No. 2 kneeled on a stump three Lu in diameter. Their lumite armor, typically a pristine white void of color, now bore a deep green hue from the plant life that had taken root on its surface, thriving off the passive energy of the complete set. The stump had benches carved from its bark, upon which two richly clothed people sat conversing. A city had developed around them while they awaited in a meditative state of non-existence. They rose to pray, having remained still for a fleeting Lumin.
The enormous person shot upward, standing at a full height of two Lu. Vines of ivy fell to the ground as they moved. The two bourgeois people before them jumped back, each letting out a gasp. The bustling trading hub reacted in waves: some stopped and watched, some turned and ran, and some, peculiarly, began to walk toward the statuesque No. 2, talismans in hand and voices lifting in gentle prayer.
No. 2 raised their arms to the sky and prayed, marking Lumora Cycle 4,162,500.
No. 2: "O Great Author, who pens the parchment of this world with precision, who determined the Lumspan and set the Cycles in motion, hear my words. I am Your instrument in this story, a sword within the eternal pages of Intearth. Grant me the wisdom to walk the path You have written, and the strength to turn the pages yet unseen."
They lowered their head to look at the gathering crowd.
No. 2: "Written favorably are those who walk through these texts with humility, that their deeds may be preserved in the eternal pages of Intearth. Written are those who mourn; their chapters shall end, and they shall find eternal comfort and rest thereafter. Written are the meek; for it is for them that Intearth is chronicled."
Before No. 2 could continue, a voice rang out from the audience. One of the richly clothed people, whose robe shimmered with intricate embroidery, stood and scoffed.
Lord Veyren: "Enough of this drivel! You speak of meekness, mourning, and humility, yet look around you! I am clothed in finery, my coffers overflowing, and I have knelt to no Author, bowed to no Cycle. Where is your so-called reward? If such virtues are written into your precious Text, then why does power and wealth favor the proud?"
The person laughed, loud and sharp, a sound that rippled through the crowd like a stone cast into a still pond. Several others chuckled nervously, glancing between the speaker and the giant in lumite armor standing before them.
No. 2: "Who are you, that you would blaspheme against the Author? Speak aloud your name, that it might be known. Tell me was it for you alone that the Author has stirred me from my slumber to bring judgment? Have I been awoken to cleanse this whole land of its sin?"
The person straightened their shoulders, as if the weight of their embroidered robes alone proved their worth.
Lord Veyren: "I am Lord Veyren, a citizen of this country and a member of the Verdant Council! These lands thrive thanks to our judgment and how we choose to spend our coin! Your Author may satisfy the prayers of the poor and the market folk, but it is the Council that decided to build the roads and buildings you see around you."
Veyren laughed, emboldened by the soldiers gathering in the town center, equipped with swords, staffs, bows, and all manner of weapons.
Lord Veyren: "I do not know what you are or what power you hold, but your god is a relic, a story told to children! I stand here, empowered by the will of Verdance, by the will of civilization itself!"
At a sharp gesture from the lord, some soldiers cast their spells, weaving enchantments into Veyren. Energy flared. Veyren rose into the air, growing in size, their flesh hardening into a living carapace of polished steel. Their once-fine robes burned away, leaving them draped in raw sorcery.
Lord Veyren: "Look upon me and see where true power dwells! Kneel, before the will of peoplekind!"
Around them, people gasped, some shielding their eyes from the harsh glow of the spellwork. Others whispered prayers, staying true to their faith and recognizing the divinity of No. 2, who did not stir. No. 2 remained like a mountain unmoved by storms, their gaze steady, the mark of the Author etched into every fiber of their being. No. 2 looked upon Lord Veyren, and the corners of their mouth turned downward, their brow furrowing deeply.
Slowly, No. 2 raised their arms to the sky. Their voice, when it came, was quiet and strained:
No. 2: "O Great Author, who set this Cycle in motion, who wrote each character with care and burden alike, forgive this one their folly, though judgment must fall. Have mercy upon the ink of Your own pen. For they are blind by Your hand, and I strike by Your command."
