The stone steps descended for what felt like forever, finally giving way to a long hallway carved deep into the bedrock. The air here was cool and faintly damp, heavy with the hush of deep places. Rishmond was certain they were well beneath the ocean’s surface now—near the seafloor itself. Powerful magic had to be at work. Despite the crushing depth, the stairway and hall remained perfectly dry—not a single drop of seawater seeped through the stone.

The walls were plain and unpainted—natural rock smoothed to a near polish. The intricate murals and paintings from the upper tunnels were gone. In their place, soft lights glowed at even intervals: hand-sized, half-sphere crystals embedded high along the walls. Their gentle glow made the group's torches unnecessary, so they'd left them at the foot of the stairs in a tidy pile, just in case.

The little crystal golem had made no comment about the torches—or anything else, for that matter. Since the descent began, it had spoken only to issue the occasional warning about a low ceiling or uneven step. Otherwise, it marched ahead in silence, the soft clack of its feet echoing off the stone.

Rishmond kept a close eye on the creature as they walked. The group followed in hushed conversation.

Drak had confirmed what Rishmond suspected: it was a golem, a servant of the Gods from the time when they still walked the world—more than three hundred turns ago. Mortals had never learned the art of their creation. Maybe the Gods had never thought to teach it—or never wanted to.

Drak, ever the reader, recalled a few passages from a dusty old book about golems in general. They were simple beings—capable of limited thought, but excellent at following orders. Many had been tasked with guarding or maintaining places long after their creators vanished—some still operating faithfully centuries later. This one, it seemed, was no different.

They’d also spoken of Denisisie—the Goddess the golem had mentioned. Rishmond hadn’t heard much about her before, and only Drak had more than a passing familiarity. Even then, his knowledge came from half-remembered texts and footnotes in ancient tomes. Denisisie, he said, was the Goddess of History—not mortal history, or even the history of Rit, but the history of the Gods themselves. She was the keeper of divine memory, the chronicler of their deeds. Some texts also named her the Goddess of Architecture and Creativity, the muse behind many of the great magical artifacts and spellwork innovations. Wizards of old credited her with their boldest breakthroughs.

If these halls were hers, Rishmond thought, they were walking through a monument of forgotten purpose. And if the golem was leading them deeper, then perhaps it still remembered a time no mortal mind could.

The climb down had been long—not just in distance, but in time. Rishmond was fairly sure it was getting on toward late afternoon. If this went on much longer, they wouldn’t make it home by dark—if they made it home at all. Of course, if their accidental discovery brought the Gods back to Rit, they’d probably be forgiven. He kept those thoughts to himself—no sense worrying the others about the time. There was already more than enough to worry about.

The group had grown quiet since entering the hallway. They walked in silence, their footsteps and the faint sound of running water the only noise as they traversed the seventy or so meters to the far door. They passed two smaller doors—one on each side—before finally arriving. The golem—Torg, he'd said to call him—reached the end, turned the handle, and pushed the door inward to reveal the chamber beyond.

The room beyond took their breath away. Rishmond had never used the word "opulent" in real life, but if anything deserved it, this did. It was large and circular, at least ten yards across, with a high domed ceiling. Brass beams arched overhead, meeting at a central chandelier—an elaborate construct of glass and crystal that bathed the space in soft yellow light.

The ceiling between the beams was painted in exquisite detail: scenes of Gods and people working side by side, their deeds captured in bright, unfaded color. Below, the room was sunken around a golden firepit, ringed by cushioned seating. Velvet-covered couches flanked tall arched windows, while overstuffed chairs and lounges—some leather, some cloth—were scattered throughout.

A towering bookshelf covered more than half of one wall, its upper shelves accessible by a brass-and-steel ladder on wheels. Thousands of books lined the shelves. On the opposite side, a dark wooden desk and chair faced an open spiral stair that wound up to a landing above.

Beyond the arched windows stretched the seafloor. Coral fans waved gently in the currents, and colorful fish darted between rocks and anemones. A flash of silver caught Rishmond’s eye as a school of fish twisted and scattered—startled by something unseen among the coral.

"Is this the window room you were going to take us to, Cantor?" Rishmond asked, still marveling. It didn’t match her earlier description—a bare stone chamber with a bench to watch the sea—but maybe she'd been trying to surprise them.

Cantor shook her head, wide-eyed. She was as surprised as the rest of them.

Torg waddled across the room toward a low cabinet near the windows, his footsteps ringing with a subtle chime now. "Would anyone like a cold drink?" he asked, voice somehow stronger and smoother here, as if something in the room bolstered him. "I can offer many fine beverages. Water? Sugar-sweet tea? Hot tea? Brandy or scotch?"

No one answered. They were too busy absorbing the room.

