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PREFACE: And so we return to eddo Silius. This installment is more of a transitional one. It sets up a lot of little details that will play a role later in the series. And while it should theoretically work as a standalone, this one relies a lot more on what was established previously. So I strongly encourage you to read the previous four stories before this one—and it all started here.

XXX.

Today, I bought a new house.

It still pains me to think of the one I lost to the flames, but it was time for me to move on. I did not pick one so close to the woods this time. Located on the outskirts of San Sanea, its walls glisten white under the Glow. It has two floors and could easily accommodate a family of ten. But it is just I.

All homes in San Sanea are built large. I can only assume our people had large families before we died, which only makes me mourn our past more.

Maxius came to visit, and I showed him around.

“I think this belonged to Quintus Fabius,” he said thoughtfully.

“Who?”

“Someone I knew from the market. He made a libum cake to die for. Invited me to one of his parties once. I could not make it, but I believe this was the address.”

“What happened to him?”

“He left. Went to Tadanas.”

We sat in the kitchen with cups of wine. Sipped.

“Are we sure?” I asked after a moment.

He squinted at me. Grunted.

“Who knows anymore?” He shook his head. “He could be with them now, for all I know.”

“How can we stop this, Maxius?”

My friend sighed. “I don’t know that we can.”

After the blow we’d dealt them, the Cultists likely needed to reorganize. They’d lost their leader and many of their members—though I doubted more than a third. But, sooner or later, they would put their plans into motion. We had some sense of what these were, but it did not make it any easier to predict their next move, let alone stop them.

I frowned as I set my cup down. “We should strike them again. If we keep doing it, they’d be constantly scrambling around, too confused to act.”

“We only knew of that one headquarter and it’s deserted now.”

“Surely, the prisoners would know of other locations.”

Maxius shifted in his seat. “None of them are talking.”

“Then let one escape.”

He took a long sip from his cup.

“I’ve thought about it. But something like that would have to be approved by the Senate, and—”

“Anything you put before the Senate would go public within the hour, which would make the whole operation moot.”

He pursed his lips. Nodded.

“And then there’s Quintillus.”

I rolled my eyes. “Is he giving you grief again?”

“He’s been demanding that the Cultists we caught all be moved back to Mount Vasira. Wants their old headquarters to become their prison.”

Remembering the dungeon with the crosses, I shuddered.

“There is plenty of room there, at least.”

“True. But it would take months, possibly years, to turn those tunnels into a viable option. That place is a maze with still too many exits we know nothing about.”

Not knowing what more to say, I said nothing more.

XXXI.

The streets were quiet as I wandered through San Sanea.

Alone with my thoughts on yet another sleepless night.

Never a pleasant experience. Too many questions demanding answers; too many memories prompting attention; too many fears aspiring to choke me.

Roaming did nothing to appease me, to quiet the voices in my head, but it was better than sitting in a chair or lying in bed and staring at the ceiling.

To mitigate my predicament, I pondered my conversation with Maxius.

There had to be something we could do to stop this madness.

I walked by the market and paused. Stared at the bleak structure, remembering the secrets that lay underneath. Which brought back memories of the water beyond. A notion that still defied everything I believed in. How could I grapple with such truths? I knew I needed to think about those things more. And, more importantly, do something about them. But I had pushed them aside, ignoring them, refusing to even consider them. And I resented every moment they tried to resurface, as they did now.

With a grunt, I turned and walked away.

There were more pressing matters.

And a thought had come to me.

An idea, then.

XXXII.

I’d finished talking with Faustus Felius when I received a call from Maxius. He sounded very excited but refused to explain why, asking that I join him immediately at his villa.

Fortunately, it was not a long ride.

Six minutes later, I stepped out of the motorum and into his garden. Knocked at the door. It opened before I’d finished my gesture.

My friend had a big grin on his face.

“Come, Caius! Come! You have to see this!”

“What is going on?”

He turned and dashed off.

I followed, startled by his behavior. This was unlike him.

But his excitement soon spread to me when I saw where we were headed.

Down.

To the bunker.

Where slept the child.

Except she slept no more.

She lay there on the cot, eyes wide open, oblivious to anything around her.

“How— What did you—”

“Nothing!” Maxius said. “I did absolutely nothing.” He jumped from one foot to another. “I came down to look at her, as I do every morning, and there she was staring at the ceiling.”

“You haven’t talked to her yet?”

“I tried.” He frowned. “I don’t think she even registered I was there.”

