. He was starving.

This body wouldn’t last long if he didn’t feed it properly. His Mana reserves were nearly dry. His wife, whose reserves were full and gleaming, refused to share a drop. The bitch had surely found some way to eat. Julend or one of her loyal brats must have brought her something while he scavenged through the hollow-bellied Slums.

It had all begun when Sylia’s Division Syl Celia disappeared weeks ago. Then Sylia had reduced the food supplies, claiming Masha had instructed her to. The children of the Slums had immediately started crying over it, even though many of them still received a decent meal at school. Only the quality of those meals had declined.

Elsewhere in the Slums, food had become difficult to procure and the prices had gone significantly up. Red meat had become nearly impossible to find. The reason? Supplies now came through the standard distribution channels, and the transition had been extremely abrupt and brutal. The change had followed the arrest of numerous Soldiers, many of whom had been members of the new protection squad of Masha. Not all had been captured, thankfully. Several had gone into hiding and remained concealed, waiting for the right time to strike. The others were now rotting in open cages or locked underground in filthier cells meant for the worst of them.

Sylia had been preparing to sell them off.

Masha had wept in the dummy body she’d been confined to as punishment for pulling that stunt. Grenar had feared it would unravel everything: that the other accomplices would be exposed, that Masha might never return to the body she normally shared with Sylia. All their plans hinged on that. Thankfully, she was restored to it a few days later, as if nothing had happened. But it hadn’t come easily. It had required a lot of begging and tears with a string of harsh punishments.

The soldiers who had once pledged themselves to Masha had been stripped of their positions, handed back like defective tools to the Province Lord and Region Lord. They had no prospects, and many would likely be forced to leave the region and sent back to their forsaken homelands, now under the control of the Krakow Grand Duchy. Those territories belonged to fallen Gods and were quiet hells to live in. Krakow merely maintained order in those areas until the Gods came to purge them or until the broken lands sealed off naturally, once the Mana that had once birthed them fully dried up.

Grenar had seen one soldier crying earlier. The man had no money left, not even enough to pay rent or buy a meal. He didn’t want to be sent back home either.

Grenar shook his head again, trying to push aside both the hunger and the tightening sense of dread. His eyes settled on the smiling little bitch, Sylia, who looked even smaller than usual standing there among her favorite pets. Jimmy and Pullina were, of course, with her. Jimmy beamed as if the world had never wronged him, while his brother Luxzio lingered nearby, visibly peeved.

Not far from the group, pressed against a wall near the corner, stood Grenar’s daughter, Magali. The girl looked terrified, both hands protectively cradling her pregnant belly. Grenar sighed. She had likely betrayed them. The Noble Gentleman who had once made promises to her now refused to acknowledge the child, let alone marry her. It was Sylia’s doing. She had cornered the girl far too fast. Grenar and his allies had counted on Magali to pass messages and run errands, but the bitch had moved swiftly, stripping her of any use.

She had ruined Magali publicly. The man, who had previously seemed to genuinely care, had been bewitched by a handful of words. In mere minutes, everything collapsed. The child would be sent away, placed with a distant relative they would have to pay to take it. Magali would follow, relocated to the Province Capital’s Slums outskirts, her forced transfer approved and signed off by the Region Lord himself. She would be making a living there.

The night before, they’d been informed that Magali’s contract had already been sealed, her “matches” confirmed. All without her consent. It had happened right after Masha, acting on Sylia’s behalf, signed the pact. It had dropped like a bomb. No warning. Magali had burst out crying, wailing that she would be forced to lie with six Gentry men. Sylia had merely shrugged and told her she should be grateful. She’d plotted with people who wanted to do far worse to Sylia. All the Saint had done, she said, was swap a few names on some pre-prepared contracts that have been meant for her.

Grenar had panicked but he’d clung to hope that Masha and her Goddesses would regain control of Sylia and undo it all. Make her forget everything. For a while, it even seemed possible. Sylia appeared to forget. Then, that very morning, she had shoved a sobbing Masha into another puppet body and inflicted another brutal punishment. Tasha and Grenar had been punished as well, severely.

