Chapter 15. Strange World

Book One: Of the Beginning of Beginnings

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In the beginning of beginnings, before time found its course and space its bounds, there was the One and All-Good, He Who is Unity and Infinity, First and Last. And He dwelt in the silence of eternity, filled with ineffable light that knows neither shadow nor diminishment.

And the One gazed into the depths of Himself, and desired to manifest His glory. And He spoke the First Word, and from that Word was born Creation. And these were the Angels of God—firstborn of light, children of the morning star, shining with indescribable beauty.

And they called themselves Angels, which means "messengers," for they bore within themselves the message of their Creator's glory. And they were divided into ranks and orders, as stars in the firmament of heaven...

And they existed in contemplation of the light proceeding from the Throne of the Most High, and in that contemplation was the fullness of their being. For as the moon shines with the sun's light, so they shone with the light of the One, and there was no darkness in them whatsoever.

image [https://i.imgur.com/AG7YgXT.png]

Sumarel sat at her desk, absorbed in her work. The moment she wished for it, the image flared in her consciousness with piercing brightness—eyes as pale as mirrors, glowing with all the colors of the rainbow, as if peering into the very depths of her soul. The vision lasted only an instant but left behind a strange, unsettling aftertaste. She immediately caught herself and shifted her gaze to the pen and paper lying before her on the table.

"Looks like nothing happened," the thought flashed through her mind. "What else should I draw?"

She reached for the book of weaving patterns that lay nearby. Pages rustled under her fingers, revealing ever more intricate designs—from simple geometric shapes to complex, almost living interlaces of lines.

"Sumarel, what's wrong?" Albrecht's voice drifted from somewhere, but she didn't hear him, completely absorbed in studying the patterns.

"This one will do," she decided, choosing a particularly complex design. The pen touched the paper, and the first line appeared on the white surface.

"Sumarel! Someone, call for help!" Albrecht's voice grew more insistent, but for her, it didn't exist.

Drawing one line after another, she lost all sense of time. The pattern grew under her hand, becoming ever more complex, ever more elaborate. Black ink flowed onto the paper with almost hypnotic precision.

"Strange," a thought flickered. "What if I imagine these lines exist not on a flat canvas, but in three-dimensional space?"

"Damn it, what happened? I just left her here!" Alpha's voice sounded nearby, but she didn't hear him either.

"Maybe if I add another plane, I could combine different effects," she mused, not taking her eyes off the growing pattern. The lines began to interweave strangely, creating an illusion of depth where there should be none.

"Don't touch her! I'll handle it!" came Alpha's sharp command. "Shit, something's wrong with her eyes. It's some kind of seizure!"

"Go get someone! These incompetent fools!" Alpha ordered, but his words dissolved into emptiness, never reaching Sumarel's consciousness.

"What if I add even more space? Maybe a fourth dimension?" She took a deep breath, not noticing that no breath actually occurred. "Difficult... That would be amusing, but the fourth dimension doesn't exist. Probably..."

She stared at the sheet of paper, unaware that there was no paper anymore. A small rune, composed of interwoven lines, floated in the air, moving and transforming. Some lines in their movement would disappear and reappear, as if they existed and didn't exist at the same time.

"What the hell is this?" Alpha's voice trembled with amazement. "The weaving... Is it alive?"

Sumarel continued tracing the pattern with black paint until her gaze caught on the already drawn lines. They shimmered with all the colors of the spectrum, pulsing in rhythm with her breathing.

"What's happening?" Panic pierced her consciousness like an icy needle. She abruptly stood from her chair, turning around, only to freeze in horror the next moment.

The familiar world had vanished as if it had never existed. In its place stretched a black-gray expanse, breathing with the silence of a drowned world. Three black obelisks pierced the firmament—colossal blades driven into the flesh of reality. Their smooth facets reflected in the mirror-like sky, creating a recursion of blackness. Ash-colored fog clung to the atmosphere like a death shroud, and through it moved the shadows of leviathans, cruising the sky-void as if it were the deepest sea..