When my friend had found her—decades, if not centuries before—he had named her Agra. Because she had slept here, beneath the earth, as if she belonged to the land itself. It had seemed appropriate.

She was a remnant from the time before our death, but we had chosen not to reveal this discovery, to keep her secret. Neither of us wanted to see her sleep perturbed, as surely it would be if the Senate found out. They would demand answers. The people would demand answers.

We craved such answers as well, of course, but if there was one thing we could spare, it was time, so why rush it? She looked so peaceful in her sleep. What right did we have to pull her out of her dreams and toss her into this miserable life that we all share in this world?

So we had chosen to wait.

But now that wait was over.

“He’s going to find out.”

Maxius’ words pulled me out of my reverie. I could hear the concern in his voice. Nor did he need to explain what he feared, it was all too clear. Quintillus knew about Agra. Had found out about her. Somehow. We had discussed this often enough, though still we failed to understand how he might have learned our secret.

My friend had a theory—one I found absurd.

I looked around and only noticed then that he had placed metal panels over the walls.

“If there were cameras here,” I said with a grunt, “we would have found them by now.”

“Have we been looking for cameras, Caius?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Look, just because ours are all obvious doesn’t mean it always was like this. We all know our ancestors could do things we could never achieve today. Is it so hard to believe they might have concealed cameras in the walls?”

“Is that why you put those up?” I pointed at the metal panels.

He grimaced. Nodded. Looked up. “Could still be some in the ceiling. Or the floor. And there are corners I—”

“It sounds like it’s become quite an obsession.”

Maxius fell quiet.

“He can’t find out about this,” he said after a moment.

I wasn’t sure it mattered anymore. That Quintillus already knew about Agra was enough. Her waking didn’t change anything. Besides, we’d have to tell the Senate now.

“There’s no more point in keeping this secret.”

He turned to face me.

“Can’t you see it would ruin me? They’d ask how long I’ve had her. You think they would forgive me for holding this back from them? Quintillus would use this to rip me to shreds.”

I rubbed my face, wondering how much more misery the gods would throw at us. As if we didn’t already have enough of it to last us a lifetime.

The thought made me laugh.

A lifetime.

What a joke.

“You think this is funny?”

I heard the hurt in my friend’s voice and shook my head.

“No. Of course not. I’m sorry. How about we go talk to her and take it from there?”

We went into the room and sat next to the bed.

And we talked to her.

She listened.

Blinked.

But not once did she speak.

XXXIII.

We sat there for hours.

She would just stare at us as we spoke.

We asked many questions, but she answered none.

“Does she even understand us?” asked Maxius in desperation.

I had wondered the same.

But there was another dread growing inside me, one I still was reluctant to voice.

What if she could not talk?

The irony would be too cruel.

We knew nothing of our past; she knew everything.

We could speak; she could not.

Perhaps Maxius was right. Better the Senate not know.

It would do our people no good to find out about this child.

We tried and tried again, but to no avail.

And then she sat up. Slid off the cot and wandered out into the hall.

We followed.

Agra turned to the right, away from the stairs that led up to Maxius’ villa.

She walked and stopped when she reached the dead end.

Held out her hand against the wall.

“Do you think—”

That there’s something behind that wall? Yes. Yes, I do. Why else would she be drawn to it? She knew things we did not. Was this her way of communicating with us? It only convinced me further that the girl lacked the ability to speak.

My shoulders sagged, and I closed my eyes in defeat.

“Maxius... I think she’s—”

“Don’t say it!”

“—mute.”

We fell quiet.

The child turned and looked at us with a blank look, and I felt my heart sink.

XXXIV.

I could not say whose idea it was. It seemed so obvious when it occurred to us, that we may well have thought of it at the same time.

The earth brings us many rewards, and there are those who reap them well. I speak not here of augurs or fanatics, but of druids.

While the Drasidae worship nature, they are not a religious order. Their beliefs pertain more to harmony and communion than to devotion or zealotry. To them, it is a way of life, and thus they live in the wild, as hermits, depending entirely on the environment, having shunned the comforts of modern society.

Many of them died in the fires that destroyed my home, but those who survived live in small communities, deep in the forest, beyond the ruins of Sadin.

There are plants, herbs, that can do miraculous things.

Like, perhaps, gift a child with the ability to speak.

We did not know this for sure, of course, but it seemed a path worth considering.

And so it was I who, the next morning, set out to find the druids.

I left the motorum at the edge of the forest and walked into the trees—the exercise would do me good, and I knew the druids would not look kindly upon the intrusion of technology in their world.