Drak wandered straight to the bookshelves, fingers drifting over the spines, muttering to himself. Toby and Bollen pressed their faces to the window, pointing at fish and naming them with excitement. Cantor walked slowly around the firepit, eyes drawn upward to the dome and the painted scenes. Walm lingered at the desk, peering at its contents, trying to guess its purpose.

Rishmond watched them all for a moment, then made his way toward Torg. "Water for everyone, please. Could you set them on the small tables by the seats down there? We want to look around a bit first."

"Of course, Wizard Rishmond. Ice water or room temperature?"

He considered a moment. The air was cool already, with a musty scent—undisturbed for centuries. "Room temperature, please."

"Yes, of course."

The golem turned back to the cabinet, opening doors and quietly preparing drinks.

Rishmond turned toward the rest of the room. Beneath the spiral staircase, more shelves were tucked into shadow. He moved closer. A thin silver chain hung between two posts at the base of the stairs, a small clasp on either end keeping it suspended.

He reached for the chain but hesitated. Was it a warning? A boundary?

"Torg," he called. "Can we go up there?"

"Instructions are that you should wait here until Her Eminence arrives," the golem replied without turning. "If she grants permission, you may go to the private library and studio. I cannot stop you. But I would ask that you wait, if you would."

Before Rishmond could reply, Cantor’s voice rang out: "Rishmond! Come here! You should see this!"

He glanced once more at the top of the stairs, feeling an odd pull, then turned and crossed the room.

Cantor stood at a lectern near the edge of the firepit, her hands hovering over an enormous open book. The tome was massive—thick, wide, and perfectly preserved. The pages were clean, their edges crisp, not yellowed with age at all. On the left page, a vibrant map spread across the parchment. Rishmond recognized the shape of Halconiket from Beritrude’s lessons, but this version was... different.

The desert at the continent’s center was gone, replaced by a vast inland sea surrounded by desert and open plains. The Shattered Islands were instead a single massive landmass off the southern coast. There were no borders marked—just land and water. Even the southern edge of the icy north stretched farther up than what Rishmond had been taught.

The Rift—the great canyon that split the continent in roughly half—was not depicted

The right page was filled with careful, even handwriting. The script was elegant, flowing smoothly across the page. Rishmond read a few lines—it described regions where Gods had once dwelled, places of power, and strongholds of Demons. It read like a chronicle, factual and reverent.

Drak finally joined them, his arms full of books. He shouldered between Rishmond and Cantor, his eyes locked on the lectern.

"Denisisie was a historian as well as an architect," he said, his voice low with awe. "She recorded everything the Gods did—every plan, every word, every act. If she saw it or knew of it, she wrote it down. That could be the last volume she ever worked on."

Rishmond stared at the book, then looked back at the room, suddenly aware of how ancient and sacred this place must be.

"You are welcome to read any book here," said Torg from behind them, startling the group. "As a worthy Wizard and friend of Denisisie, all her knowledge is yours—except what lies in the vault."

Everyone turned to face the golem. Drak held his books tightly, reverent and speechless. Rishmond stepped forward.

"I'm not sure we want to read it all," he said slowly, "but we do want to read what we can. Can you help us find things we might want to read? Do you know what’s in these books? If I asked you where to find a book about where the Gods go when not in the mortal realm, could you do that?"

"Of course," said Torg. "There are several books with such information, in varying degrees of depth. Perhaps you can narrow your search parameters?"

Drak spoke from behind Rishmond, eyes still fixed on the lectern. "Yes. We want a book that explains where the Gods go when not in the mortal realm—in simple terms, with a brief description of the place. Anecdotal, not technical."

"Third shelf up, five sections from the right, seventh volume. The one in green leather," said Torg without hesitation. "The fourth chapter contains a story told by the God known as the Traveler, explaining to a mortal friend where he was for three years. Mortals have described it as amusing."

"Who's the Traveler, Torg?" Rishmond asked.

The silver sparks in the dark center of Torg’s crystalline head flashed and danced, more rapidly than before.

"The God mortals call Maltifacc," the golem said. "Also known as the Traveler, and the Marker of Ways. God of Traveling. God of Those Who Are Lost. The God of Trailblazing. My mistress also referred to him often as Joker."

Cantor turned to Rishmond, placing a hand on his arm. "I’ve heard of Maltifacc. Didn’t know he was the Traveler too. I’ve heard of Joker—but I didn’t know they were the same."

Rishmond nodded but kept his eyes on the golem. "Did you see that? How his magic shifted when I asked about the Traveler? The sparks in his head? It's like his brain lit up."

"What are you talking about, Rishmond?" Cantor asked, brow furrowed.

"The magic flow inside him—like veins. I can see it when he thinks, when he moves. Especially the dark spot in his head, the silver sparks inside it—like his brain. You don’t see that?"