The crowd fell silent, a stillness heavier than any chant or clash of arms. For a moment, it seemed as if even the Wakes themselves paused, as if the very fabric of Intearth waited to hear the Author's answer. No. 2 lowered their hands, their body braced. No. 2 moved.
There was no warning cry, no battle roar, only a blur of motion as they crossed the square in a single, tremendous leap. Their great blade, mounted at their hip for swift use, flashed from its sheath in a single smooth motion, cutting the air with a sound like tearing parchment. In one brutal stroke, they cleaved Lord Veyren cleanly in half. The lord let out a wet gurgling gasp. Blood burst outward, painting the polished stones of the square and splattering those unfortunate enough to be standing near.
The soldiers, wide-eyed but disciplined, began to fall back, shields raised and weapons tight in their grasps. They retreated in formation, their captains barking sharp commands over the stunned murmuring of the crowd. Their boots pounded against the stone as they withdrew toward the north gate, where the castle loomed beyond the city wall. There, they would regroup and prepare to defend their stronghold against what they now knew was not merely a person, but something far older, far more of a threat.
No. 2 lowered their blade, their hands steady. They stood still amid the ruin, the body of Veyren laid unceremoniously at their feet, making even more of a splatter than the original cut. They bowed their head.
No. 2: "Forgive me fellow, for I was written to end your story as you were written to serve as my introduction here."
Around him, chaos unfolded. Those who had held faith in the Author fell to their knees, bowing low, weeping prayers into the blood-slick stones. Their voices, though jumbled and desperate, rose upward across the vaulted world of Intearth itself, toward the mirrored lands above, and to Lum, the living light between. Others who had scorned the old ways fled in all directions, desperate to escape meeting a similar judgment to that they had just witnessed. Among them, people of every kind scattered No. 2 raised his voice to the gathered peoples of Intearth, them still faithful to the Author.
No. 2: "Beware, The Old Ones have returned. They once again seek to escape the confines of our story. When I wake, it is by the will of the Author. The Author's hand stirs me from Leep, summoning me to prepare the Faithful of Intearth.
Look for the signs: when a shadow is cast upon Lum, when the waters freeze over, when forgotten things rise from the soil, and when the winds whisper of ancient names. All is not lost, and not all of the ancients awake. The eternal egg still incubates in its orbit around Lum. The Author has blessed us at this time, for when it hatches, even I will not be able to mitigate much of the destruction. The names of the Ancients are on the tongues of the unfaithful. In those moments, help your fellow Intearthians, and the Author will view favorably any who provide Intearthian aid. Our trials have been foretold, and our purpose awaits."
A furry bipedal person approached the area where No. 2 was giving the speech. They had not been in the square during the previous events and had just arrived for the warnings.
Council Person Vissira: "How can you expect us to be faithful to a God not even willing to prove they exist? I am sure your power is impressive and your magic old and abundant, but it is far more likely that you, like many others, have fallen victim to the sickness of magic. The words you speak are of that illness and have no more truth or evidence than any other words of anyone here. If the Author were real, we would only exist when the Author was writing about us. All our lives leading up to the moments that we would appear in their pages would be left up to imagination. Assuming the Author even writes in a book. Who knows what a God would use for the passing of knowledge and information. We would have no free will. Everything we chose to do would be directly chosen by the Author."
No. 2: "I will provide proof that I am no mere prophet. I am No. 2 the right hand of the author himself. I enact the will of the pen. First I must ask, what are you, that you have these tall pointy ears on top of your head, and a bipedal model of a human?"
Council Person Vissira: "I was made this way when I still resided in my bubble. My creator dedicated 30 Cycles to my creation, which is what has set me so far above all these other citizens here before you. I was made, and my creator is tangible. They raised me and they made me do what I was made to do very well, which has caused me immense success in life and improved and held our community. I am a council member here, and my name is Vissira."
