The library held its breath as Altha's eyes moved over the second page.
The ink was fine, its handwriting elegantâritualistic, yet intimate. The kind only written when one believes they're creating history.
---
ð¥ðžðððð¶ð ððððð: ð£
---
ðŠðð»ð¶ ðžð¯ ððŒð± ðªð·ð ððð», ððð®ðŒðŒð²ð·ð°ðŒ ð«ð® ðŸðŒ ðªðµðµ.
---
ð£ðžððªð ð ð»ð®ð¬ð®ð²ð¿ð®ð ð¶ð ð¯ð²ð»ðŒðœ ðŽð²ð·ððµð²ð·ð° ð¿ð²ðŒð²ðžð· ð¯ð»ðžð¶ ðœð±ð® ððð»ð®, ðªð·ð ðªðŒ ð¹ð®ð» ðð°ð·ð²ðŒðœ ðœð»ðªðð²ðœð²ðžð·ðŒ, ð ðªð¶ ðŒðžðžð· ðœðž ðŒð®ðœ ð¯ðžð»ðœð± ðžð· ð¶ð ð³ðžðð»ðð®ð ðœðž ðžð·ð® ðžð¯ ðœð±ð® ð¶ðªð·ð ðœð®ð¶ð¹ðµð®ðŒ ð²ð· ðð²ðŒð±ð¶ð.
ððžð» ðœð±ð® ð¬ð±ð¶ð·ð¬ð® ðªð·ð ð°ð»ð®ð¶ðœ ð±ðžð·ðžðð» ðžð¯ ð«ð®ð¬ðžð¶ð²ð·ð° ðª ðð»ð²ð®ðŒðœð®ðŒðŒ ðžð¯ ððð». ðð· ð®ð²ð°ð±ðœ ðð¶ððŒ, ð¶ð ð¹ð±ðžð®ð·ð²ð ð¬ð®ð»ð®ð¶ðžð·ð ðð²ðµðµ ðŸð·ð¯ðžðµð.
ð ð¬ð¶ð· ðŒð®ð® ð²ðœ ð¿ð²ð¿ð²ððµð: ðœð±ð® ðœð®ð¶ð¹ðµð®'ðŒ ðžð«ðŒð²ðð²ð¶ð· ðŒðœð®ð¹ðŒ ð°ðµð®ð¶ð¶ð²ð·ð° ðŸð·ðð®ð» ð¶ ð¬ð»ð²ð¶ðŒðžð· ðŒðŽð, ð¶ ðœð±ð»ðžð·ð° ðžð¯ ðžð·ðµðžðžðŽð®ð»ðŒ ð°ð¶ðœð±ð®ð»ð®ð, ðœð±ð®ð²ð» ð¯ð¶ð¬ð®ðŒ ð¶ð°ðµðžð ðð²ðœð± ð¹ð»ð²ðð® ðªð·ð ðŒðžðµð®ð¶ð·ð²ðœð ðªðŒ ð ðªðŒð¬ð®ð·ð, ðð»ð¶ð¹ð®ð ð²ð· ð¶ ð¬ð®ð»ð®ð¶ðžð·ð²ð¶ðµ ðŒð±ð»ðžðð ðžð¯ ð¶ðŒð±-ð°ð»ð®ð ðŒð²ðµðŽ. ð ð¬ð¶ð· ðžð·ðµð ð²ð¶ð¶ð°ð²ð·ð® ð¶ð ð¹ð¶ð»ð®ð·ðœðŒ' ð¯ð¶ð¬ð®ðŒ.
ððœ ðœð±ð® ðŒðŸð¶ð¶ð²ðœ, ðœð±ð® ðð²ð°ð± ððµð¶ð¶ð® ðð²ðµðµ ðªð·ðžð²ð·ðœ ð¶ð®, ð¹ðµð¶ð¬ð²ð·ð° ðœð±ð® ð»ð®ð ð»ðžð«ð® ðžð¯ ðœð±ð® ð¹ð»ð²ð®ðŒðœð±ðžðžð ðŸð¹ðžð· ð¶ð ðŒð±ðžððµðð®ð»ðŒ, ðªð·ð ð ðð²ðµðµ ðŒðœð¶ð·ðâð·ðžðœ ðªðŒ ðð¶ðŸð°ð±ðœð®ð», ðžð» ðŒð²ðŒðœð®ð», ðžð» ð¬ð±ð²ðµðâð«ðŸðœ ðªðŒ ð¶ ð¿ð®ðŒðŒð®ðµ ðžð¯ ðœð±ð® ðŒð¶ð¬ð»ð®ð ð¯ðµð¶ð¶ð®.