Their apartment had been downgraded to one of the Slums’ cramped housing units—one of those cheap constructions the Region Lord had ordered built in the northwest to address the overcrowding crisis. Sylia must have copied one of them exactly. She had that power.

Grenar could have told the Region Lord that many buildings remained nearly empty, kept available for Sylia’s use. Technically, they belonged to her. Some divine decree had declared it, though Grenar had never fully understood the terms.

The last man who had tried to contest it was smithed. The land expanded beneath his feet, reshaping itself as proof of Sylia’s words—that those areas had been extended by Divine power through Earth and Ryfkyr Magic. The man had refused to believe it. He hadn’t been in the region long. He had worked in the Capital for the Royals and had been sent to investigate certain matters and “straighten out” the rebellious Region. His associates left the next day and never returned. There was nothing left of the man to bury, not even ashes. Not even a soul to pray for, as a Priest had told his family. Nothing.

Grenar shook his head once more, trying to dismiss the risks he kept willingly inviting. He didn’t much care about his soul anymore.

Grenar gritted his teeth as he saw a far-too-eager Sylan Syresmundi approach the children’s selling stand, all smiles and false warmth. Grenar had known that bastard would try to sell them out eventually, but it was too late to stop it.

As expected, Sylia ignored the man completely. Instead, she nodded toward his wife, Adana, who stood a few paces behind. The woman immediately nodded back, eyes brimming with tears, and took her son and daughter by the hands, hurrying toward a building Grenar didn’t recognize.

Grenar looked around more carefully. He had assumed the bitch had only gotten one of her Gods to add this new square with its fresh buildings and flashy little shops. However, the more he stared, the clearer it became. This wasn’t the only place changed. The Magic here was unmistakably both Darkling and Lightling, layered and sharp, and it tingled at the edge of his senses. Subtle distortions in the air hinted at more than just what was visible. Twisted spatial seams, the kind that led to Half-Enclaved zones or quiet sheltered zones that were hidden just beyond the obvious. Areas added discreetly. Places that didn’t want to be seen unless she allowed it.

Sylan stood there, uncertain but since he wasn’t allowed to buy from them, he went to join Grenar, looking peeved. Grenar almost laughed. What did he expect?

She had made those stands and shops to torture them. So childish. Just because they had wanted her enslaved and violated in the most horrible ways, she was getting back at them with petty pranks?

Grenar greeted Sylan distractedly but then froze.

A familiar figure had just stepped into view. The man looked no older than his early thirties, but Grenar knew better. That face, that posture. It was Tamren Syrmundi. His younger brother.

Only a few years younger than Grenar, Tamren now appeared far younger than Grenar’s body worn and degraded by years of Mana strain. Unlike Grenar, Tamren had never seen battle. His mother’s family ties had secured him a place in the Controlled Districts of the Province Capital, where he had spent most of his life in comfort. His skills had helped, of course—skills that had nothing to do with combat. Soldiers could be discarded. Crafters, especially Parchment Makers, could not. It was that second talent, rarer and more prized, that had saved him. Even Krakow acknowledged its worth. Even the Royal family had to bow or be impaled.

Tamren carried the composed intensity of someone accustomed to command, though disinclined to flaunt it. His hair so dark a blue it bordered on black was neatly swept back with a few strands left deliberately untamed, hinting at a natural confidence that resisted full polish. Framing his angular face were high cheekbones and a strong jawline softened only by a faint, perpetual shadow of stubble. His skin was fair, but not pale, toned like someone who has spent more time in shaded halls than in the sun.

His eyes were a deep, striking blue—serious, discerning, and thoughtful. They did not just watch; they calculated. His brows were dark and pronounced, adding weight to every glance and word he delivered. There was a cold grace to him. Measured, deliberate, as though he spoke and acted only when necessary.

He wore a perfectly tailored black suit, subtle in its luxury, devoid of ornament, made to blend rather than boast. The dark shirt beneath, buttoned cleanly to the collar, added to the air of restraint and discipline. His posture was upright, his presence calm but commanding. A man clearly accustomed to discretion and who kept the little power he had like a concealed blade, not a badge.