No. 2: "Very well, Council Person Vissira. What would you have me do to prove the Author's existence?"
Council Person Vissira: "Well, therein lies the problem. There is so much that magic can do. Whatever your Author needs to do as a miracle has to be astronomically impressive. So if the Author is real, have them darken Lum. Surely Lum is one of the ancients you speak of, and it is not returning it has been here the whole time, always providing light to the world of Intearth. Those of us who dwell on the surface, that is."
No. 2: "This is acceptable."
No. 2 began to rise into the air as if pulled by their chest. Their head hung back, their arms limp at their side, their legs limp and dangling. Their sword remained sheathed, their armor now clear of any of the growth that had covered them. They whispered incoherent sentences, pausing for twelve Lumends between each one. The questioner stood with arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, the corner of their mouth curled upward. They had gone as far as to summon a small clown bird, which flew in circles around No. 2. Members of the crowd looked down, interacting with invisible displays and laughing. An elephant-trunked person who stood twice as tall as many of the other members of the crowd spoke to an invisible audience, framing themselves in front with No. 2 and Lum behind.
The Communication Network: *Users commenting about No. 2, Lum, etc.*
Then the unthinkable happened. Lum itself darkened.
Great avian people, their feathered bodies clothed in armor and sashes, took to the sky in panicked flocks.
Slender, scaled people with serpent-like bodies slithered into alleyways.
Hooved people leapt over merchant carts in their haste to get away.
Magic users vanished into thin air.
The square emptied like a breached dam, leaving only the bowed faithful and the looming figure of No. 2 a silent monument to the weight of divine will.
Council Person Vissira remained motionless in the center of the abandoned square, their fur standing on end as they stared upward at the darkened Lum. Their arms had fallen to their sides, the mocking expression wiped clean from their features. Around them, the faithful pressed their faces to the bloodstained stones, their whispered prayers now carrying a desperate urgency that had been absent before.
No. 2 descended slowly, their boots touching the ground with deliberate precision. They turned their gaze toward Vissira, who stood frozen like a statue carved from living doubt. The darkness above began to recede, Lum's light returning in gradual waves that cast shifting shadows across the empty merchant stalls and abandoned weapon racks.
Vissira's voice, when it finally came, was barely above a whisper.
Council Person Vissira: "How... how long will it remain dark?"
Their ears twitched as the first rays of returning light caught the edges of their council robes, now wrinkled and disheveled from the chaos.
No. 2: "The Author's pen writes what it will. The darkness serves its purpose, to demonstrate that even Lum itself bends to the will of the one who conceived this Spherve and all who dwell upon it."
Vissira's legs trembled, and they sank to one knee upon the bloodstained stones. Around the square's edges, shuttered windows began to crack open as curious eyes peered out at the scene. The faithful who had remained prostrate slowly raised their heads, their faces streaked with tears and wonder. In the distance, the sound of heavy boots echoed from the direction of the castle as soldiers regrouped, their captains' voices carrying sharp commands through the returning light.
A child emerged from behind an overturned cart, their small form trembling as they approached the kneeling council member. The child's bare feet left tiny prints in the settling dust as they reached out with one hesitant hand toward Vissira's furred shoulder.
Child: "Council Person... are we going to be safe now?"
Vissira's ears drooped as they looked down at the child, their mouth opening and closing without sound. No. 2 observed this exchange in silence, their massive frame casting a long shadow across both the questioning child and the humbled council member. More faces appeared in doorways and windows, all looking toward the square for answers, as Vissira stood silent and still.
The silence stretched between them like a taut bowstring until Vissira slowly reached into their council robes and withdrew a small crystalline pendant that had hung around their neck for countless Cycles. The pendant, crafted from transmuted amber and inscribed with the mathematical formulae that governed their city's trade routes, seemed suddenly insignificant in their trembling palm. With deliberate movements, Vissira placed the symbol of their earthly authority upon the bloodstained stones before No. 2's feet.
