Aaron squinted up the slope again. Sweat ran down his back, soaking into his tunic. The boulder sat halfway up the hill like a smug sentinel.

  "I have two ideas," he said, letting the grin sharpen. "First—nothing says we can’t bring it up in pieces. Second, we use a stick as a lever. Leverage makes it easier."

  Theon slapped his forehead. "Why didn’t I think of a lever?" Rhea crossed her arms. Her armor clicked softly. "Warriors are supposed to follow orders, not get clever with them. We might be punished."

  Aaron’s grin didn’t fade. If anything, it widened. Found a crack. They’re rigid. They follow hierarchy like scripture. If that applies to their armies...

  He watched Rhea’s stiff posture, the way she scanned for approval before acting. Too rigid. Easy to crack. Mission-type tactics would carve through their doctrine like a hot knife. If I get the chance... I’ll reshape them. Or break them.

  But not now. He shook his head, gripping the branch tighter. Focus. Less daydreaming about running a Blitzkrieg. More rock moving.

  Theon scratched his chin. “That was in the Bookworm’s lesson. But we’re not kids anymore. Mages are supposed to think. Maybe this is the test.” Aaron frowned slightly. Didn’t even think of that. Thought they were just blunt tools form antiquity. That could’ve cost me.

  He nodded. "Maybe they’re not testing strength. Maybe they want to see who cheats smart." Rhea resisted. Took convincing. Eventually, she relented—more from exhaustion than agreement.

  They split up in silence. Rhea hesitated before moving, her jaw set—not agreement, just surrender. They snapped branches, cut what they could with stone and frustration. In the end, they had levers.

  They set off again. Spirits lighter. Rocks still heavy. Heave. Adjust. Repeat.

  Movement dulled the mind. But not the questions. He kept lifting. Kept thinking.

  They crested the ridge. Below them—chaos.

  Gravel spilled like broken glass down the slope... Bodies strained and stumbled. Others didn’t move at all—four, crumpled and silent. He stared at the bodies a moment longer. The quiet pressed in.

  Something twisted in his gut. A weight pressed down on his chest. A dull pressure behind the eyes, where the pain should’ve bloomed.

  He stepped over the dead. Legs moving on their own. Like I’ve done it before. Like this is normal now.How long until I stop noticing completely?

  At the summit, something moved. Figures in robes stood still on a nearby ledge, watching. Waiting.

  A crack cut the silence. Something snapped through the air and struck bark from a dead tree. A whipcord. Fast and precise. “Fist’s fury, who told you to use sticks?” The voice rolled out from above—low, deep, like cracked granite under pressure. “Do you seek the Mother’s wrath?”

  Aaron looked up. The wind shifted. A shadow fell over them. Something blocked the light. Too big. Too smooth. Too wrong.

  Then he saw—it.

  Descending slowly came a floating creature—cephalopoid, its rubbery mass covered in dirt-brown hide and grey skin underneath. Three large, unblinking eyes stared down between thick, glistening tentacles.

  Underneath hung a beard of finer tendrils, curling in deliberate, twitching patterns. Not again. Can I not go five damn minutes without another alien cryptid?

  His gut clenched. Muscles tensed before the brain caught up. Neither Rhea nor Theon looked alarmed. Theon stood tall, his posture a quiet defiance. Rhea’s shoulders slumped like a student caught cheating on a test.

  Aaron kept his face still. Curious. Respectful. Alright. We’re playing another round of alien social dance. Stay calm. Mirror them. Don’t break the mask.

  The others spoke, almost in unison. “We greet you, Adept Tryr,” they said, bowing at the waist. Aaron echoed them half a second late. He mimicked the rhythm, matched the pitch.

  Tryr’s main tentacles extended outward in rigid symmetry—an unnatural imitation of military posture. The beard-tendrils twisted into an exact geometric knot. Too stylized to be instinct. Too formal to be comfort.

  When Tryr spoke, his voice was crisp and memorized. Like someone reading from phonetic flashcards. Before Aaron could finish being creeped out, three tendrils darted forward.

  They wrapped around his throat. Not tight. Not crushing.

  Just there.

  Too long.

  Too deliberate.

  His heartbeat pounded once. Then again.

  Shit.

  His body moved before thought. Unarmed reflexes surged. Nerves flushed with heat and precision.

  Hands wedged between tentacle and flesh. He twisted.

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  Why don’t I have a damn knife?

  But Tryr didn’t squeeze. Instead, the tendril patted him. Once. Just under the chin. Like someone petting a particularly dull dog.

  Then it withdrew. “A proper greeting,” Tryr said. “See? Civilized.”

  Aaron didn’t move. His arms stayed half-raised. His breath came sharp through clenched teeth. Theon and Rhea had already reached out. Ritual contact. Calm. Controlled.

  He had missed the cue. Shit. They saw it. The alien saw it. I walked into initiation theater blind.Already breaking the rules of a game I don’t understand.

  Tryr hovered closer. All motion ceased. Even the wind held its breath. The air thickened—hot, humid, wrong.

  Only one tentacle moved—drawing a spiral in the air. A glyph. Slow. Measured. Intentional. “You smell of a Watcher,” Tryr said softly.

  There was no echo. Just presence. Words landing too close to the bone. Tryr tilted his entire body. The motion was fluid, too smooth to be human.