ð£ð±ð® ðœð±ðžðð°ð±ðœ ðŒð®ð·ððŒ ðŒð±ð²ð¿ð®ð»ðŒ ðžð¯ ð³ðžð ðœð±ð»ðžðð°ð± ð¶ð®, ð»ð®ð¬ð®ð²ð¿ð²ð·ð° ðŒðŸð¬ð± ðªð· ð±ðžð·ðžðð».
ððœ'ðŒ ð³ðŸðŒðœ ðŒðž ð®ðð¬ð²ðœð²ð·ð° ðŒðžðð·ðð²ð·ð°.ð¢ðµð®ð®ð¹ ð¶ð¶ð ð®ðµðŸðð® ð¶ð® ðœðžð·ð²ð°ð±ðœ, ðœð±ðžðð°ð± ð ð¹ð»ð¶ð ð²ðœ ððžð®ðŒ ð·ðžðœ. ððŸðœð²ð®ðŒ ðœð®ðœð±ð®ð» ð¶ð® ðŒðœð²ðµðµâðœðž ð¶ð ð¹ð¶ð»ð®ð·ðœðŒ, ðð±ðž ðð¶ðœð¬ð± ð¶ð® ðð²ðœð± ðºðŸð²ð®ðœ ð±ðžð¹ð®; ðœðž ð¶ð ð±ðžð¶ð®ðµð¶ð·ð, ð²ðœðŒ ð¯ð²ð®ðµððŒ ðªð·ð ð±ð®ð¶ð»ðœð±ðŒ ð¬ð»ð¶ððµð®ð ð«ð ðœð±ð® ððð»ð®'ðŒ ð°ð»ð¶ð¬ð®; ðªð·ð ðœðž ð¶ð ð¬ðžð¶ð¶ðŸð·ð²ðœð, ðð±ðžðŒð® ð¯ð¶ð²ðœð± ð²ð· ð¶ð® ð¯ð®ð®ðµðŒ ð«ðžðœð± ðª ð°ð²ð¯ðœ ðªð·ð ðª ð¬ð±ð¶ð»ð°ð®.
ð¢ðœð®ð¶ðð¯ð¶ðŒðœð·ð®ðŒðŒ ð²ðŒ ð¶ð ð¿ðžð, ð¬ðžð¶ð¶ð²ðœð¶ð®ð·ðœ ð¶ð ð¬ðžð¶ð¹ð¶ðŒðŒ.ðŠð® ðªð»ð® ð«ðŸðœ ðŒðœð¶ð»ðŒ ð°ð²ð¿ð®ð· ð¯ðµð®ðŒð±âðð¶ð·ðð®ð»ð®ð»ðŒ ðžð¯ ðœð±ð® ð®ð¶ð»ðœð±âð«ðµð¶ð»ð²ð·ð° ðžðð» ðœð»ð¶ð²ðµ ð«ð¶ð¬ðŽ ðœðžðð¶ð»ð ðœð±ð® ð¬ðžðŒð¶ðžðŒ.
ð ðžð¯ð¯ð®ð» ð¶ð ðŒðžððµ ðœðž ðœð±ð¶ðœ ð³ðžðð»ðð®ð, ðªðŒ ð ðžð¯ð¯ð®ð» ð²ðœ ð·ðžð ðœðž ðð® ðŠð±ðž ððŸð»ð·ðŒ ððœð®ð»ð·ð¶ðµ.
ðð»ð¶ð²ðŒð® ð«ð® ðð® ðð±ðž ð«ð²ð»ðœð±ð®ð ðœð±ð® ðŒðœð¶ð»ðŒ ðªð·ð ðŒðŸð·. ð£ð»ðŸðµð, ð«ðµð®ðŒðŒð²ð·ð°ðŒ ð«ð® ðŸðŒ ðªðµðµ.
---
Altha read the text once more and spoke the last words aloud.
"Praise be He who birthed the stars and sun. Truly, blessings be us all."
His eyes swept across the deserted library, where towering shelves laden with forgotten tomes loomed like silent sentinels in the dim, dusty light.
"What's a personal journal doing in a dusty, forgotten library like this?" he mused, his brow furrowing in curiosity.