Though I had never looked for them before, their location was no secret as many sought their services. I knew the landmarks I was to watch for—an oddly bent tree with silver leaves; a boulder as tall and narrow as a man, with yellow spots on its surface; a quiet stream that flowed toward the mountains.

It was peaceful, there. Which reminded me of the home I had lost. This was why I had chosen a spot so close to the forest. I would often take long walks among the trees, enjoying the fresh air, the scent of morning dew, the rustling of leaves, and the brush of my fingers against the dry, ancient trunks.

I could not have guessed madmen would set it all on fire.

This was a different part of the forest, however—one that had not been touched by the flames. It retained its beauty, its fragrance, its innocence.

Ah, innocence!

Would that we all still enjoyed such a blessing. I doubted even Agra did. Not that I was an expert in children—truly, no one alive was, or at least not anymore, what with our memories all gone—but finding the sleeping girl had made me curious. So I had read books. There were plenty at the library. And all of them spoke of the innocence of childhood.

But how could it have survived so many centuries of senseless slumber?

Granted, she had not seemed traumatized upon awakening. Quite the opposite. I was baffled by her serene state—as if waking in a small underground room surrounded by complete strangers had been the most normal thing she had ever experienced.

What if we were not strangers to her?

This thought troubled me.

While our people remember nothing of the past, the child was different in so many ways. Could it be that she did remember? And that, perchance, she had known one—if not both—of us when she had lived?

It struck me then that she might not have died at all.

How would we even check for such a thing?

We only knew we had died because that was all we remembered from our previous lives. Not the exact way it had happened, but there was no doubt it had happened. I still recall lying on a bed, with a pain in my chest, and closing my eyes to never wake again.

Until, of course, I was brought back to life.

By whom or for what reason, I did not know.

Nor did any of the others.

For all of us had suffered the same fate.

Death, and then revival.

Except, perhaps, Agra.

I paused when I glimpsed the cursed ruins of San Sanea’s former capital. It was a place of dark secrets that many thought haunted—by what, I often wondered? If all of us had come back to life, what ghosts were there left to haunt this place?

Turning my head, I saw the stream. On the opposite bank, the yellow-spotted boulder loomed, taunting me. Skipping over the water, I went past the marker, looking around for a tree bent out of shape. It soon caught my eye, a few feet to my right—and, beyond, the contours of a hut.

XXXV.

The man was tall, clean-shaved, with short white hair, and a profound sadness in his eyes that was all too familiar—it is a look quite common among our kind.

He inclined his head when he recognized me.

“Eddo. Your visit honors us. If you would follow me, it would be my pleasure to serve you.”

“There is no need for that, though I would not refuse a seat. The walk has exhausted me.”

Were it only from the walk...

“Of course.”

He motioned for me to follow, and I did.

There were few others around, and those who were watched me with curiosity.

The druid led me to a larger hut. Stepping in, I found a room lined with cots against the walls—three on each side—and on the cots, men and women slept.

“Too many deaths,” muttered my host as he took me down the hall to a door, then through it.

“I don’t understand.”

We sat in comfortable chairs. He sighed.

“The torments worsen with each new death; and with them, rest grows more scarce. And so they come here, and we help them.”

I knew all too well the feeling—did we not all?

“How can you help them?”

“There are plants, in the forest, that, when blended, appease the mind and mitigate the pain—if only for a while, but enough at least to allow the body some well-needed release.” He motioned toward the door we had come through, and the cots beyond. “And, with it, sleep.”

“A potion?” The man nodded. “Do they have to stay here to use it?”

“It is a choice. Some take it away with them, others prefer the safety and quiet of this place.” He straightened. “I must apologize, eddo, for I have failed to introduce myself. My name is Ellius Dedalus. I assume you are here on official business? How may I assist you?”

I shifted in my chair, wondering how best to broach the subject. Neither Maxius nor I had considered the delicacy of the position approaching the Drasidae would place me in. If we could not tell the Senate about Agra, neither could we tell anyone else. Granted, the druids were more trustworthy than most and cared little for politics; and their living in such a remote place further lowered the chances of the news spreading. Still, I would not take such a risk.

“You will, I hope, forgive me if I cannot go into the specifics of the case—secrecy is required for reasons I cannot explain.” I was glad of my position as a censor, which allowed me to be given a fair amount of leniency. Dedalus motioned for me to go on. I chose my words carefully. “We must interrogate a person who cannot speak. Is there a way we can make this person speak?”