  “Do you feel threatened?” he asked. “You should.”

  His three eyes blinked, each on a separate rhythm.

  Aaron stared.

  And lost.

  Three eyes is cheating. That’s what I’ll tell myself. Not the hovering jellyfish. Not the initiation hug from hell. Just the geometry.

  He stayed silent.

  Shoulders tight. Breath shallow.

  Then gestured at Theon. Last time I spoke first, I nearly triggered holy war. Not again. Let them carry this weight.

  Theon stepped forward. “He’s a Champion of the Weaver, Adept. But I don’t think he carries an Edict.” That word again. Edict. Always delivered like a gun to the head. I need to find out what it means. Fast.

  Tryr rotated midair. Smooth. Effortless. Two more eyes slid out on stalks—glassy, black, and unblinking. Aaron realized the creature saw in every direction. All five eyes fixed on him.

  Tryr twitched. Not a movement—more like a ripple under skin that shouldn’t ripple. One eye dilated while another shrank. A pulse crawled down his tendrils. Like watching meat breathe.

  Then—stillness. And Tryr spoke. “Champion”

  The voice cracked across registers—young to ancient, layered like masks.

  “Madusae. Siblings to humanity.” A pause. Just long enough to itch.

  “My form must confuse.”

  “A tool rarely carves a single piece.” Each line hit like scripture carved in bone.

  “You serve the one of Culture.”

  “Flow-user.”

  “I may mentor.”

  “Beware.”

  Aaron flinched. The voice hit some primal nerves. Tryr’s tendrils twisted in patterns no eye should follow. This isn’t communication. It’s liturgy. Then—stillness.

  The spiral still hung in the air—drawn in by a single tendril, slowly collapsing inward. Folding geometry. What the hell is that supposed to mean? A warning? A signature? A curse? Whatever it is, I hate that it’s beautiful.

  Tryr floated upward. His gas sacs inflated, his body pulsing grotesquely. Then—snap. He recoiled downward again. Like a puppet caught mid-tug between two angry gods.

  “Delightful,” he said. The word was wrong. It snapped like rotten string. His voice staggered halfway through it—starting soft, ending harsh.

  Rhea took a half-step back. Theon’s hand drifted toward his hip. Tryr’s tendrils twisted into a hard corkscrew. His whole body locked into place. What am I listening to? A prophecy? A failsafe? A bugged program spitting sacred garbage?

  Aaron opened his mouth. The Creature was faster.

  “Questions?”

  Aaron opened his mouth. Closed it. “Just... one. What the hell are you?” No clue what answer he wants.

  Tryr rose again. Slowly. Tentacles unfurled with deliberate slowness, shaping into angles. A three-dimensional glyph—flesh twisted into symbols too sharp for instinct, too elegant for art.

  The thing hovered. Posed. Then spoke. Quick. Clean.

  “Ask humans human things.”

  “Ask me if you need perspective.”

  “Medusa things. Flow things.”

  An overlong pause.

  “Trade things.”

  Each phrase landed with the mechanical certainty of a loading screen tip.

  Tryr drifted closer. Too close.

  Aaron caught a scent—old, damp, wrong. Tryr began to chant.

  “Joke wasn’t full joke.”

  “Truth about continuation I spoke.”

  No melody. Just pressure. Words forced into rhythm.

  “Fulfill the Watcher’s will.”

  “Lest you bring a great ill.”

  Each line struck like a commandment, etched into wet clay. Tryr flexed. One long tendril pressed against the earth. His body inflated—slow, grotesque. Gas-filled sacs stretched him skyward.

  The tree-bound tentacle snapped taut. Then Tryr yanked free, drifting upward like a bloated puppet on a broken string.

  Aaron stood frozen. What the hell did I just witness? No goodbye. No dismissal. Just ascension.

  Aaron stood still, eyes tracking the thing as it vanished into the tree canopy. Then he exhaled. Slowly. Controlled. Okay. That happened.

  He tapped his chin. Let his breath steady. It doesn’t think like us. Not even close.

  He looked at Theon and Rhea. Aliens? No—he said siblings. That’s not metaphor. Something old is buried here. Science fiction in a magic robe.

  He cleared his throat. “One thing before we go,” he said. “What exactly is an Edict?”

  Rhea winced. Shoulders tensed. “Eyes Insight, we should’ve warned you,” she muttered.

  Theon’s face shifted into something practiced. Ceremonial. “They’re divine punishments,” he said. “If you cross into a god’s domain... there are procedures.”

  His tone changed. Slower. Measured. Like a sermon half-remembered.

  “Three are the Prophets, their warnings ignored.”

  “Two are the Champions, laid low by the sword.”

  “One is the Angel, its vengeance adored.”

  “The world twists and burns by the Edict’s accord.”

  Rhea spoke softly. “You’re a Champion,” she said. “That’s usually who carries the Edict.”

  She hesitated. “Unless the god brings it themselves.”

  A pause.

  “Then it’s not punishment, it’s the end.” Aaron stared at the gravel. So that’s what I am to them. Not an outsider. A loaded warhead. Ticking. Waiting.

  His jaw tightened. A cold knot settled under his ribs. Fine. He nodded once.

  That’ll make things easier.

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