Tamren approached the stand with a faint smile. “Sylia.” he greeted.

The child-like Saint did not return the smile. Her expression darkened. “What are you doing here?”

Tamren raised an eyebrow, feigning confusion. “Why do you look so displeased to see me? I thought we were supposed to start fresh, relearn each other. You said it yourself. You have changed. I’m trying.”

Around them, the other children frowned. Sylia shot them a sharp glance before turning back to him with narrowed eyes. “Don’t say things like that in front of kids! Have you forgotten I’ve regressed my body today? You still look like a middle-aged man chatting up an eight-year-old girl.”

Pullina grimaced in agreement.

Sylia motioned to her. “Need I remind you? Her biological father is your nephew. Her adoptive father is your own brother.”

Tamren shrugged. “I’ve never been on good terms with Grenar, for reasons you know well. And it’s not my fault you wear this form for that little monster you call Masha. You’re around my age. You have admitted it plenty of times. You even insisted I call you ‘Ma’am.’ I’m just doing what you asked. Getting to know you again. I only want to take you on a real date.”

Pullina turned to Sylia, concerned. “Syl… did you promise the uncle a date?”

Sylia exhaled sharply. “Not in so many words. He interprets everything however he wants. I told him I have enough boyfriends as it is.”

Pullina blinked. “So… were you involved with him? Did you ditch him like the others?”

“No,” Sylia said firmly. “It wasn’t like that.”

Tamren’s eyes darkened. “I lived two decades with your independent Division, Sasha. Don’t you remember?”

Pullina gasped. Sylia muttered, “Sasha was a splinter Piece I made from fragments I absorbed. Not really a Division.”

Tamren’s voice rose. “You took my wife away and merged her with pieces of yourself to forge that new prison shell for Masha! You took our wife away!”

From nearby, Glenstar Moriendi, the tall guard stationed at the stall, stepped forward. “Careful,” he said, voice low but dangerous. “Or I’ll remove you myself.”

Tamren glowered but Glenstar squared his shoulders and stepped closer, every inch the trained combatant.

“You always go for the big, burly type, don’t you?” Tamren sneered. “With not much brain.”

Sylia cut in before Glenstar could react. “He’s gay, Tamren. And he lives with his cute boyfriend. I recruited them both because I like gay couples. Glenstar’s a Viscount-class with combat specialization. And when his power surges, he can reach Count Level for short times. He has both brawn and brains—qualities you clearly lack. No wonder you fail to recognize them when you see them.”

Glenstar puffed his chest proudly. Tamren stood stunned, scanning the faces around them. Some bystanders looked deeply uncomfortable.

“I’m promoting gay couples through them.” Sylia continued. “I want more gay men in my circles. No lesbians, though. I’d probably like you better if you were gay.”

Tamren looked appalled. “You’re… what? Promoting gay men? Through them? How exactly?”

Sylia nodded calmly. “I just said that I like them. This couple, I made myself. With a blessed flower and the help of a Spirit.”

Tamren blinked. Jimmy, confused, asked, “Like a wedding blessing? With flower rings and all?”

Tamren seemed relieved, nodding along hopefully.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

But Sylia gave a lopsided smile. “No. I found a murdered couple and used their blood with enchanted flowers to make copies of them. The goal was to lure, torment, and punish those who caused their deaths—and to trap a few homophobic bigots along the way for divine torture.”

She tilted her head thoughtfully. “You remember I made copies of you and Luxsion? Even made one person with mixed blood from both of you.”

Jimmy’s jaw dropped. Pullina just nodded slowly, still stunned.

Sylia smirked. “Of course you don’t remember. I blocked those memories. And I’ll do it again.”

Tamren rubbed his forehead. “You made them?”

She nodded. “Yes. It’s the first step toward Godhood, isn’t it? I did something similar when I took over Sasha’s body. Wanted to make a point. Honestly, I’m not even sure if Glenstar and his… partner see themselves as a couple or siblings. Maybe they’re not even gay and just pretending to humor me. I didn’t look too closely. The boyfriend’s working full-time as my alchemist, so maybe he’s just exhausted.”