The druid crossed his arms, brows creased as he pondered.

“Cannot? Is it a physical impediment? Or resistance?”

It occurred to me that I did not know the answer to this question. Obviously, the girl wanted to communicate and could not, but we had not searched for the cause—nor would we have known how to do such a thing. Neither Maxius nor I are versed in the matters of medicine.

“Not resistance.” The druid seemed relieved upon hearing this. “We believe this person is mute, though I could not tell you more than this.”

He pursed his lips. “Healers could not help?”

“No.”

The lie was small enough—perhaps not one at all. How could a healer help, after all, if we could not bring one to see the girl?

“If they were born mute, there is not much we can do to reverse it. If, however, it is a temporary affliction, there is one mixture that may help hasten recovery.”

“That would help greatly, thank you.”

“Very well. Please wait here, eddo. I will fetch a potion for you.”

As he stood, I glanced back at the door.

“While you’re at it,” I muttered, “could you add one of those sleeping potions? My nights have been... sorrowful.”

His hand was gentle when it rested a moment upon my shoulder.

“Of course.”

And then he was gone.

XXXVI.

I returned to the city with two gifts—one of which I kept to myself, though I did not drink it immediately. Dedalus had warned that it would toss me into a deep slumber within ten minutes, no matter where I was or what I was doing. Thus, it would be best taken when prepared and lying in a bed.

As for the other, I took it to Maxius’ villa. My friend sat on a bench in the atrium, and I sat next to him.

“What news?” he asked.

Pulling out the vial—the one with the reddish green mixture, not the purple—I handed it to him.

He gently took it from me. “Will it work?”

“Perhaps.” Seeing his quirked brow, I gave him an apologetic smile. “We don’t know why she doesn’t speak. Is it a choice, an illness, a disability, a curse?”

The consul flinched at the last word, and I chided myself for using such a loaded one. Still, it remained a possibility, however chilling it may be.

“This,” I continued with a tap on the glass, “can only cure what can be cured.”

“So we must hope that she is sick.” He sighed. “A lesser evil, I suppose. Well, there is no point in waiting any longer. Let us test this at once.”

Maxius stood, and I followed him downstairs.

We found the girl sitting cross-legged on the floor, at the end of the hall, staring at the wall she had led us to earlier.

The sound of our footsteps did not draw her. Only when we reached her, did she glance up, her expression as serious as an adult’s—I had not seen her smile a single time since her awakening.

“I have something for you,” said my friend as he knelt next to her.

Her eyes followed him down. Moved to the vial.

He held it out to her.

“Can you drink this for me? It might help you speak.”

She tilted her head, blinking at the tinted liquid.

After a few seconds of pondering, she snatched it, emptied it, gave it back, and returned her attention to the wall.

We stared at her, but her mind was elsewhere.

Maxius stood. Scratched his head. Glanced at me.

“How long does it take to work?”

“It might not.”

He clicked his tongue. “But if it does, how will we know?”

“We’ll hear her.”

“Caius!”

I shrugged. “Sorry, Maxius, but I don’t know any more than you do.”

“The druids didn’t tell you?”

“Only that it depended on the person’s physiology. The smaller the mass, the quicker the potion spreads and takes effect.”

He frowned, eyes going back to the girl.

I knew what he was thinking, of course. She was small. And that might work in our favor—assuming it worked at all.

Grabbing his arm, I pulled him away from Agra’s earshot.

“There’s something else,” I whispered. “A thought.”

“What?”

“Have you considered that she might never have died at all?”

His eyes widened. “No, I hadn’t. That... I... How do you expect me to even process something like that?”

“It would explain her being a child.”

“How do you mean?”

“When we came back to life, there were only adults among us. Some have argued that our bodies grew in death, which I would not have thought possible; but then, coming back from the dead shouldn’t be either.” He grimaced. I motioned toward the girl. “If that is true, and she is still a child, then she might not have died. And the machines preserved her—these machines that only our ancestors knew how to build.”

His laugh was a bitter one.

“Ancestors! Likely they are still among us, Caius.”

“True. But with their memories now gone, it is as if they were not.”

He took a deep breath. “Perhaps it is for the best.”

“I was thinking the same. She would know things that none of us would know. Her memories... Oh, how precious her memories must be!”

“Yes. But there is something else. If she still lives, then she will grow, as all children grew when we were alive. And once she is old enough, it’ll be safe to bring her out. She can live among her peers when she is an adult.”