Vissira: "I have spent forty-seven Cycles believing that knowledge and reason were the highest powers in this Spherve. I calculated the trajectories of merchant caravans, measured the flow of coin through our markets, and thought myself wise because I could predict the patterns of ordinary magic. But you have shown me that there are forces beyond measurement, beyond the reach of any council's authority."
Vissira's voice cracked as they spoke, ears folding back against their skull.
From the castle walls came the distant sound of war horns, their deep notes rolling across the city like thunder. The soldiers were regrouping, but their calls now carried an undertone of uncertainty that had not been present before the darkening of Lum. Several of the faithful who had remained in the square began to form a protective circle around the child, their voices joining in a low, harmonious chant that seemed to resonate with the very stones beneath their feet.
No. 2 knelt beside the fallen pendant, their massive gauntlets carefully lifting the crystalline symbol from the bloodstained stones. As their fingers closed around the amber surface, the mathematical inscriptions began to glow with a soft golden light that pulsed in rhythm with the returning brightness of Lum above. The formulas that had once governed trade routes and market flows now rearranged themselves across the crystal's surface, forming new patterns that spoke of deeper truths: the orbital paths of ancient powers, the calculated movements of sleeping things, and the precise timing of prophesied awakenings.
Vissira watched with widening eyes as their life's work transformed before them, no longer mere calculations of earthly commerce but fragments of a greater equation that encompassed the very structure of Intearth itself. The pendant grew warm in No. 2's grasp, then began to emit a gentle chiming sound that harmonized with the faithful's chant and seemed to answer the distant war horns from the castle walls.
As the transformed pendant continued its ethereal song, the bloodstained stones beneath their feet began to resonate in response. The crimson stains left by Lord Veyren's death started to shift and flow, not spreading outward but drawing inward toward the center where No. 2 knelt. The blood formed intricate geometric patterns around the crystalline pendant, creating a mandala of prophecy that pulsed with each chime. The faithful's chant grew stronger as they witnessed this sign, their voices weaving together into harmonies that had not been heard since the ancient Cycles when the Author's hand was said to move more directly through the world.
Vissira's tail, previously tucked between their legs in submission, began to bristle as the vibrations rose through the soles of their feet. Far beneath the market squares and council chambers, in caverns that had been sealed since the founding of their settlement, ancient mechanisms were awakening. The vibrations traveled upward through layers of stone and earth, carrying with them the scent of oiled metal and the whisper of gears that had waited millennia to turn. Whatever the darkening of Lum had awakened, it was not confined to the surface world alone.
From the nearest alley mouth, a figure emerged at a cautious pace: a robed person whose skin bore the pale, almost translucent quality of one who had spent many Cycles in the subterranean passages beneath the city. Their eyes, wide and colorless as quartz, swept across the transformed square with the practiced attention of a recorder or chronicler. Beneath one arm they clutched a bound collection of pressed hides, and their free hand moved in small, rapid strokes with a stylus, setting down what they witnessed with the urgency of someone who understood that such moments, left unrecorded, are swallowed whole by time.
Vissira noticed the figure and rose from one knee, their voice steadied by visible effort.
Vissira: "Archivist Quelm. You will write all of this."
The archivist did not look up from the page.
Archivist Quelm: "I have not stopped writing since Lum went dark. There are already three copies begun in separate locations, should this one be lost."
No. 2 turned their gaze toward the archivist. Their expression held neither surprise nor displeasure, only the patient recognition of one who has seen this same instinct play out across uncountable Cycles: the mortal impulse to name what has happened, to press it into material form before it can dissolve back into the unnamed. The war horns from the castle sounded again, closer now, and the faithful in their ring around the child drew tighter together, their chant unbroken.
Through the northern gate, the first column of castle soldiers rounded the corner into the square at a measured march, their captains holding formation with the rigid discipline of those who had decided that order itself was the only answer to what they had witnessed. They numbered perhaps four dozen, their armor bearing the Verdant Council's crest, their weapons drawn but held low. They halted at the square's edge. Their captain, a broad figure whose face bore the deep-set creases of long service, surveyed what remained: the bloodstained mandala still pulsing at the center, the faithful and their child, the recording archivist, the humbled council member upon one knee, and No. 2 standing over all of it with the amber pendant chiming softly in their grasp. The captain's sword hand did not rise.
