On a World That Moves, and a Child Born Within the Crevice of Fate
The world of Fletcher was never truly still.
It pulsed—slowly yet inexorably—like the heart of some colossal being buried deep beneath its crust. That pulse arose from iron engines roaring in distant quarters, from endless rails groaning beneath steel wheels, and from stones of bluish-green hue that glimmered faintly within the bellies of antiquated factories.
Those stones were called Clexil.
Neither sorcery, nor divine miracle.
Clexil was fuel.
A geological anomaly discovered nearly two centuries prior, bridging the world from the age of plough and horse into an era of engines and smoke. It burned with remarkable stability, producing vast energy without violent detonation, and thus became the cornerstone of Fletcher's pre-modern machinery.
Yet Fletcher was not a fully advanced world.
Nor was it entirely primitive.
Steam trains travelled alongside horse-drawn carriages. Iron edifices rose beside moss-covered stone dwellings. Science progressed, yet fate and faith continued to share the same throne.
And above it all, the noble system endured—ancient, layered with blood and history.
"My lord, the lady has entered the opening stage."
The voice came softly, almost as a whisper afraid to disturb the air itself. A maid stood at the doorway, her head bowed so deeply one might fear her neck would break.
Beyond that door, the grand residence of House Zeneris rested in solemn quiet.
There was no ostentatious gold.
No statues of beasts nor sigils of conquest.
Only tall wooden shelves laden with books, potted plants arranged carefully by the windows, and the scent of damp earth mingling with ink and aged parchment.
A middle-aged man stood beside a long table, clad in noble attire of striking simplicity—too simple, by the standards of other houses.
"Thank you," he said calmly. "You may go."
The maid nodded and closed the door with measured care.
The man exhaled slowly.
"The three hundred and fifty-sixth child," he murmured, as though counting something far heavier than a number.
House Zeneris was often misunderstood.
Beyond its walls, it bore the epithet of a blood-soaked family—a name born of collective ignorance and distorted chronicles. Seven times fallen, seven times risen. Each fall accompanied by great war, each rise leaving wounds that never wholly healed.
Yet those who truly knew Zeneris understood one truth:
They were not a house of war.
They were a house of survival.
Their gardens exceeded their training fields.
Their modest laboratories were better tended than any armory.
Children of Zeneris grew with biology texts in one hand, and a hoe in the other.
"Outsiders will never understand," said a woman with ash-grey hair seated near the hearth. "They believe us bloodthirsty, when in truth we are merely afraid of dying for nothing."
The man gave a faint, bitter smile.
"Seven collapses are enough to teach anyone," he replied. "We do not limit our lineage from weakness—but from the desire that they may live."
The woman closed her eyes briefly.
"And tonight," she whispered, "fate knocks upon our door once more."
Exactly at midnight.
At the turning of the year Fredno 1913.
The city bells tolled twelve times, their echoes reaching even the rear gardens. Winter wind slipped through the window seams, carrying a cold that pierced bone—and something else besides.
Something heavier.
"She descends," whispered a clan priest, his voice trembling.
In the skies above Fletcher, the clouds parted slowly. Not with thunder nor blinding light, but with a gentle radiance of pale green—the same hue as Clexil, yet immeasurably more alive.
"Sledios…" many voices murmured in unison.
Hersie.
In Fletcher, gods are not born divine.
They become so.
Hersie is not a race.
It is a title.
A status, not an origin.
One who, through the achievements of their life, transcends mortality and is acknowledged by the world itself. Ascension to Hersiehood comes not from hollow prayer, but from tangible impact—transformations so vast they scar civilization permanently.
The ancestor of Zeneris, Vlerina Zeneris, was one such being.
A thousand years prior, she raised no sword, conquered no kingdom.
She planted.
She introduced crop rotation, rudimentary botanical engineering, and primitive scientific methodology that increased global agricultural yield fivefold—a leap too monumental for the world to ignore.
In the year 1467, the world acknowledged her deeds.
Vlerina ascended.
And thenceforth, she was known as Hersie Sledios—the Harbinger of Prosperity.
Once every century, she descended into the mortal realm.
Not to rule.
But to bestow a Blessing.
A child's cry shattered the stillness.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Yet sufficient to make Sledios—standing upon the boundary between heaven and earth—turn her gaze.
"Curious…" The voice was heard by none, yet felt by all.
Within a modest chamber, a baby girl was born. Her eyes remained closed, her tiny fingers grasping at empty air, as though reaching for something unseen.
The priest fell to his knees.
"O Sledios, Hersie of Prosperity," he said, voice quaking. "Is this child—"
But the light dimmed before the question could be completed.
Sledios smiled faintly.
"Not yet."
The infant cried once more.
And without anyone's notice, fate—usually indifferent—paused, turned its gaze, and recorded a name not yet given.
On Names, Black Chains, and a Child Too Tempting to Fate
The pale green light had not yet fully faded when Vlerina Zeneris stepped into the birthing chamber.