Glenstar, catching Sylia’s not-so-subtle glance, chimed in, grinning. “Well, actually, I like a bit of both. I’m very flexible as long as they’re pretty. Even Tamren could be my type.”

Tamren stiffened, a twitch running down his jaw. He saw the playful glint in Glenstar’s eyes and turned to Sylia with a look of thinly veiled exasperation.

“Oh, he’s yours, alright.” he muttered. “That glint. That smile. The one that says, ‘I’m absolutely lying just to mess with you—so come and get me.’”

Sylia gasped, clutching her chest in mock indignation. “Tamren! That’s cruel! But yes, he is my adorable little kid. I only found out recently that the Spirit who made him was lying about his Mana and abilities. They’re all going to be so surprised when he summons that tiny black Dragon-Drake and destroys their estate. His boyfriend—or brother, if that makes it easier for you—is whipping up explosive potions to help. Friday night is Mommy-and-Kids’ date.”

Glenstar gave a smug little nod.

Sylia added casually, “We could even let you keep the estate afterward. It’s within a hundred miles, and the family’s Mana is compatible with yours.”

Tamren shook his head. “No thanks. I didn’t come back from the Capital just to be sent another hundred miles away.”

Sylia crossed her arms. “I told you that you could come. But you brought all thirty of Sasha’s boyfriends with you. What did you expect me to do—entertain them all? That’s a crowd. I’m already overbooked.”

Pullina gasped loudly.

Tamren rolled his eyes. “I didn’t bring them. They asked where you were, and I answered.”

Sylia raised a skeptical brow.

“Okay, fine! I did bring them." Tamren admitted. “But only to convince you to give Sasha back.”

Pullina tugged Jimmy a few steps back. He didn’t even react. Sylia had made sure the spells kept him blissfully unaware.

Sylia sighed. “I’d have to remember where I stored her. Sasha’s just an independent fragment I created to monitor the Capital and keep tabs on lunatics like Frieze. She failed and I had to step in again. She was probably too busy with you boys.”

Tamren looked briefly ashamed. He hesitated, then offered a rare smile. “What are you selling today? Can I try some? I’m sure the kids would love something new.”

Sylia eyed Tamren with suspicion. His timing couldn’t have been worse. She had just finished introducing the children to a new set of ingredients—part of her ongoing effort to teach them how to cook, help her with preparation, and clear out the stockpile she’d brought to sell.

Today’s offerings had stirred real excitement. The children had grown used to working with Gurmundi eggs by now—large, pale-shelled orbs that grew like fruit on Mana-fed plants. These eggs had first come into being through blessings from the Gods of Earth, Winds, and Wings, a divine boon that allowed such sustenance to be cultivated rather than laid. Their flavor was milder than chicken eggs, almost bland, but they had become a staple among the City’s Commoners.

With a single hen’s egg, a dash of water, and the right spell or Magic Sygil, one condensed Gurmundi egg could be expanded into a full barrel of liquid egg. The addition of the chicken egg enhanced the flavor, though it also diluted the Mana. In the poorer districts, this mixture had become a kitchen mainstay, used in pancakes, roll cakes, and okonomiyaki—all of which were made with vegetarian butter and soy or nut-based creams. Vendors lined the edges of the Slums, selling the warm, fragrant dishes to hungry laborers and wide-eyed children. The spell-activated mixtures were sold by the barrel, crafted by Mages using Saint-supplied scrolls and parchments.

That day, Sylia had introduced something new. The Derksuni eggs were similar in form, but infused with Darkling Mana. Then came the Leksumi eggs, made with Lightling Mana and often originating from the Moon Churches. Each type had a subtly distinct flavor, shaped by its magical nature.

The final offering had caused the greatest stir. Dlerkzuni eggs were born of both Darkling and Lightling Mana. Once common in the enchanted forests, they had since become vanishingly rare. Most of the groves that produced them were either reclaimed by the Gods or placed under divine seal. These eggs now existed only in legend—referenced in tattered cookbooks and whispered about by aging Alchemists. They were said to hum faintly when cracked, the tension of shadow and light still clinging to their shells.