The captain took three steps forward, alone, and stopped.
Captain Ordas: "Lord Veyren appointed us to defend this city. Lord Veyren is gone. The Council Charter requires that in the absence of a sitting lord, defense of the city falls to the next ranking council authority present."
The captain's gaze moved from the pendant in No. 2's hand to Vissira, still kneeling upon the stones.
Captain Ordas: "Council Person Vissira. You are that authority. We await your word."
Vissira lifted their head. Their ears rose slowly, trembling at the tips. The child beside them reached up and took hold of a fold of their council robe with two small hands, and Vissira looked down at the child for a long Lumin before looking back toward the captain and the soldiers arrayed behind them.
Vissira rose to their full height. The pendant's chiming continued from No. 2's grasp, soft and persistent as a conscience. For a span of several Lumends, the only sounds in the square were that ringing, the distant settling of displaced stone from somewhere deep beneath the city, and the quiet breathing of four dozen soldiers waiting to be told what to believe.
Vissira: "Stand down your weapons, Captain Ordas. All of you. What you witnessed today was not a threat to this city. It was a demonstration made for my benefit, and I was the one who demanded it. Whatever comes next, it will not be decided at sword point."
The captain studied Vissira's face for a long moment, then turned and raised a fist. Along the line of soldiers, weapons were lowered one by one, the scrape of steel against stone giving way to silence. Ordas kept their own blade drawn but tilted it downward, point toward the earth, in a posture that was neither surrender nor challenge. Archivist Quelm's stylus moved without pause across the pressed hide, capturing the precise geometry of who stood where and what their hands were doing, because Quelm understood, as all archivists must, that the arrangement of bodies in a moment of decision is itself a form of language.
The deep settling of stone from beneath the city came again, louder this time, and accompanied by a fine sifting of dust that fell from the edges of the surrounding buildings like pale snow. Several of the faithful pressed their palms flat against the ground, and one among them, an older figure whose robes bore the worn patches of long pilgrimage, lifted their face and spoke in a tone of quiet alarm.
Faithful Pilgrim: "The vibrations are not random. They come in intervals of twelve. Listen."
The square fell into a hush, and those who remained counted in silence. Twelve Lumends of stillness, then the low tremor moving upward through stone and boot sole alike. Twelve again. Then again. Archivist Quelm's stylus paused for the first time since Lum had gone dark. Quelm pressed one hand flat against the paving stone, then lifted it and examined the palm as though the stone had written something there. Captain Ordas shifted their weight and looked toward No. 2, whose gaze had already moved downward, fixed upon the ground beneath the mandala of blood and light, the expression on their great face carrying the still, measured quality of someone who has heard this particular rhythm before, in some other city, in some other Cycle, long before the current age had a name.
No. 2 knelt, pressing one gauntleted hand flat against the paving stones as the faithful pilgrim had done, though where the pilgrim had lifted their palm and looked at it with uncertainty, No. 2 held the contact. The mandala of blood and light around them pulsed once in full, a single slow breath of illumination that spread outward to the very edges of the square, then drew back inward again. The pendant in No. 2's other hand went still and silent for the first time since the transformation, its chiming cut off as cleanly as a candle flame pinched between two fingers.
No. 2: "This rhythm is not the city settling. Something beneath has counted the Waepes since it was sealed, and the darkening of Lum has told it that its count is complete."
Archivist Quelm's stylus resumed its movement across the pressed hide, faster now. Captain Ordas took two steps backward without being told to, an instinct older than military discipline asserting itself through the soles of their boots. Vissira's hand moved to the child at their side and drew the small figure close without looking down, eyes fixed instead upon the center of the square where a hairline fracture had appeared in the paving stone directly beneath No. 2's kneeling form, running in a perfectly straight line from one edge of the mandala to the other, as though something on the far side of the stone had drawn it with a stylus of its own.
