A salty ocean breeze carries with it the rhythmic crashing of waves and the raucous quarreling of seagulls. Transfixed by the constant ebb and flow of an unfamiliar sea, Eleanor finds herself in a state of wistful melancholy.

  Not at the artificial nature of her world. The mock reality of her existence having come as quite the surprise, to put it lightly. Nor at the simple futility of her past actions, for good or for ill. No, she’d had plenty of time to mope and bemoan her wretched fate these past four months, so it definitely wasn’t that.

  Simply put, it was the inescapable fact that her very small role on this impossible stage—stalked by gods and goddesses and cosmic prodigies alike—would soon be at its end, that had her, as Jun would put it, “down in the dumps.”

  This world’s Jun, not her Jun, she corrected herself.

  The fact that, if all things went to plan, he too would cease to be—in all his sweet, if infuriating at times, personalities—not helping matters as far as her dour mood was concerned. Because the bleak fact of the matter was that even if she somehow managed to save her world from the foreign spirits that sought to ravage it, her actions would ultimately change little.

  From the very beginning, her world had been built to fail. To serve some ineffable purpose for unknowable reasons before imploding in on itself—taking with it a young girl’s innocent soul, for which she was apparently an infinitesimally small shard of. And, if all that weren’t enough, very soon now, she would go out there and do her part in hammering the final nails into that metaphorical coffin.

  “Ready?”

  Eleanor glanced up from where she reclined on the unreasonably comfortable “deck chair,” the floppy brim of her oversized hat thankfully keeping the sun from her eyes.

  Dressed exactly as he had been ever since they’d settled on this “tropical island resort” as their optimal planning environment, Jun, not her Jun, hovered by her side—eyes unreadable behind those tinted spectacles meant to protect from the sun. Wearing a serious expression at odds with his get up—floppy sandals, pink shorts, and floral printed tunic—his tone was as grim as she’d ever heard it.

  “As ever,” she replied, before rising to her feet.

  “Well it’s about time!” said the… creature from its customary place atop this Jun’s head.

  The creature she was trying very hard not to think of as a rift spawn. This despite her many years of conditioning practically screaming to the contrary. It helped to think of it in her head as a contracted familiar, even if, deep down, she knew that wasn’t really the case.

  Not until she’d been summoned to this confounding place with its confounding people did she realize how much her Jun’s resemblance to a person aided in her eventually seeing him as one.

  At the very least it significantly eased the transition.

  Something that couldn’t be said for this Jun’s companion. It ultimately left her feeling awkward and unsure whenever she found herself in the presence of the clearly sentient creature. It was also entirely possible the small creature somehow picked up on her reticence.

  Perhaps that was why they’d never really gotten on all that well.

  “Really now, I swear, if I’d been forced to choke down one more of those vile concoctions of yours you call drinks, I would have simply snapped, Jun! Really I would have!”

  “Oh, come now. They weren’t that bad.”

  “They tasted like dirt, Jun! Colorful, remarkably well garnished dirt, but still dirt all the same! It doesn’t matter how many miniature umbrellas you smother it in if a literal handful of sand is preferable to that gods awful taste.”

  “Surely you’re kidding. I mean, I poured my heart and soul into those drinks! Aren’t you being a bit harsh?”

  “Not. In. The. Least.”

  Jun gasped.

  “I can confirm,” Eleanor offered hesitantly—glancing briefly at the creature before quickly averting her gaze. “I… actually used a bit of sand to wash the taste out of my mouth the first time you offered me one,” she said in a rush. “It helped.”

  Jun gasped harder.

  “See?! Even this one agrees!”

  “I can’t believe this… betrayal on all sides. I-I don’t even know what to say…”

  “You could start by saying you’re sorry, for one.”

  “It’s the texture,” Eleanor hurriedly tried to explain. “It’s like, I don’t know. Like a lumpy mud consistency with an oily film on top?”

  Even briefly recalling the dreaded ‘Pi?a Colada’ had her stomach tying itself into knots.

  “It’s an acquired taste!”

  “Jun, I don’t even think you believe what you’re saying at this point.”

  “You get used to it…?”

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “Really?”

  “No,” he sighed. “Not really… Darn! If only it had worked! I’d really thought if we could change the entire dang ecosystem all willy nilly, just by wishing extra hard, then maybe, just maybe…! But it would seem that not even twenty years worth of desperate longing can best the culinary curse that has befallen this joyless realm…”

  “Even more reason to get going though, right?” Eleanor prodded, unsure whether she felt eagerness or dread at the prospect.

  “Oh! Heavens blessed, you’re right!” he replied, whipping off his sunglasses and pumping his fist in excitement. “Just think of it! Now all that stands between me and the first decent meal I’ll have had in decades is an all powerful tentacle goddess hell bent on supplanting my immortal soul! So, you know, no biggie. I wonder what I’ll have first…” he sighed wistfully, wiping at imaginary drool.

  Fate-touched, the longer you delay, the more time she will have to prepare. Even seconds can be crucial when dealing with an ascendant.

  And just like that, like a candle’s flame had been summarily snuffed out, his jovial demeanor disappeared entirely, as if it had never even been there to begin with. And in its place was now a hardened look. One she was shocked to find she recognized. One that’d been carved in hard lines on the faces of war veterans just before a battle. It was an age-weary harshness that sent shivers down her spine.

  “You just had to bring the mood down, didn’t you?”