Peers was a strange choice of words. If she lived and we did not, she would always be different. Which made me realize the flaw in his logic.

“It would not stop there, Maxius. She would keep growing older. And then what would people think when her hair whitened and her skin wrinkled and her walking slowed to a crawl? And her health—we have no knowledge of how to treat mortal illnesses.”

My friend’s expression soured as I spoke.

“The druids can help, I’m sure.”

“We’d have to tell them the truth.”

“Then we shall. Surely, they could be trusted! At least some of them.”

“Perhaps.” I rubbed my face—I felt so weary, and not only from lack of sleep. “Even ignoring that, how will you explain this new adult popping out of nowhere?”

“We’ll say she moved from another city. People move all the time.”

Did they, though? More often, we’d learned, they had disappeared—abducted by the Cult of the Emerald God.

But I suppose it would make a good cover story.

Until, of course, the blatant could be hidden no more.

XXXVII.

As we headed back toward the stairs, we walked past the room where Agra had slept for so long. I glanced at the bed—so small and cold. Not that it was made of metal—or perhaps it was, but the metal was covered by layers upon layers of sheets. They looked soft and comfortable. So why would I think of it as cold?

I stopped and stared.

“Was that always there?” I asked.

“What?”

I pointed at a line of tiny metallic domes where the girl’s arms had lain.

Maxius stepped into the room to study them.

“No,” he said. “I’d never seen these before.”

“They must have popped up after she rose from the bed.”

“But why?”

That was a good question, wasn’t it? One I had no answer to. Nor was the purpose of these things immediately apparent. We pressed on them, but they were hard and, yes, cold. Nothing happened, whether we pushed or rubbed or wiped their surfaces.

I crouched to look under the bed. Where the domes protruded, there were holes underneath. And within each hole—I counted six on each side—were embedded differently colored symbols.

“Look at these,” I muttered.

He bent so he could see what I saw.

“What are those?”

“It looks like a puzzle.”

“I don’t understand...”

I would speak of my youth if I recalled said youth—but I do not, and so I will not. However, I imagine I must have had the same thirst for knowledge then as I have now, though everything I learned in those years is gone with the dust of time. Still, I have been awake for centuries, most of them spent reading the numerous volumes held in the Library of San Sanea. I have penned some of them, even, though many date from a time before we were dead. It is fascinating to read of those days, before the loss of our souls, to see the feats that we achieved. Some claim they are madness, but the ravings of minds addled by sickness and grief—for sickness and grief were then quite common among our kin. And yet, the knowledge of these people—who sometimes feel so alien—was wondrous and absolute. It is such a shame that none of these books give the details that would allow us to reproduce their science.

But I digress.

Among the many writings that I’ve read, I clearly recalled these figures—with shapes and colors that perfectly matched the symbols inscribed in those holes. They formed a pattern—a combination—though for what purpose was not clear.

“It reminds me of something I’ve seen before.” I stood and turned to face my friend. “They are meant to protect something. Like a lock.”

“A lock? What would they need to lock?”

They. An interesting choice of words. Who were they, exactly? Our ancestors? Some strangers? Or perhaps us, even?

“All I know is they need to be pressed in a certain order to unlock whatever it guards.”

“Do you remember the order?”

That was an excellent question—one I had been asking myself ever since I’d recognized the symbols for what they were.

What I had not told my friend was that failing the test three times—for a test it was—would either destroy what it protected, or break the mechanism, keeping it forever beyond our reach. And while I thought I remembered the sequence, I was not confident I would get it right in so few tries.

“Perhaps.”

Returning to my crouching position, I considered the motifs. I would give it two shots. If neither worked, I would seek out those old books at the library.

My finger wavered over the engraved drawings. Pressed down. Then on to the next. Each time, the symbol would light up, and a low hum rose.

On the fifth, all the glows faded and the sound went quiet.

I cursed.

“What happened?” asked my friend.

Grimacing, I started the sequence again. At least I knew the mistake I’d made.

I could not make another.

Slowly, resolutely, I went from one hole to the other, until the sequence was completed.

The hum had turned to a buzz.

It filled the air.

And then, something clicked, and it went silent.

Gears, inside the walls, turned.

A rumbling in the ground.

Followed by a little girl’s giggles.

Maxius and I rushed into the hall.

The wall Agra had sat before had swung open, revealing a large circular room filled with piles of strange mechanical objects.

XXXVIII.

The girl merrily plucked items from the piles, rolling them between her fingers, setting them on the floor and bumping them together, all the while laughing.