"Fuck," escaped her lips with such sincerity that even in this nightmarish place it sounded almost comical.

She looked around. Inside what had once been the workshop, organized chaos reigned. Tools—hammers, tongs, chisels of unknown purpose—slowly rotated in the air, obeying invisible currents of energy. Workbenches floated at different heights, gently swaying like boats on ocean waves.

"At least it's fucking entertaining," she covered her eyes with her palms and began massaging her temples, hoping to soothe the approaching headache.

The air around her was alive—ash snowflakes materialized from nothing, glowing with phosphorescent light for a split second before dissolving back into the void. The ash didn't settle—it floated in a dance, governed by some alien law of physics. Sometimes the particles gathered into vague figures—faces, hands, unknown symbols—but the moment she looked closer, they immediately dispersed.

"Shit, am I paying off some karmic debt?" She opened her eyes and stared with a vacant expression at the mirror-smooth sky. Had anyone from her circle been here, they would have been stunned—no one could recall even a tenth of the emotions now written on her usually impassive face.

To the right, the space ended abruptly. There rose a wall made of material that was either perfectly smooth stone or mirror. Its surface trembled with barely perceptible ripples, reflecting some silhouettes.

Surprised, she approached the wall that stood out even in this strange place.

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"Are those... people?" The thought flashed through her consciousness when she noticed movement behind the mirror surface.

Deep within the wall's surface, like figures seen through textured glass, shapes began to appear. Two people—one taller, with the straight posture of an aristocrat, the other small, fragile, clearly a child. They moved, gestured, obviously conversing. Light around them refracted strangely—not scattering but condensing, creating halos.

Coming closer, she pressed her palm against the cold surface. The image seemed to focus, deepen, revealing a young man and a fragile girl who bore a striking resemblance to Sumarel's own build. Their faces were blurred with blackness, hiding any features, but that proved unimportant, because Sumarel was struck by something else.

"That's... my voice. My childhood voice, isn't it?" The realization hit her like lightning. "What does this mean?"

She had never particularly liked her own voice—hearing it was extremely unusual, perhaps even unpleasant. And yet she greedily caught every word spoken by the girl behind the wall. Pressing both palms against the cold surface, she stared at the unfolding scene.

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"Why are you always drawing instead of fighting?" the little girl spoke in young Sumarel's voice. She sat next to the young man, swinging her legs and occasionally nudging him lightly with her elbow.

"This is also a battle," the young man replied gently, not looking up from his drawing. "Perhaps even the key one. The most important of all."

"God, why are you so boring?" The girl's voice rang with genuine indignation. She reached over and lightly flicked his shoulder. "And I had to get stuck here with you!"

The young man didn't react, continuing to trace complex lines on the canvas. His hand moved confidently, as if he knew exactly where each stroke should fall.

"Hey, you!" The girl poked him in the side with her finger. "Say something!"

"What?" he responded absently.

"You can't be serious!" Her hands shot up in mock disbelief. "Sitting there with that pompous expression like you're absorbing ancient wisdom, and you have the nerve to ask such stupid questions!"

The girl demonstratively turned away from the young man toward Sumarel, crossing her arms over her chest. Her face was obscured by blackness hiding any features, but her body language radiated offense mixed with curiosity.

"Well, what do you want from me?" The young man finally set down his brush and turned to her. "And you know... maybe you're the main character here, and I'm just background decoration."

Judging by his intonation, he was clearly smiling, teasing the girl.

"Yeah, right! Mr. Manipulator!" She spun back around and shoved his shoulder again, but more playfully this time.

"Me?" He pressed his hand to his chest with exaggerated surprise. "There will be battles, don't worry. Lots of battles. Bloody and brutal."

He stood from his chair, turning his whole body and pointing at the blurred painting.

"What do you think is drawn here?"

The girl squinted, examining the canvas.

"How should I know what's in your stuffy head?" She shrugged. "Some sphere and smaller spheres. I don't know."