  You should know by now that I only ever have your best interests at heart. Your fate and mine have been intrinsically linked, after all.

  “Right. You’re right, of course. I guess there really is no running from this, huh?”

  There is not.

  “That’s fine. What’s one more all powerful despot gunning for my head, right? At least this time I can be assured she’ll have the common courtesy to stay dead after I kill her.”

  If you kill her. Which, if I may reiterate, remains very unlikely.

  “Great pep talk. Very inspiring.”

  You are welcome.

  “And with that heartwarming send off,” he abruptly reached forward and grasped Eleanor by the hand, apparently oblivious to the way his familiar- or, rather, his female companion, tensed up in response. “We’re off.”

  And in the next moment they vanished, leaving nothing but two pairs of foot shaped depressions in the sand.

  Nialla Tallvar scrutinized the ragged tear in reality for even the slightest hint of movement, as she’d been doing ever since her untimely arrival—her now pitiable physique having slowed her down considerably.

  And that wasn’t even mentioning the frustrating dissonance that came with such a drastic transition. She felt a flash of irritation at how sluggishly she was acclimatizing to her reincarnated vessel—her ire only slightly diminished by the steady reminder that any other vessel would have been several times worse.

  Positioned behind a veritable wall of her failed offspring—at their own stubborn insistence, an insistence she didn’t care enough to dispute—she peered past the throng of thousands practically hovering on top of the rift, and, just like them, patiently awaited a breach in the inky black film.

  Just then, her contemplative silence was interrupted by what was quickly becoming the most troublesome and presumptuous of her get.

  “MOTHER. IT HAS BEEN SIX CYCLES SINCE THE COWARD AND HIS COMPANIONS FIRST ENTERED THE RIFT. IF IT PLEASES YOU, YOU NEED ONLY SAY THE WORD AND MY SIBLINGS AND I WILL BRAVE THE YAWNING ABYSS IN SEARCH OF HIS VILE PERSON. WE WOULD SEIZE THE FECKLESS WEAKLING FROM WHERE HE SHIVERS IN FRIGHT OF YOUR PREEMINENCE, AND HAVE HIM KNEELING AT YOUR FEET WHERE HIS KIND RIGHTLY BELONGS.”

  One of Nialla’s eyes twitched. At this clear challenge of her authority, as if she didn’t know how many days had passed, her first impulse was to eliminate the impertinent little welp—a rising tide of blood lust making every one of her ungrateful get go very very still, the one bowing before her chief among them—when it occurred to her that, perhaps, in this very instance, the brat was actually correct.

  It was entirely possible that her time spent in exile had done more harm to her sense of momentum than even she had fully realized. Eons spent in idle contemplation could do that to a person.

  Could it be that all that passivity had left its indelible mark on her soul?

  One that she hadn’t even noticed?

  With the introduction of the Fen’Reale and the opportunity he presented, she had thought she’d left her sedentary ways behind, but what if she’d been wrong in that assessment?

  It wasn’t an unheard of phenomenon. In the cases of newly raised ascendents with the rest of eternity ahead of them, it was entirely too easy for the fire and ambition that had seen them rise to their exalted posts be replaced by rank sloth and indolence.

  Be it decades or centuries, it was often hard for them to differentiate between the two, and thus why it was so important they keep moving forward when, for them, a millennia meant very little in the grand scheme of things.

  And like what was happening right now, in those cases, it was often the impatience of youth that inevitably spurred these sedentary cultivators into motion. Yes indeed. It was possible the child was right to spur her on. Yes, perhaps it was about time she be a little more… proactive.

  Of course it was then that the black tear in space languidly rippled, making her newfound resolve entirely irrelevant.

  Space shuddered as a disturbance was felt in the very fabric of this artificial realm.

  The thick skin between bordering realities flexing outward ever so slightly, as something on the other side crossed through the yawning rift.

  The very first thing she saw was the feathered head of a bird spirit. Only when the storm spirit had fully exited the breach did she finally see it. Sat astride the proud spirits broad back, lookin no different than when last she saw him, was the fate-touched.

  Her ticket to heights never even dreamed of in this world. Behind his straight backed silhouette, more spirit riding figures emerged—careening through the breach at breakneck speeds, only to abruptly pitch downward into a series of steep dives. Moving as if in some vain hope of outpacing the many thousands lying in wait for just such an inglorious entrance.

  A small number of her get broke off from the main body in pursuit, though Nialla ignored them in favor of the main prize. As if by some unseen signal, thousands of her children converged on his spirit mount’s languidly flapping form.

  And the boy meanwhile…?

  He merely looked on calmly, almost casually, as if in contempt of the overwhelming numbers marshaled against him. Nialla’s mind raced, eyes sharpening in suspicion. Of course she hadn’t expected one so touched by fate to go out lying down, but this complete lack of concern…?

  Was it confidence, or merely arrogance? She supposed only time would tell.

  It was only because her focus had been honed to such a razors edge that she caught the telltale bunching of muscles before he leapt from the saddle, propelling the spirit into a steep dive as he did so—effectively launching himself towards the oncoming rush even as he spared his mount of the same sorry fate.

  Very quickly the overlapping of bodies obscured the brazen fool from view.

  Ultimately leaving her with a strong, if irrational, doubt—of whether or not she’d made it explicitly clear that they were to take the boy alive, and not crushed under the weight of their combined enthusiasm—when the world was bathed in a wash of emerald green, and all hell broke loose.