It was just then that Tamren had spoken—one simple question as he glanced at the stand and the children. He was a master manipulator, and naturally, Jimmy had responded with his most radiant salesman’s grin, something he’d learned from Sylia herself. Genuinely curious, the boy welcomed the rare visitor with open interest, and Tamren humored him. Pullina soon joined, followed by the rest of the eager little troupe—each child hoping to earn a commission or bonus.

The unintended effect was immediate. More people began to gather. Glenstar, once viewed warily, was no longer seen as an obstacle. Sylia sighed, casting a glance at the towering young man. She had stationed him there specifically to discourage excessive business and ensure she could return home with most of her goods.

Now, thanks to Tamren, everything was selling and fast.

Tamren glanced over the display with mild amusement. “Oh, this looks quite interesting. You even have fruits and cheese.”

One of the younger children perked up and stepped forward, proudly presenting his prized items and reciting the details exactly as he had been taught. Tamren listened, this time looking genuinely impressed.

Jimmy leaned forward, eyes shining. “Sir, you’re from the Capital, right?”

Tamren nodded. “That’s correct. Why do you ask?”

Jimmy’s excitement grew. “Really? Is it better than here? You don’t dress the same either. Is that what they wear in the Capital?”

The other children gathered closer, curiosity sparkling in their faces. Tamren furrowed his brow, adopting a grave tone. “Are you asking about the Slums or the lower Commoner districts?”

Jimmy blinked. “Both!”

Tamren sighed. “Then I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you. In the Capital’s Slums, children don’t even get proper meals. Most would be starving or dead from disease by the time they reach seven. The ones who survive that long are often rounded up and drained. The Slums are extremely dirty. The smell alone could knock you out if you’re not protected by a spell. The only small mercy is that they no longer pull as much Mana from the land directly, since the practice was banned. But they still set up Mana conductor Magic Sygils to drain people while blocking the feedback to the environment. The land suffers for it—worse even than here. There’s less Mana now, and what remains is sickly.”

He gestured toward the stand. “Instead of fresh or preserved fish like what you’re enjoying now—something usually only found in Noble or Gentry households—those children get Mana-rotten fish, generously provided by the Province Lords. It causes everything bad from digestive illness to premature baldness and tooth loss. So no, the Slums there are no better.”

The children’s faces fell in unison.

Zacharia asked in a small voice, “Sir… what about the Commoners’ lower districts?”

Tamren folded his arms. “I haven’t lived in those districts. For the last twenty years, I’ve stayed mostly in newly formed districts created by the Queen of the Nights. Still, I’ve seen the other quarters. Life there isn’t much better than the Slums. Well, perhaps noticeably better, but not in a way that would impress you.”

He glanced around, noting their silence. “There’s no good water supply. The sewer systems are inconsistent or poorly built, and no cleaning crews are assigned to maintain the place. The Sovereign Duke at the time declared that Commoners should clean up after themselves, that it was their station, their duty. So nothing was done for years.”

Sylia turned away and exhaled slowly. The children had gone quiet. Even the youngest among them seemed to understand the gravity of what had been said.

Tamren continued, “Things began to shift after the old Sovereign Duke and his successors died. His heir and son wanted to redecorate and fund his estates, so he cut all cleaning budgets. His older brother tried to block it for years, but he was eventually outmatched. To soften the blow, the man funded seasonal cleanups with his own coin to prevent outbreaks. But by last year, the neglect led to mass disease. Tens of thousands died in the Capital. It caught even the King’s attention.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Since then, weekly cleaning rounds have been implemented. They pay volunteers to collect trash every few days. New waste containers were set up. But—there’s a problem. Over the last six months, one cousin of the royal family has been found dead in a trash bin nearly every week. At least, while I was still there. Someone clearly didn’t appreciate the high price those cousins charged for their cleaning Magic Sygils.”

Sylia couldn’t help herself. A knowing smile crossed her face, and she looked away, hiding her amusement. She knew exactly who was responsible.