She did not walk as mortals do.
Nor did she float as common tales exaggerate the movements of Hersies. Her steps bore weight upon the stone floor—as though she had chosen to feel the cold stone and the scent of blood and birth.
Her eyes—the eyes of a Hersie—surveyed the room.
She saw the lingering tension, the damp cloths yet unchanged, and the human faces trembling between relief and dread. Yet her gaze halted upon one figure: the man standing closest to the bed, shoulders straight though his eyes were clearly exhausted.
"Blenoris Clev Zeneris," Vlerina spoke softly.
Her voice did not echo, nor command.
Yet it made Blenoris bow, as one might before a long winter.
"Yes, O Sledios," he replied, controlled yet fraying at the edges. "I am here."
Vlerina approached, gazing upon the infant now resting quietly in white cloth.
"Has this child been named?"
The question was simple. Too simple. And Blenoris knew that among Hersies, simplicity often concealed sharpened meaning.
"Not yet," he answered honestly. "The birth has only just concluded. We have not—"
"I see," Vlerina interrupted gently.
She smiled.
Not the warm smile of a proud ancestor—but one laden with meaning, as though she were gazing upon a seed destined to become a tree that would one day shatter its own house.
"This child," she said slowly, "will place Zeneris upon the brink of ruin."
The air froze.
The priest held his breath.
The mother paled.
Blenoris clenched his fists, yet did not move.
"But ruin," Vlerina continued, "does not always signify an end."
She raised her right hand.
And in that moment—intent crystallized.
No fury.
No spectacle.
Only a clear, cold conclusion: this child was too dangerous to be allowed to live.
Before her hand could descend—
KRAK.
Black chains erupted from nothingness, violently coiling around Vlerina's wrist. Neither iron nor ordinary sorcery, they resembled fragments of night forged into shackles, etched with ever-shifting narrative sigils.
Vlerina froze.
"…Ah."
Not surprise.
Recognition.
"So," she murmured. "You intervene."
These were the Chains of Narrative Correction—a mechanism of the world that rarely manifested, even before Hersies. They appeared only when an act threatened to prematurely fracture the grand flow.
Vlerina closed her eyes.
And felt it.
To the east.
Far—terribly far—yet unmistakable.
Pure, dense narrative energy.
Protagonist energy.
"So that is why," she whispered. "I was not meant to destroy… only to witness."
She lowered her hand.
The chains loosened, then vanished like mist that never existed.
The priest collapsed to his knees, cold sweat soaking his brow.
"O Sledios… what does this mean…?"
Vlerina did not answer immediately.
Instead, she reached down and lifted the infant with both hands—a motion far too gentle for one who moments earlier intended murder.
And then—
The child's eyes opened.
Purple.
Gleaming like a star-strewn night sky.
Yet it was not the colour that silenced the room—but the pupils.
Star-shaped (🌟).
Sea-blue at the center, edged with pale white light as though on the verge of extinguishing.
Vlerina fell silent.
For the first time that night, her expression shifted.
"…Five hundred years," she whispered.
Star-shaped pupils were no mere mutation. They were marks of extreme narrative resonance—phenomena appearing once every five centuries. In the entire history of Zeneris, only two had borne them:
Vlerina herself.
And Fletia Clev Zeneris, five centuries past.
Both shared a cruel fate.
Short lives.
Endless misfortune.
And souls… too enticing.
Bearers of 🌟 eyes exuded a powerful soul-scent—so potent that narrative itself seemed eager to devour them. The world would test them relentlessly, as though wishing them to break swiftly.
"How pitiful," Vlerina murmured, a thin laugh trailing. "You cannot even cry properly… and yet the world already hungers for you."
The priest trembled.
"…Is this child cursed?"
"No," Vlerina replied calmly. "She is too interesting to be merely cursed."
She turned.
"Priest. Prepare the Zefom Ritual."
The priest's face drained of colour.
"…Zefom…? O Sledios, that ritual—"
"I know," Vlerina said lightly. "I created it."
The Zefom Ritual was no ordinary blessing.
It was a dual rite—binding fate between Hersie and mortal. Through it, a Hersie implanted a portion of their narrative authority into another's soul.
The cost was severe.
A Hersie who performed Zefom would:
Be unable to descend to the mortal realm for 1,500 years
Be unable to bestow more than 25% of their power thereafter
Lose significant narrative intervention flexibility
The priest bowed deeply.
"…With utmost respect… this is wasteful. This child… will not live long."
Vlerina laughed softly.
"That is precisely why it amuses me."
All in the chamber collapsed—quite literally—at their Hersie's disturbingly playful tone.
"I have long wished to do this," she continued cheerfully. "Besides, I desire something to show the younger Hersies of the future."
She looked once more upon the child.
"And now," she said gently, "you require a name."
She closed her eyes briefly.
"Vleresia."
Blenoris startled. "That name—"
"Is formed from Vlerina and Resia," she explained. "It means: a will that endures amidst decay."
