The village remained calm. The atmosphere had shifted, as if the inhabitants knew something had come to an end that day. The mist that had plagued the town for months had finally lifted with the morning light. They had never associated the foul weather with the Lord of Ruin, yet seeing a day brighter than they remembered filled them with a warm sense of peace—soon interrupted by a traveler who, with steady steps, arrived carrying a fine cloth draped over his crimson briefcase.
The village chief shuddered the moment he saw the man appear once more. He didn't know whether to thank him or fear him; deep down, in the very depths of his soul, he knew the bargain they had struck was the only way to save his people, his grandchildren. Yet fear of the abyss was something innate to the souls of the Sirmn.
While the Nemir walked the night, facing the abyss and using it to achieve feats no other could without the goddess's blessing, the poor Sirmn not only lived short lives but remained at the mercy of their brothers across the spectrum. And now, more than ever, the chief was certain that the man who had saved his village walked the thin line between both worlds.
He could only let out a long sigh, emptying his lungs, as the young man—with that grim smile of his—stood before him in a victorious pose, dropping the cloak of the Lord of Ruin at his feet.
—"Three vampires and fifteen orcs, old man. Either you pay me a thousand gold coins, or you know what to do."
The elder closed his eyes in resignation. Despite his age, he had always thought of himself as strong, but since the hunter's caravan entered the village, the years weighed on him like never before. He gestured for the young man to follow. The latter simply shrugged in understanding. At his side appeared the elder's two bodyguards, stepping ahead to assist the aged man.
The place was ready: on the table lay a worn, old cloth bearing a star of 127 points encircling what seemed to be a stain—a continent, the cartographers of the past might have said. At the four corners of the figure, a different insignia: an ancient rune, each in one of four distinct colors the hunter recognized—the red of the Crimson Witch, the white of the Luminous Witch, the purple of the Witch of Creation, and the green of the Witch of Pestilence.
—"Boy," said the elder suddenly, turning his back on the hunter as the men placed a candle of the corresponding witch's color on each rune. "Are you sure about this? Do you even know what those objects caused?"
—"Yes. I know everything I need to know," replied the hunter with confidence. This was his fourth time making such a bargain.
From such deals he had obtained his briefcase, his dagger, his shield, and his gauntlet: items imbued with powers defying all logic—a dagger that gleamed with the flames of the sun, a shield that repelled everything it touched, a bottomless case that shimmered when opened, and Skipper, a seeing hand.
—"There's no way to make you turn back?"
—"Impossible," he replied, taking a seat before the altar.
—"Why?"
—"Because a certain witch told me there's an artifact that will lead me to my prey. That's all I need. Once I get it, I'll discard the rest—return them, sell them, whatever."
The elder could no longer argue. He didn't understand the boy, but somehow, behind that unfathomable attitude, he could glimpse a child in pain.
—"How old are you, boy?"—"Eh," Trill muttered irritably, "what's that got to do with anything, old man?"—"Just an old man's curiosity, I suppose," he said, sitting across from him.—"Not sure what good it'll do you, but… twenty-something, I guess."—"Good. I hope you live to see many more."
The elder extended his hands. The candle of illumination stood before him, his arms reaching out toward the purple and the green, forming a perpendicular cross. Meanwhile, Trill—mocking, perhaps, a certain brazen witch—sat before the red candle, taking the old man's hands.
The room was silent. The ritual was instinctive. It wasn't truly necessary to have all the trappings, or even a special cloth; in truth, four sources of heat within a figure with many points sufficed as a catalyst. The elder kept this cloth as a village relic, nothing more. Even so, he knew exactly what to say, as though some little witch whispered in his ear.
—"He who does not fear the outside, he who seeks to transcend the garden, he who turned his back on the gods—I ask you: open an abyss toward your legacies. Allow our souls to touch the forbidden… and protect them."
At that final word, released almost as a sigh before Trill, the elder began to fade. Mist rose around him, born of the candles now alight one by one. Were he not holding the man, Trill might not have noticed the transformation. The elder lost all tangible form—he became pure energy, a sun in an artificial firmament surrounding the youth.
The smoke of the candles blinded the hunter, stripping him of all possessions, leaving him naked among a crowd.