The writing was too hopeful. Too bright. Too clean.
It didn't belong here.
And yet⊠it had to.
He sighed, eyes fixating on the page. His hand hovered over it for a few seconds then slowly rose to meet his palm.
"Maybe, just maybe, there's a clue in here somewhere," he murmured. "I can sense something rippling through this bookâresidual emotions, perhaps. Or maybe I'm losing my mind. Either way, it's a risk I'm willing to take."
As instantly as his fingers brushed the parchment, a torrent of sentiments cascaded into his consciousness.
He was enveloped by waves of joy and excitement, tinged with pride and an insatiable curiosity. Yet, lurking beneath those bright emotions, a shadow of fear and confusion whispered of untold secrets.
Altha withdrew his hand, his heart racing.
"Why didn't she write about that?" he wondered. "Why hide the fear?"
Either she chose not toâmasking it behind ceremony and devotionâor she never dared admit it, even to herself.
"Is it not mortal to fear?" he muttered to the still air. "Doesn't it show one's humanity?"
But perhaps, he thought grimly, it is also mortal to lie. Especially to oneself.
He pushed on, eyes narrowing. One skeptical eye open at all times.
"Perhaps in her world, such vulnerabilities were best left unspoken." He thought.
---
The following seven entries chronicled days of seemingly mundane existence. She toiled in her parents' quaint emporium, its wooden counters polished to a gleam by years of use.
The air was thick with the scent of spices and herbs, mingling with the earthy aroma of freshly baked bread from the adjacent bakery.
Each morning, she rose with the sun, her footsteps echoing on the cobblestone streets as she delivered fresh loaves to the elderly widow down the lane or assisted the blacksmith in mending a broken cartwheel.
Her writing brimmed with details: the glint of light off copper kettles, the soft call of bell-chimes when doors opened, the warmth of her mother's tea.
And yet...
Even in these ordinary moments, there were hints of something more.
Though her smile was ever-present, there were instances when her gaze would drift to the horizon, a flicker of unease crossing her features as if she sensed a storm brewing beyond the tranquil facade of her daily life.
"ð£ðžððªð, ðœð±ð® ðð²ð·ððŒ ð¬ðªð¶ð® ð²ð· ð¯ð»ðžð¶ ðœð±ð® ð·ðžð»ðœð±," ðŒð±ð® ðð»ðžðœð®. "ð£ð±ð®ð ð¬ðªð»ð»ð²ð®ð ðª ðŒðœð»ðªð·ð°ð® ð±ð®ðªðœ. ððžðœ ððªð»ð¶ðœð±. ðð®ðªðœ."
---
"ð£ð±ð® ðŒðŽð ðœðŸð»ð·ð®ð ðª ðŒð±ðªðð® ðœðžðž ð»ð®ð ðªðœ ððŸðŒðŽ. ðð®ðªðŸðœð²ð¯ðŸðµ, ð«ðŸðœâŠ ð·ðžðœ ð»ð²ð°ð±ðœ."
---
"ððœ ðœð±ð® ð«ðªðŽð®ð»ð, ððµð ðð». ððªðµð»ð²ð¬ ð¯ðžð»ð°ðžðœ ð¶ð ð·ðªð¶ð®. ð'ð¿ð® ðŽð·ðžðð· ð±ð²ð¶ ðŒð²ð·ð¬ð® ð ððªðŒ ðŒð²ð."
---
Altha paused, the weight of her unspoken fears settling over him like a shroud.
He sighed, fingers resting lightly on the margin.
He could feel it now.
A slow shift. A subtle unraveling.
The girl had sensed somethingânot just in herself, but in the world around her. And she had kept writing, smiling, pretending all was well.
"The truth is here," he said softly, "it has to be."
He stared at the next page.
And with a breath caught between fascination and unease⊠he turned it.
---
ð¥ðžðððð¶ð ððððð: 8
---
ðŠðð»ð¶ ðžð¯ ððŒð± ðªð·ð ððð», ððµð®ðŒðŒð²ð·ð°ðŒ ð«ð® ðŸðŒ ðªðµðµ.
---
ð£ðžððªð ððªðŒ ðœð±ð® ððªð ðžð¯ ð¶ð ð¬ð®ð»ð®ð¶ðžð·ð²ðªðµ ð²ð·ðœð®ð°ð»ðªðœð²ðžð· ð²ð·ðœðž ðœð±ð® ð¹ð»ð²ð®ðŒðœð±ðžðžð.