“All this for... that?” The look of disbelief painted on my friend’s face made my heart ache. “Toys? Truly?”

I had read about such things.

“Children need to play,” I said softly. “It is part of their developmental process.”

Maxius sighed. “I’d hoped for something more...”

“Useful?”

He made a face. Waved toward the room.

“Significant.”

“If it can help her, it is.”

“I suppose.”

Grabbing his arm, I led him away, back up the stairs.

“Let her be, Maxius. She needs this. Have you not seen the smile on her face?”

“I have.”

“In truth, I had become convinced she was not capable of such a thing.”

“So had I.” We reached the atrium, and he started pacing. “But there has to be meaning, Caius! Who is this girl? Why was she left to sleep for so long? And why did she wake? I need answers!”

“You need?” I asked with some amusement.

He glared at me.

“Yes! How am I to justify her presence if I do not understand it myself?”

“Have you then changed your mind? Will you parade her before the Senate?”

A frown creased his brow. “No. You know as well as I that I cannot do this. It would ruin me. But Quintillus knows! What if he brings it up? I need something to counter him.”

“Then dig up his darkest secret.” He stared at me. “I’m serious!”

“And how do you propose I do that?”

“You are the consul, not I.”

He snorted. “You say that as if it fell within my purview to do such a thing.”

“It does.”

My friend dropped into a chair and rubbed his face.

“Did you ever do anything like this?”

I hesitated to answer, for I am not proud of some of the things I was forced to do in those days when I was a consul. Duty can be quite a burden upon one’s shoulders. But who better than me could help him lighten the weight?

With a sigh, I sat across from him and told him how I had once silenced the most vocal of my opponents.

Three centuries later, still I remember it well.

But no, I refuse to write it down—it is bad enough that the memory lingers in my thoughts.

XXXIX.

Felius called me as I returned home—it is nice to know I have one again.

“I have found the men,” he said. “But it is unclear when we will be able to set things in motion. The prisoners are held under heavy guard.”

“Can you replace those guards with our people?”

“That was my thought as well. But this approach comes with its own set of problems. If the escape happens during their watch, it will raise suspicions.”

While I would rather ask for forgiveness than do nothing, it would not help if our actions created so much turmoil that it would amount to the same as seeking permission from the Senate—which would defeat the purpose.

“Do what needs to be done to cause as little uproar as possible.”

He snorted. “There will be an uproar, eddo.”

“So long as it doesn’t lead back to us... At least, not until we’ve reaped the fruits of this mess.”

“Right. But it’ll take time.”

Something we had little of. We were in desperate need of answers, with a sword dangling above our necks that could drop at any moment.

“Do your best, Felius.”

He nodded and ended the communication.

There is a book, “The Sistine Covenant,” well-known to our people. A thinker’s tome filled with thoughts on the nature of existence, the futility of hope, the graciousness (or lack thereof) of the gods, and other such matters that pertain to the workings of the mind and our relationship with our surroundings.

So much of it speaks to my soul—I read it often in the dark of night, when I seek comfort from the ghosts that haunt me and keep me awake. Some sections I have recited so often they have become ingrained in my brain.

One such passage concerns the passing of time: “Seek not we to bind it, to ply it to our will; for it is not ours to master; for it is capricious and wild and raucous. Be content with what you have, when you have it; for we are to time like grains of sand to the wind.”

The author of the book is unknown; and, sometimes, I wonder if he has come back to life as well. Is he among us even today, just as clueless as we all, not knowing that he penned this monumental opus? Perhaps I have spoken to him, laughed with him, all the while unaware.

It depresses me to think of such things.

Still, his words are wisdom. I cannot rush this, no matter how much I would like to. In the end, it would only turn against us.

I made my way up to my room. Sat on the edge of my bed. Pulled out the potion with the purple mixture. Stared at it for a moment. Drank its contents, lay down on the bed, and closed my eyes.

At least, tonight, I would sleep a peaceful sleep.

If you like my writing, please consider buying a copy of my novel, upgrading to a paid subscription, or making a Paypal or Ko-fi donation. As an independent author, any of these would help a lot!

Missed some of the previous Silius installments? No problem. Here are the previous two:

• The Glass Hand of the Emerald God (a 3-part story about madness and manipulation)
• A Funeral, A Temple, A Chant, A War (what use is burial to those who cannot die?)

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Thank you!

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Text (c) 2025 by Alex S. Garcia.

Header: royalty-free stock image, edited by me.

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