They marched without pause, advancing without speaking, without questioning, toward a great corridor lit by a scorching sun, so brilliant the floor itself glowed like glass. In fact, the floor was a crystalline alloy that looked just like it.
The crowd bore no features, no gender. They were mannequins, advancing without hesitation. Most, upon stepping onto the corridor, burned, charred, and before reaching halfway, disintegrated into soft residue left along the path.
—"Seems I didn't find you… again."
The hunter scanned his surroundings. Though the walls and floor were like mirrors, nothing reflected. It was as though he were in a vast black chamber, yet from his perspective, it felt like standing between two crystal pyramids, separated by a long corridor, beneath which stretched an infinite desert.
—"What's the challenge this time?" he muttered aloud, as if searching for meaning. It seemed there was no trick, no riddle, only the act of crossing the bridge.
Naked as he was, he knew this would hurt. Yet deep down he knew this world wasn't real—it was but a projection of his soul. Thus, pain and heat didn't truly exist here. If the figures burned away, it was because the sadistic goddess of fire delighted in life's fleeting nature, like her wax dolls born in a senseless pyramid, stumbling across a meaningless bridge, lured by the promise of an unreachable end.
Trill had long forgotten what it meant to dream, to seek meaning in life. To him, the analogy wasn't unsettling. He was someone who simply stood amid the flow, basking in the sun.
The sun burned fiercely, but to Trill it was nothing. Since childhood, the sun had kept him sane, distant from his instincts, from dark thoughts. He did not fear it; he longed for it, craved it with madness, unlike any other—even among the Sirmn. Perhaps no one loved the sun more than he. Without it, he would be like them… and he refused to be like them.
The wax figures kept moving. From the center of the mirrored bridge, he could see the morbid futility of it all: wax figures forming slowly until stepping onto the path. Some large, some small, some stout, some thin. The luckier ones, shielded by larger figures, managed to advance farther than the rest.
Yet even the largest, the strongest, the seemingly perfect—all melted before reaching the other side. He, being something between both pyramids, liked to think he came from that side of the bridge, where the figures emerged to attempt the crossing. But the uncomfortable truth he hated to admit was this: he was not a wax figure. He was the shadow. He was the mirror. The one who repelled light, who would never melt no matter how many rays consumed him. He would endure.
Instinctively, without a word, without a gesture, he stepped forward.
He just wanted to see what lay beyond. Why did the figures strive so hard to reach the end?Would he find many who had survived the deadly crossing, now living in glory?Would those who reached the end cease to be wax, transformed into raw diamonds?
Or, as he suspected… there was only an empty chamber.
Well, not quite empty: a chamber with a smooth floor of wax.
With a long sigh, Trill stretched. This trial was no fun.He thought back to his past ordeals: when he obtained Rigel, he had endured touching the sun, still remembering how his eyes seared at the sight of that feather. With Fomalhaut, he had withstood the crushing force of endless waterfalls until it broke free.
But here… there was no test, no pain, no struggle. Only resignation.
—"Why did I ever try so hard?" he whispered.
He pictured himself leaving the pyramid again. The sun burned fiercely. Wax figures melted. And yet, he found a strange comfort in the touch of molten wax running beneath his feet like a warm, thick river.
He wondered for a moment—should he return… or remain in the new pyramid?Did he truly belong to either side?Did he even have the right to choose?
—"My sins against both sides will be paid someday."
A thin tear evaporated in Trill's eye—the tear of one who bore lives from both sides.A hunter makes no distinction.A hunter hunts.It was the only thing he knew, the only thing that kept alive that small flame he called home.
Then he saw her.
A figure unlike the others: delicate features, so precise that Trill faltered.Long hair, deep, sincere eyes.A woman, without doubt.
She walked, letting the rays of the sun consume her, and by the hand she held a small figure—likely a child—sheltering under the little shade her mother could provide.
Why, mother?The hunter thought. That figure had to be her. Perhaps something about her stirred something deep within him.Unconsciously, he reached for his safe haven—the cross of Saint Amalha that hung from his neck… but it wasn't there. He wasn't in his world.