ðð ð¹ð®ðžð¹ðµð®, ð¶ð ð¯ð»ð²ð®ð·ððŒ, ð¶ð ð¯ðªð¶ð²ðµðâðœð±ð®ð ðªðµðµ ð°ðªðœð±ð®ð»ð®ð. ð£ð±ð®ð ðŒð¶ð²ðµð®ð. ð£ð±ð®ð ð¬ð®ðµð®ð«ð»ðªðœð®ð. ð£ð±ð®ð ðð®ð»ð® ð±ðªð¹ð¹ð.
ððªð¹ð¹ð⊠ðœðž ðŒð®ð® ð¶ð® ð°ðž.
ð£ðž ðµð®ðªð¿ð®âð¯ðžð» ðª ð°ð»ð®ðªðœð®ð» ð¹ðŸð»ð¹ðžðŒð®.
ð ð¹ðŸð»ð¹ðžðŒð® ð ðŒðœð²ðµðµ ðŽð·ðžð ð·ðžðœð±ð²ð·ð° ðžð¯.
ðð· ðª ðµðªð·ðâð¶ð ðµðªð·ðâðªð¶ðžð·ð° ðª ð¹ð®ðžð¹ðµð® ðð±ðž ðªð»ð® ð¶ð²ð·ð® ðžð·ðµð ð«ð ð·ðªð¶ð®. ððŸðœ ð·ðžðœ ðª ðµðªð·ð ð ðŽð·ðžð. ððžðœ ðª ð¹ð®ðžð¹ðµð® ð ð¬ðªð»ð® ð®ð·ðžðŸð°ð± ðœðž ð¶ð®ð®ðœ.
ð ððž ð·ðžðœ ðŒð¹ð®ðªðŽ ð²ðµðµ ðžð¯ ðœð±ð²ðŒ ð°ð»ð®ðªðœ ð±ðžð·ðžð», ðžð¯ ð¬ðžðŸð»ðŒð®.
ðŠð±ð®ð· ð ðµðžðžðŽð®ð ðŸð¹ ðªð·ð ðŒðªð ðœð±ð® ðŒðŽðâð«ðªðœð±ð®ð ð²ð· ð«ðŸð»ð·ð²ð·ð° ð¬ð»ð²ð¶ðŒðžð·âð ðœð±ðžðŸð°ð±ðœ ð ðŒðªð ðð²ð¶.
ð¢ðµð²ðœð±ð®ð»ð²ð·ð° ð«ð®ð±ð²ð·ð ðœð±ðªðœ ð¿ðªðŒðœ ð¬ðžðŒð¶ð²ð¬ ð¿ð®ð²ðµ.
ð£ð±ð® ððŸð»ð·ð²ð·ð° ðð®ð»ðªðµð.
ðð·ð® ðžð¯ ðœð±ð® ððžð»ð''ðŒ ð¬ð±ðžðŒð®ð·.
ð ð±ð²ð°ð± ððŒð¹ð®ð¬ðœ.
ð ðð²ð¿ð²ð·ð® ðžð¶ð®ð·.
ð ð«ðµð®ðŒðŒð²ð·ð°.
ðð» ðŒðž ð'ð¶ ðœðžðµð.
ððžð»ð°ð²ð¿ð® ð¶ð®, ðŒð®ðµð¯. ð ð°ð»ðžð ðŸð·ð°ð»ðªðœð®ð¯ðŸðµ ð²ð· ð»ð®ð¯ðµð®ð¬ðœð²ðžð·.ððœ ð¶ðŸðŒðœ ð³ðŸðŒðœ ð«ð® ðœð±ð® ð¿ðªðŒðœð·ð®ðŒðŒ ðžð¯ ð²ðœ ðªðµðµâð±ðžð ðŒð¶ðªðµðµ ð²ðœ ð¶ðªðŽð®ðŒ ð¶ð® ð¯ð®ð®ðµ.
ððžð ðµð²ðœðœðµð®.
ððªðð«ð® ð²ðœ'ðŒ ð³ðŸðŒðœ ðª ð¯ðµðªð ðžð¯ ð¶ð® ðªðŒ ð ðªð¶ ð·ðžð.