She smiled.
"Vleresia Clev Zeneris."
The baby grasped Vlerina's finger.
And for a moment—only a moment—fate hesitated, uncertain whether it had just recorded a tragedy…
or its own fatal error.
On a Ritual That Tore a God Apart, and a Child Forced to Endure a Fractured World
"Hurry."
The single word left Vlerina's lips with unusual urgency.
Not the command of a ruling Hersie—but the insistence of one who knew time itself was running faster than it should.
"The Zefom process must begin now," she continued. "Delay even one breath, and her misfortune will not wait for the ritual to complete."
The clan priest jolted as though waking from a nightmare.
"At once—at once, O Sledios!" he cried. "Everyone, move! Do not err—not a single symbol!"
The Zeneris estate erupted into motion.
Footsteps thundered along stone corridors.
Doors opened and shut.
Ancient tomes were hauled from shelves by trembling hands.
"Northern marker stone! Not the southern!"
"Distilled water from the third garden—not the fourth!"
"The true Zefom Codex! Not the copy!"
Each moved with shared awareness: there must be no mistake.
Vlerina raised her left hand.
And the air changed.
A translucent dome spread slowly over the entire estate, dense yet invisible, its surface glowing with narrative sigils—as though the world itself had begun writing.
"Soul-scent shielding," Vlerina murmured. "Otherwise, the narrative will converge upon the child."
The Zefom Ritual bore a fatal flaw:
During its execution, the soul-filter collapses.
And Vleresia—with her 🌟 eyes and saccharine soul—would become perfect bait.
Vlerina looked down at the infant.
Small.
Warm.
Utterly unaware of the rotting world awaiting her.
For a brief moment—just one—Vlerina tightened her embrace.
"I once wished to kill you," she whispered. "Not because you are dangerous… but because I did not wish you to see what lies ahead."
Her gaze dimmed.
She had seen something.
Not prophecy.
Not vision.
Something even other Hersies could not perceive.
This world—
◼◼◼◼◼◼.
The word never fully formed.
Even within her own thoughts, its meaning was severed, censored—like a page torn from a book before it could be read.
Vlerina clicked her tongue softly.
"Even my thoughts are forbidden," she muttered bitterly.
She exhaled.
And chose to endure.
The infant's hair was sparse, barely visible. Yet Vlerina knew.
Among Zeneris, green hair was common—symbol of life, soil, and harvest. But for those with 🌟 eyes, there was always a cruel, beautiful deviation.
A golden gradient.
A mark of overwhelming lineage.
A soul not entirely belonging to the mortal world.
"Not yet," Vlerina murmured. "But it will appear."
She studied the child further.
No red thread of fate—the mark of a destined partner—was visible.
"Not born yet, it seems," she mused. "Or perhaps… not permitted to exist."
She smiled thinly.
"Just like me."
The symmetry was too precise.
As though the world insisted upon repeating its mistakes, merely changing faces.
But this time—Vlerina intended to interfere.
"Sledios!" cried the priest. "All materials are prepared!"
The ritual chamber awaited.
A stone circle etched with ancient glyphs. Candles burning without smoke. Zefom symbols carved into the floor—not prayers, but existential contracts.
Vlerina placed Vleresia at the center.
The infant cried softly—as though sensing something being taken.
"Be still," Vlerina whispered. "This will hurt… but you will live."
She raised her hand.
And cut herself.
The blood was not red.
It was gold.
Softly radiant, like dusk distilled into liquid. Golden Narrative—the substance composing Hersies, the matter that defines all mortal fate… except their own.
A single drop fell upon Vleresia's forehead.
The child screamed—not from physical pain, but from something alien touching her soul.
The priest dared not breathe.
"Now," said Vlerina.
She closed her eyes.
And pierced herself again.
Not flesh.
Not blood.
She extracted her very core—ninety percent of the Hersie power amassed since Ascension.
The chamber trembled.
Vlerina paled.
Yet smiled.
"First blessing," she whispered.
"Breakout of Recycle."
The ability to escape cycles meant to repeat.
A minuscule chance—not to be destroyed by fate's loops.
"Second blessing," she continued, voice weakening.
"Revision of Noust."
The power to rewrite understanding, to endure through knowledge rather than might.
When the ritual ended, Vlerina coughed violently.
Her golden blood dulled.
Her form began to fade, like a painting washed by rain.
The priest cried out in terror.
"O Sledios—!"
Vlerina raised a hand.
"One final command," she said, her voice now an echo.
"Make this child… love books."
Silence.
Blenoris frowned. "…Books?"
But Vlerina offered no explanation.
She smiled—exhausted, satisfied.
And vanished.
The Zeneris estate fell quiet.
Vleresia's cries softened.
None fully understood what had transpired.
But one truth remained:
A Hersie had torn herself apart for a single infant.
And the world—long since fractured—had just acquired one small variable…
that might one day cause it to collapse entirely.
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