The other wax figures marched on, almost competing to see who could make it farther, while the frail woman shielded her fragile child from the merciless rays of the sun. None offered them aid.Others advanced protected by countless bodyguards, willing to melt away so they might reach the midpoint.The rest ignored the pair completely.
One step…Two…
Slowly, Trill chose his side.His legs began to move on their own.He wanted to reach her.
The figures moving the opposite way pushed him, blocked him, got in his way. He shoved them aside, knocked them down, cast them away without a thought—even if some tumbled into the sands that devoured them without mercy.All he wanted was to reach that figure that had so captivated him.
But it was too late.She had already lost more than half her body, sacrificing herself so that her little one could remain standing.
They embraced as the woman's delicate face melted over the child.She looked straight at Trill, who, exhausted, had managed to cross to the other side.The figure had no expression, no means of communication… but he understood.
She slowly released her son, her last arm breaking away and sinking into the floor.The boy tried to leap back to what once was his mother, and part of her hot wax clung to him, giving him a sturdier form—but he was still a child, fragile, in the middle of that endless corridor.
Trill gathered him into his arms and, shielding him with his body, ran as fast as he could.He felt the other figures notice, as if they suddenly understood that the sun had no effect on him.They knew he could carry them to that longed-for "other side."
But no.He cared for none of them.None had cared for the woman who gave her life for the abandoned child.No one deserved pity.No one.
Trill did not stop, not when sweat blinded his eyes, not when the wax grew so thick his legs could barely move.Even if he had to crawl…He would carry the boy to the promised "other side."
He did not stop.The hunter did not stop until the sun waned and shadow fully touched his skin. With a heavy sigh, nearly breathless, he proclaimed:
—"We made it, kid…"
Or so he wished. Trill was drenched in wax; the boy's melted body had completely covered the hunter, who collapsed upon the cold floor painted with the futile struggles of dozens of dolls like the one he had tried to save. Those who had chased him met the same end, joining the vast pool of solid wax—alongside the child.
A lone tear traced Trill's cheek as he lifted his face in resignation. He wanted to scream, to curse, but thought: who would hear such words?
It wasn't necessary. The wax beneath his feet began to crack.This was the end.This was the message of the goddess of fire—that sadistic lover of mankind, of passion, of the fleeting.
—"Why?" Trill asked, without expecting an answer.—"Because I love you."
A soft voice answered, almost maternal.Tears welled uncontrollably as Trill embraced himself, as he once had as a child, clinging to something warm, soft, protective. In his hands lay a hood of pale pink, with a plush lining. Thin at first glance, but as its rightful bearer, he knew what it was: Sadr, the Hood of All.
—"Are you all right, boy?" asked the elder, now holding his shoulder. The candles had melted completely; only a thin wisp of smoke rose from them.
Quickly, Trill wiped his eyes with the newly gained hood.—"Of course I am, old man. Look at this hood… so… so…"—"Masculine," one of the bodyguards interrupted, guiding the elder to a chair where he finally rested.—"Hey, pink is the color of royalty—I like it," Trill said with confidence, throwing it on. "Though… I think I know someone who will make better use of it."
—"I'm glad it all turned out well," the elder said with a long sigh.
He was genuinely relieved. The ritual was no game. If the outcome failed to please the god who had answered the call, it was not only the challenger's soul at stake—the one who risked everything to reach a star—but also the guide's. Like a satellite straying too far from its orbit, he could be lost forever to the abyss. It was, in truth, a gamble where two souls were wagered. But tonight, he could rest, praying he would never have to face such an ordeal again.
—"Old man, thank you. By the way, I lied… I didn't kill the ogres."—"What?"—"In fact, they'll probably be coming here."—"WHAT?!" shouted the bodyguards in unison.
Trill bothered to explain the situation: the orcs had been victims too. He wasn't asking them to forgive, but if they found a way to make use of them so they might atone for their sins, he asked they be given a chance.
With nothing more than a weak bow and the hood on his head, he mounted his caravan, which rumbled to life with a loud crash against the cobblestones, spewing its ridiculous circus melody and smoke as it rolled along.
The village saw off the eccentric hunter—some with joy, others wishing he would never return.But most importantly, they wondered why, instead of returning to the capital, he had taken once more the road into the depths of the forest.