ððœ ð²ðŒ, ðªð¯ðœð®ð» ðªðµðµ, ðœð±ð® ðµðžðŒðŒ ðžð¯ ðªðœðœðªð¬ð±ð¶ð®ð·ðœ ðœð±ðªðœ ð¶ðªðŽð®ðŒ ðª ðð»ð²ð®ðŒðœð®ðŒðŒ ðžð¯ ððð» ðªðµðµ ðœð±ð® ð¶ðžð»ð® ð®ðœð®ð»ð·ðªðµ.
ðð·ð ðð±ðž ðŽð·ðžððŒ.
ðð®ð»ð±ðªð¹ðŒ ð'ðµðµ ðµðžðžðŽ ð«ðªð¬ðŽ ðªðœ ðœð±ð²ðŒ ðžð·ð® ððªð, ð»ð®ðªð ðœð±ð® ðœð®ððœ, ðªð·ð ðœð±ð²ð·ðŽ: ððžð ðŒð²ðµðµð ð ððªðŒ ðœð±ð®ð·.
ððžðð®ð¿ð®ð», ðªðµðµ ðœð±ð® ðŒðªð¶ð®.
ð£ðžð¶ðžð»ð»ðžð ð ðð®ð¹ðªð»ðœ ð¯ðžð» ðœð±ð® ð¬ðžðŸð·ðœð»ð ðžð¯ ððŒðµð®ð¹ð±, ðœðž ðœð±ð® ð·ðžð»ðœð± ðžð¯ ðð²ðŒð±ðªð.
ð£ð±ð®ð»ð® ð ðð²ðµðµ ð»ð®ð¬ð®ð²ð¿ð® ð¶ð ððŸðœð²ð®ðŒ, ð¶ð ð»ð²ðœð®ðŒ, ð¶ð ð«ð®ð¬ðžð¶ð²ð·ð°.
ð ð¹ð»ðªð ð¯ðžð» ðŒðªð¯ð® ð¹ðªðŒðŒðªð°ð® ððŸð»ð²ð·ð° ðžðŸð» ð³ðžðŸð»ð·ð®ð ðœð±ð®ð»ð®.
ðð»ðªð²ðŒð® ð«ð® ðð® ðð±ðž ð«ð²ð»ðœð±ð®ð ðœð±ð® ðŒðœðªð»ðŒ ðªð·ð ðŒðŸð·. ð£ð»ðŸðµð, ð«ðµð®ðŒðŒð²ð·ð°ðŒ ð«ð® ðŸðŒ ðªðµðµ.
---
"Hmm..."
Altha lingered on the page.
The parchment was crinkled, creased in crescent patterns like faint ripples from a long-forgotten drop of water.
Tear-shaped stains.
Faint. Faded. Nearly erased by timeâbut not to him.
They would be invisible by now if not for the emotional residue that clung to the page like ash that would not brush away.
Curious, he reached out, brushing the warped dots with his fingers.
The moment he made contact, emotions surged through him.
Not simply sadness.
A grief so raw it scraped the inside of his chest.
A loneliness swallowed in ritual.
A rage that had no nameâonly duty.
His own throat tightened as his breath hitched.
Tears traced his cheeks, uninvited and hot.
So strong was it that all that rang true in Altha's ears were distorted weeps, far away and close all at once.
He jerked his hand back, nearly stumbling off his chair. He took his crimson side cloak and wiped the tears away.
Wiping his face as if he could push the feelings out of him.
He gritted his teeth. Not in pain. In knowing.
"Must've been hard," he whispered. "To leave everything you've ever known⊠for a calling that was never yours to choose."
His voice barely stirred the air.
But the weight of itâall that unseen sorrowâsat heavy on his chest.
He took in a deep breath and sat back down. With a lazy swipe through the air, the page turnedâbut he didn't read it. He just stared at it, eyes glazed.
"How much more of this book is there?" he muttered. "I never thought reading could be this exhausting. But after reliving what amounts toâwhatânine days of someone else's feelings?"
He blinked slowly.
"I'm beginning to reconsider my own willingness in this endeavor."
He chuckled.
"Now, I know what you're thinking, self: 'You could just read it. Just skim through the damn words like a normal person.'" He raised a finger, imitating some invisible, over-logical version of himself. "'You don't need to experience everything that she felt.'"
He shook his head.
"But that's where you'd be wrong," he said aloud, softly. "I'd be blinding myself to the truths. Truths wrapped in tone and nuance and silence."
He folded his arms and stared back at the page, frowning.