Luxsion chimed in, “Master Mathias’ Cleaning Assistant Slime, Bumpy, handled it for us here. He even showed others how to design sewer networks. Some areas have partial systems now. Better than nothing. The Mages take care of the waste spells—sending garbage and even excrement to another plane for disposal.”

Sylia started shaking with silent laughter. Trust Mathias to come up with something that brilliant—assigning fallen or punished Gods to sewer duty. She still missed seeing Targon with a shovel in hand. Maybe they’d get to keep a small piece of him to play with later.

Tamren eyed her warily. “That job falls to the Sovereign Duke’s younger brother Lord Frieze now. He’s handling sewer expansion and waste management across the Capital.”

Sylia burst into laughter. Of course. Nothing more poetic than putting a fallen God in charge of garbage. That’s what Frieze got for making a pact with the wrong power and letting his soul be consumed in the process.

Noticing the children’s downcast expressions, Tamren offered a warm smile, his voice light as he tried to lift the mood.

“Here now, let me buy some of these.” he said. “I’ll take a bit of everything. Those fish tarts, the pancakes, and some of that fresh fish. And I’ll need a few bottles of the egg liquid too. Maybe even a batch of those eggs.”

The children immediately brightened, exchanging eager glances. Jimmy stepped forward, professional in demeanor, and began asking Tamren about his preferences. Within moments, he was directing the others to wrap up the items, calling out instructions like a seasoned vendor. The line of customers stirred with new enthusiasm. Tamren’s calm, familiar presence seemed to ease lingering suspicions. Several housekeepers and waiting women, who had been eyeing the stand cautiously, relaxed and moved closer.

Other nearby stands offering similar goods were soon overwhelmed with customers, their vendors scrambling to keep up. Some of the children were pulled in to assist, and even Glenstar—along with a few guards—was called into service.

Arms folded, Sylia gave Tamren a once-over, unimpressed.

“So,” she said dryly, “why are you suddenly buying all this? Most of these goods you already get for free. You eat them almost daily. Some even come from the lands our children manage.”

Pullina and Piona both froze. Pullina, who had just been showing Piona the layout of the goods, looked visibly startled.

Tamren gave a short, awkward laugh. “I just… wanted to do something nice for the kids. It reminded me of when I was little. My foster parent used to let me help at the market stalls. My mother was always too busy, so I spent most of my time with him and my other uncle Joss.”

Sylia gave a skeptical sniff. “How touching. I’m sure he didn’t just teach you how to count coins and weigh products. You probably got up to all sorts of trouble.”

Piona and Pullina exchanged puzzled glances, unsure whether she was joking or not.

Tamren gave a strained laugh, but the shift in his eyes betrayed the change. He was no longer amused, only cold.

“I suppose you would know.” He said quietly.

Sylia frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He studied her face. “Just that… you seem to know me from my youth. You knew my uncle, too—the one who raised me.”

Sylia turned away and folded her arms, her expression unreadable. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Tamren let out a dry, broken laugh and touched his forehead, as though trying to steady himself. “What a bloody fool I’ve been. Fifty years… You’ve been there for fifty years, wife. Of course it was you. It was always you. All the women who ever truly mattered, who ever made me feel—”

Sylia uncrossed her arms and placed her hands on her hips. “You’re not funny, Mister.”

However, Tamren wasn’t smiling anymore. His eyes locked onto hers, burning with a strange mixture of fury, sorrow, and something else—something aching and raw.

“You knew me better than anyone. You trained me like a pet. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

Pullina gasped. Sylia puffed up, crossed her arms again and pouted.

“You’re confused.” She said airily. “You must be thinking of Syl, the Original. The Source. We were created from her. I’ve only existed for a little over two decades. But she… she’s been walking this world in one form or another for over fifty-seven years. Maybe more. Who knows when she first arrived? Or when she chose to embody herself?”

Tamren’s face went pale. “What… are you saying?”

“That’s a question you should keep for her.” Sylia replied. “We don’t share that much information. I just know several entities have been made from her. You know her under several names since she has ancient Divisions all around. One of her infamous names is the Hammer of God. Or should I say, the Hammer of the Darkling Lord which is more accurate for her.”