"I see crystal," she replied slowly, studying the golem. "Looks like dirty quartz to me. I don’t see anything inside."

"I think you're seeing things," Toby said. "Like that sea monster you swore you saw near Butman’s Island—the horse with a fishtail? Maybe Tybour’s putting weird ideas in your head again."

"Rishmond's not seeing things," Bollen said. "I see it too—the lights, the sparks in his head. The dark shape like a stone."

Rishmond turned back to Torg. "Is it normal for mortals to see inside you? To see your magic, your... thoughts?"

Torg was silent for a long moment. The sparks inside him whirled faster.

"How is it you do not know what Wizards can and cannot see, worthy Wizard?"

Rishmond hesitated. "Golems haven’t been around mortals in a long time, Torg. Are you aware of how long you’ve been alone down here? Do you know what turn it is?"

"It has been three hundred forty-one turns, four months, and eleven days since Goddess Denisisie left to conclave with the other Gods," said Torg. "She departed to deliver a ritual spell and help them perform it—a powerful spell to rid the mortal realm of Demons. I was not aware so much time had passed."

The group exchanged glances.

"Three hundred forty turns," Rishmond echoed.

"The spell you're talking about—would that be the Blessing?" Cantor asked.

"The time fits," Rishmond replied before Torg could answer.

"I do not recognize that name," said Torg. "My mistress called it the Cleansing. It was meant to banish Demons to the Ethereal—freeing mortals from their scourge and ending the war between Gods and Demons."

Rishmond nodded slowly. "We call it the Blessing. Same event, different name."

He glanced at the others. "We should sit. This is a long story."

They moved toward the cushioned seating, the glasses of water waiting silently on the tables beside them.

Rishmond took a breath and began. "Three hundred turns ago—three hundred-forty to be exact—during the Renewal, the Gods gathered in secret with the seven most powerful mortal Wizards and an army of Apharallies, Beastmen, and Humans. The records say they intended to cast a ritual that would rid Rit of Demons forever."

He paused to glance at Torg, whose glowing form remained perfectly still.

"But something went wrong," Rishmond continued. "The Demons weren’t banished completely. Instead, they were confined—trapped in the far west of Halconiket and part of the Western Ocean. Worse still, the spell caused the Gods themselves to disappear from the mortal realm. No one has seen or heard from them since."

The room was silent. Even the fish beyond the window seemed to slow.

"No one knows what happened," he said. "Some think the spell misfired. Others believe it worked exactly as intended, but at great cost. For years after, the world was chaos—quakes, storms, droughts, floods. Kingdoms fell. Entire cultures vanished. And the Gods... gone."

"There’s a song about it," Cantor added softly. "A children’s rhyme. It teaches kids about the Blessing. But even then, it’s treated more like a myth than fact."

Torg’s sparks pulsed faster again. "You appear to be telling the truth as you know it, Wizard Rishmond. But I must correct your assumption: the Gods do not make mistakes. If they cast a spell, it did what the Architect intended."

Toby frowned. "You really think they just left us here and didn’t tell anyone?"

"The Gods are not beholden to mortal explanations," said Torg. "They may be at work even now, beyond your understanding."

"So you're saying the Blessing worked," said Bollen, "just not in a way we expected."

Torg gave a subtle nod. "Perhaps. But my first duty is to my Goddess. I must find her. Let her know that mortals believe the Gods are gone. That alone may be reason enough to act."

Rishmond leaned forward. "Can you? I mean, can you really find her? Or any of them?"

"I must try," said Torg. "I can attempt magical contact, but if that fails, I must search the physical world. Mistress Denisisie left to collect a crystal for the ritual—from the mountains once called the Reaches. That is where I will begin."

Cantor exchanged a glance with Rishmond. "You’re not going alone, are you?"

Torg turned to Rishmond. "Will you accompany me, Wizard Rishmond? I know little of your world now. You understand its changes. I could use a guide."

Rishmond opened his mouth to answer—then hesitated.

"I want to," he said at last. "But I don’t know if I can. I’m only eighteen. I have parents. A mentor. Responsibilities."

"We could all go," said Walm. "If you're going, we want in. We found Torg too."

"I don’t think it’ll be that easy," Cantor said. "We weren’t even supposed to be on this island. And we’re going to have to explain why we’re late."

She looked around the room, thinking.

"Maybe we lie," she said. "Say we found Torg on the beach. Half-buried in sand. Dug him up. That’s why we were delayed. We bring him to Hal and Berti—and let them decide what to do."

"That might work," Toby said slowly. "We keep it simple. No mention of this place. Just the golem."

"And the books?" asked Drak. "We can’t leave them here forever."