"And now you're going to argue that emotions aren't facts. That they're tainted. That I could be misinterpreting everythingâprojecting my own thoughts onto hers."
He paused. Then smiled faintly. "Be calm, my simple mind."
He stood up, stretching his back with a satisfying crack.
"Whether I feel her pain or not, the truth will be distortedâby my ignorance, my lack of context, my biases. I can't pretend there's a 'clean' version of any of this. It would be disingenuous of a claim."
He held out his hand, and the Eidolomancy Script shot from the table into his grasp summoned by a thread of Psyche.
"We need to keep working on that," he muttered. "Energy output's still a little shaky. But one thing at a time for now."
He flipped to the table of contents and ran his eyes down the list, absorbing titles and chapter numbers.
"Now where was I? Oh, right.
In fact," he said, "I'd wager a raw emotional perspective is more honest than a sterilized one. History, after all, is more than just dates and names. It's what people felt when the world turned upside down."
He traced a finger across the page.
"It is often true after all, that war described in excruciating detail blurs the line between winner and loser."
Audacious as always his thoughts echoed back. "Oh, really...? Since when were you Mr Empathetic?"
The voice sounded like his, but not his own. Older. Colder.
"What can I say, we're just more mature now."
"No, no, no..." The voice chuckled. "I see where this is coming from. Still chasing after her ghost, are we? How fitting for you. How poetic. Being haunted by the living and the dead."
Altha fell still.
His fingers hovered over the page, unmoving.
Then, softly, almost to himself: "No... she's gone. What's left to chase?"
He tapped the parchment, slowly. Thoughtfully.
And turned the page.
Eidolomancy Script: Vol. I â Table of Contents
---
Front Matter
I. Preface
II. Acknowledgments
III. How to Use This Volume
---
Chapter 1: Foundations of Aethear Theory
1.1 What Is the Aethear?
â⢠The Foldless Weave of Reality
â⢠Ether, Cogni & Athar: The Trinity of Essence
1.2 The Four Pillars of Magical Interaction
â⢠Resonance, Confluence, Manifestation, Stabilization
1.3 Vectors & Vortices
â⢠Scalar vs. Vector Flows
â⢠Vortical Nodes: Wellsprings of Power
1.4 Awakening the Channel
â⢠Priming Ether: Breathwork & Trance
â⢠Crafting Cogni: Mental Constructs
1.5 Elemental Aspects & the 24 Standard Runes
â⢠Fire, Water, Earth, Air Frameworks
â⢠Rune Combinations & Spell Precision
1.6 Runic Geometry: Shapes & Arrays
â⢠Circles, Triangles, Squares, Spirals
â⢠Planar vs. Volumetric vs. Fractal
1.7 Foreshadowing the Path Ahead
â⢠From Script to Conjuration
---
Chapter 2: The Runic Language
2.1 Origins & History of Runes
2.2 The 24 Core Runes: Names & Meanings
2.3 Stroke Order, Ligatures & Bindings
2.4 Runic Phonetics & Semantic Resonance
2.5 Practice Exercises & Calligraphy
---
He exhaled softly, tugging the silken bookmark free and folding it over the beginning of Chapter 2. The fabric slipped through his fingers like memory.
"However," he murmured, "I do agree with you, self. I will heed the author's warning. It's best not to lose oneself to things too deep, and all that."
"Which is fine, but if I hope to escape from here sooner rather than later, certain calculated risks will have to suffice."
He clutched his head for a moment, his brain readjusting from the sudden influx of foreign emotions. Emotion it hadn't prepared for.
"But perhaps that'll have to wait. I don't think I can... I think-"
He sighed.
"I think I need a break. My reserves of Psyche are running low anyways. Maybe a little sip of water will calm my nerves."
---
Passing back through the garden, he breezed by the arcane deviceâstill pulsing softly. The orb cast its serene cyan light over the statues: six figures clad in flowing robes, each one reaching toward the suspended crystal... except one, whose hand had fallen, and four whose heads were missing entirely.
He did not linger.
Soon, he sat beside the fountain, cupping the cold water in his hands and splashing his face. Droplets scattered like stars across stone.
The relief was immediateâcool and clearâbut it did little to slow the storm behind his eyes.
He stared down at his rippling reflection, not quite recognizing the face looked back.
A flicker of pale hair, silver eyes staring back piercing through the ripples.
He blinked once, and the reflection had vanished. Replaced instead by a familiar dark skinned male with dreads that obscured his eyes.
...