Her tone grew darker.

“She is a Semi-Eternal. They say the Dark Lord cut a part of himself he copied, then sealed with part of his Flock. No one knows why he did that. That copy he modified until it suited his taste, then he gave it life using his own breath. His friend, the Master of Blood Lords, helped him finish his new creation. His other piece, the Blood Lord of Darkness, gave it more life—and so she started walking as life and death.”

Tamren staggered back a step.

Sylia’s voice softened, almost fond.

“She’s tied to three High Lords. Some even say she’s Lord Chester’s sibling. No one remembers who came first—her or him. Both had become too old and too big to move around. Part of them was either laid dormant or sealed. The rest still moved but differently, as a lesser being. Some pieces of the siblings no one suspects—so different they appear from the others, but they are the same. They simply play their roles so well that no one notices them.”

Tamren started trembling.

Sylia shrugged. “Maybe you’re currently interfering with our duties, and she or the Dark Lord himself is sending you a message.”

Tamren looked ready to argue, but he suddenly changed his mind. If she was telling the truth, then a lot of things made sense. Too many. He needed to reconsider much now that he knew more. He reminded himself that this was neither the moment nor the place to talk.

He quickly shifted tactics and said with a smile. “Sylia, I have a gift for you.”

Sylia looked him up and down, suspicious. Her frown deepened. “What gift? I hope it’s not something you’re hiding under those neatly fitted clothes. I can see through those and I’m not impressed. Nothing new there, and you’ve already tried that tactic more than once.”

Tamren flushed, shook his head, then glanced around to make sure not too many had heard. A few had. He looked down, ashamed.

“I made you a hair ornament." he said, pulling out a box. “Here. I made it for an adult, but you can shrink it. There’s an embedded spell you can modify.”

He opened the box. Sylia leaned in, visibly curious. She pursed her lips and said, “I know it’s fashionable these days to offer ornaments or jewelry in your colors to your sweetheart, but that’s something a young man would do—not someone who’s well over sixty. Maybe even over seventy.”

Tamren blushed. “I just used the material one of our kids brought me. I couldn’t find anything of such quality around here. They’re actually more your colors than mine.”

Sylia took the ornament in her hand, assessing it. “You’re quite mistaken. I’m a woman of a thousand colors. I just have my favorite ones. Didn’t you know that from Darkness came all things?”

Tamren looked taken aback. “I beg your pardon?”

“Nowadays, Darkness isn’t so popular,” Sylia said calmly, “because it’s often wrongly linked to bad things. The truth is, it’s simply the Source of all other elements. That’s why it’s feared—especially by Light users. It reminds them they’re the fourth fundamental element, not the first, like some have begun to claim.”

She shifted her tone, thoughtful but sharp.

“Alas, those with Light but without enough Lightling are easily corrupted by Darkness—hence their fear. They’re unbalanced. Highly imperfect. A deviation from what they should have been. Well… some Darkness users fall into the same boat, I suppose. The most unbalanced ones were cursed with a weakness to Light but the same can be said for Light users whose fate might be even worse.”

Her voice stayed steady.

“It’s simple. Dark preceded Light, just as Night preceded Day. The Void preceded all of them—and it ends with the Void. That key chain must be respected for any creation to hold. Otherwise, the created world corrupts and collapses far too quickly.”

She gave him a sidelong glance.

“How do you recognize corruption? It’s easy. When those with more Light or Lightling start looking down on or fearing the Darkling and Dark elements. When Dark or Darkling wielders reject all other elements and want to reduce the world to their own elements. Both paths are wrong. The first leads to destruction. The second to regression and likely annihilation of all that was created.”

Tamren grimaced. “You don’t like my gift?”

Sylia shook her head, then turned it slightly, her tone softening. “Help me put it on. It’s very pretty. You’ve improved grandly. I’ll be happy to wear this one. I’ll shrink it slightly in this form.”

Tamren beamed, his face transfigured with happiness. He nodded and stepped forward to do so.