"Maybe Torg can help with that," Rishmond said. "Torg, if you go with Tybour—or if someone else comes looking—can you show them how to get back here?"

Torg’s sparks dimmed, as if thinking. "Yes. I can mark the path. If it is your wish."

"Also," said Bollen, "would you go along with the story we tell? The one about the beach?"

Everyone looked at Torg. He paused again.

"If that is your desire, Wizard Rishmond, I will comply. You awakened me. I serve you—second only to Denisisie."

Rishmond looked at his friends. They all nodded.

"Then yes," he said. "That’s my wish."

"Very well," said Torg. "Then we must leave now. There is an exit through the workshop above that leads to the mainland. You will not need your boat."

They stood. Behind them, the chandelier glowed gently. Beyond the windows, the sea stirred with quiet promise.

Torg led them across the chamber to the spiral stairs. At the base, he unclasped the silver chain and stepped aside, gesturing them upward. The golem climbed first, using both arms and legs to scramble in an oddly graceful motion.

At the top, the staircase opened into a sitting room draped in rich fabrics and deep color. A gold-and-red carpet stretched beneath their feet. A wide brass railing looked down over the opulent chamber below. Plush chairs and lounges circled a low table, and a broad bed rested against one wall, covered in a thick green blanket that shimmered faintly in the light.

Beyond an arched doorway, the room brightened. The beaded curtain had been pulled aside, revealing a long, pristine space that resembled a workshop or laboratory. White countertops and cabinets lined the walls. Glass orbs and twisting tubes sat clean and empty, gleaming under the soft ceiling lights. A single polished metal sphere rested on a pedestal in the center of the room.

Torg made his way across the space and approached a dark metal door at the far end. He reached up and grasped a large wheel set into its center. With a grunt and a hiss of smooth mechanisms, the wheel turned. Rods clicked and shifted inside the walls. Then the door popped open.

He stepped into the small chamber beyond and beckoned them forward.

Rishmond and Cantor followed. Inside, it was cramped—barely enough space for them all. A lever protruded from one wall.

"What’s this?" Cantor asked, voice soft.

Torg reached for the lever. "Our exit."

With a metallic hum, the far wall began to rise.

A rush of light filled the space. The wall retracted into the ceiling, revealing open water—no glass, no barrier—just the ocean, stretching out and upward. The seabed sloped gently away in the fading red light of sunset. Anemones swayed in the currents. The surface shimmered far above.

"That’s... that’s just water," Toby said, staring in disbelief. "We’re going to drown."

"You will not," said Torg. "Each of you will be encased in an air suit. You will walk across the seabed to shore. It is not far."

Walm took a step back. "I don’t swim well. I can’t do this."

"You will not need to swim," said Torg calmly. "Simply walk. Your bodies will remain dry. You will breathe as if on land."

Rishmond stepped toward the open sea, pausing at the edge. He could smell the salt, feel the cool radiating from it. He held out his hand and pressed it forward.

It passed through an invisible membrane.

His skin felt the cold ocean—but came back dry.

He looked back. "It’s fine. I’m going."

And with that, he stepped through the doorway and into the ocean.

The membrane wrapped around him like a second skin. He stumbled slightly, adjusting to the slight resistance. Then his feet found the sandy bottom, and he stood upright.

The others followed, one by one. Torg was last.

When they were all outside, Torg pulled a final lever inside the chamber. The metal wall descended once more, sealing the room behind them.

In the distance, the curve of the mainland rose gently from the water. The sea was peaceful, the stars just beginning to flicker in the sky far above.

They walked.

Together.

The beach wasn’t far. In minutes, they reached the shallows, where the magical barrier faded with each step. One by one, the shimmering air suits peeled away, vanishing like mist as their boots hit dry sand.

They took a moment to catch their breath. The night was cool and quiet. Waves lapped at the shoreline. Torg, aglow in the moonlight, stood calmly beside them.

"We’re close to the cove," Cantor said. "It’s just a short walk south."

The group moved into action. They found the cove where they’d begun their adventure and started digging a wide hole in the sand just above the tide line. The story had to look believable. Sand flew in all directions. Everyone took a turn.

By the time they finished, they were filthy and tired—but it looked convincing.

"Torg," Rishmond said, brushing sand off his arms, "this is where we’ll say we found you. Half-buried in this hole. You washed up. We dug you out. That’s our story."

"Understood," Torg replied. "I will follow your lead."

The small group of friends marched toward home to face the consequences they'd wrought.

From the forested cliffs above, unseen eyes watched them return—eyes filled with ancient hunger and a growing sense of unease.

The creature had seen them leave. It had counted their number.

And now they were not alone.

Something new had come back with them.

The dark shape turned northwest and slipped into the trees, moving fast and silent on silent paws.