After a second's pause, she added with mockery:

"What's with the sad face? Your genius went unrecognized?"

The young man turned to the painting, massaging his temple with his index and middle fingers.

"Can't you just give a compliment?" His voice carried feigned offense.

"No!" the girl cut him off. "I don't like abstract art. And why are you staring at me like that? Well? You gonna tell me or should I send you a formal request?"

Clearly encouraged by her interest, the young man said enthusiastically:

"It's simple! This ball in the center..."

"I'm not stupid!" the girl immediately interrupted. "Can you talk normally?"

Sumarel behind the wall involuntarily smiled. "Definitely me," flashed through her thoughts.

The young man threw up his hands theatrically, clearly exasperated by her impatience, but the gesture showed more amusement than irritation.

"In the center is Unity. An essence the world knows only abstractly, unable to touch it," he moved his finger to other objects in the painting. "And these are angels, contemplating their creations in dreams. Or rather, they used to bathe in the light of the One, but over time, unable to contain infinity, they fractured. And delving ever deeper into themselves, they lost their wholly divine path."

He paused and turned to the girl:

"Well?"

"It sucks," she answered without the slightest hesitation.

"Good that you appreciated it," the young man laughed. "So, it's still missing the final touch—the game. Every painting is not just an expression of the master's soul, but also a mirror. The painting reflects what another is capable of perceiving."

"Are you implying I'm stupid?" the girl asked, playfully waving her small fist.

"Not at all!" He raised his hands defensively. "It's just that the viewer won't see the sphere in the center. Most likely, they'll see one of the angels placed in the center, and the straight rays will transform into waves."

"And why don't I see angels in the center?" The girl approached the painting closer, squinting. "Nothing's refracting into your angels for me!"

She looked at him expectantly, but no answer came.

"Why aren't you saying anything? Well?" She poked him with her finger again.

"It's a secret," he said with an obvious smile in his voice.

"Let me try!" The girl reached for the brush. "I want to draw too!"

"Of course," he handed her the brush. "Here, hold it like this. See? Not too tight, but not loose either. The brush should be an extension of your hand."

He stood behind her, guiding her hand.

"Start with a simple line. Don't think about the result, just let your hand move."

The girl drew an uneven line with concentration, sticking out her tongue from the effort.

"Crooked!" she stated.

"Perfect," the young man corrected. "There's beauty in crookedness. Look, if you add another line here..."

He covered her small hand with his, helping guide the brush. The lines began forming a pattern.

"Now imagine these lines exist not just on the canvas, but extend into depth, into another dimension."

"How's that?" The girl frowned.

"Don't try to understand it with your mind, just imagine!"

"You're talking nonsense," the girl declared, but continued drawing with doubled enthusiasm.

But Sumarel, frozen at the mirror wall, looked at the painting with growing horror. What revealed itself to her gaze had nothing in common with the young man's description. There were no spheres or angels around—only shattered glass of reality, cut through with black pulsing lines. In the gaps between the shards reflected countless faces of herself, each distorted by its own emotion. Anger, disgust, envy, fear, despair—a whole kaleidoscope of feelings.

And only in the center of this chaos, in a perfectly even circle, was her face—as if dead and empty, devoid of any emotion.

Their gazes met—the living Sumarel and her dead reflection.

And space cracked.

The sound was like a bell strike, but turned inside out. Not the ring of metal, but the scream of breaking glass. A crack ran from the point of their visual contact, spreading like a spider web across the mirror wall. Shards began to fall away, but didn't drop—they hung in the air, slowly rotating.

Each shard reflected its own scene—moments from a life that was, that could be, that would never happen. Sumarel saw herself laughing, crying, fighting, dying. Thousands of possibilities, thousands of paths, and all led to one thing—to the emptiness in the center.

The last thing she heard before the world finally shattered was the young man's voice from beyond the crumbling wall:

"See? You did see your painting after all. Everyone sees what they're capable of bearing."

And then came total darkness.