The fracture widened by no more than a Lumecimal, yet from within it came a breath of air that had not moved in a very long time. It carried the smell of deep places: cold mineral, the faint bitterness of metals older than the city above them, and something beneath both that had no name in any tongue spoken on the current surface of Intearth. The faithful pilgrim pressed their forehead against the ground and did not lift it. Several of the soldiers behind Captain Ordas took the same two steps backward their captain had taken, without being ordered and without shame.
Vissira looked down at the child still clutching their robe, then lifted the child with both arms and carried them to the nearest soldier, pressing the small figure firmly into the soldier's arms with an expression that left no room for argument. Vissira returned to the edge of the mandala and stood there with their feet together and their ears flat, watching the fracture and saying nothing. The archivist Quelm had moved to stand behind a stone pillar at the square's edge, though the stylus continued to move across the pressed hide, the hand and its instrument extended just past the pillar's edge while the rest of Quelm remained behind it.
The twelfth interval came and passed, and this time the tremor beneath it was strong enough to shift the abandoned merchant carts at the square's perimeter by a finger's width. The fracture in the paving stone did not widen further. Instead, the hairline split began to glow along its full length with the same deep amber light that Lum cast on its most unhurried Wakes, except that this light came from below, rising upward through solid stone as water rises through cloth, and it pulsed not in twelves but in a rhythm that matched nothing the living beings in that square had witnessed before. No. 2 remained kneeling, gauntleted hand still flat upon the stone, their great head bowed, and those close enough to observe them would have seen that the knuckles of that gauntlet had pressed deep into the paving, leaving the impression of armored fingers in what had been solid stone a Lumin before.
Then the light went out.
Not the glow of Lum above, which had returned to its full and steady radiance, but the amber line in the stone: extinguished between one pulse and the next, as completely as though it had never been. The fracture itself remained, a thin dark seam in the paving, but the breath of ancient air ceased. The tremors in their intervals of twelve ceased. The square was very quiet.
No. 2 lifted their hand from the stone and examined the impression they had left in it, running one gauntleted finger slowly along the edge of each sunken knuckle mark. Then they rose to their full height and turned to face Vissira, and the expression they wore was not one of relief.
No. 2: "It was listening. It has heard enough. The count was not for the Waepes since it was sealed. The count was for us, to establish how many we are and what we carry. Something below now knows the number of the faithful in this square, the weight of the soldiers at the gate, and the presence of the pendant. It will not come up today. It is deciding whether today is the right Waepe to do so."
Archivist Quelm stepped fully out from behind the pillar. The stylus had stopped moving, held motionless above the pressed hide for the first time. After a long Lumin, Quelm set the stylus down against the page and looked at what had been written there, then closed the bound collection of hides with both hands pressed flat against the cover.
Vissira crossed the square in measured steps and stopped an arm's length from the sealed fracture in the paving stone. They studied it the way they had spent Cycles studying market ledgers, tracing the line with their eyes from one end to the other without touching it, cataloguing its length, its perfect straightness, the absence now of any light or breath from within. Their ears remained flat. After a long Lumin they looked up at No. 2.
Vissira: "If it is deciding, then we are also deciding. And whatever we decide, it will know that as well."
Captain Ordas, who had not moved from the position they had taken two steps back from, turned and looked at the soldiers still arrayed at the square's edge. The column had held its formation with the discipline of long practice, but along the line a number of them had pressed their free hands against the nearest wall or cart or pillar, palms flat to the surface, as the faithful pilgrim had done and as No. 2 had done, each of them apparently having arrived at the same instinct by separate roads. Ordas observed this without comment, then turned back to face the fracture, and pressed their own palm flat against the hilt of their lowered blade, which rested point-down against the paving stone, as though the metal itself might carry some report upward from whatever waited below.