Caroline stepped back onto the main road—if it could be called that.
The street was uneven, made of gravel, sand, and reclaimed bricks in a patchwork that crunched underfoot. But it held together. That was enough.
People moved along it in slow, steady rhythm.
A man pushed a cart with two wheels missing, somehow keeping it upright. A woman hung clothes on a line between lamp-posts, humming quietly. Children chased something glowing—possibly magical, possibly a bug—laughing as it dodged their hands.
It was livelier than she expected.
Too lively, maybe.
Outside of Menystria, the world was still collapsing. Cities burned. Borders cracked. People turned on each other. But down here?
No one screamed about gods.
No one begged for miracles.
No one bled out on the street while someone else watched.
Maybe that was the benefit of having a mayor who was one.
Her stomach growled.
Hard.
She rubbed it absently, then stepped into the nearest building that looked like it might sell food.
It was a general shop. Small. Half-sheltered under a corrugated metal roof, with thin walls made of wood and scavenged stone. A faded sign above the door read: "SHOP" in three uneven letters. Straightforward.
Inside, it was... weirdly normal.
Shelves made of stacked crates held a strange assortment of goods.
Bags of dried roots. Packaged water in heat-sealed pouches. Old military ration bars with scribbled-out labels. Jars of preserved vegetables. Something that looked like orange soup sealed in plastic orbs. An entire basket of mushrooms—none of which looked remotely safe.
A handmade freezer hummed faintly in the corner. Inside: meat. Real or not, she couldn't tell.
There was a man at the counter, maybe thirty, chewing something and reading a book with a hand-scrawled cover.
He didn't look up.
Caroline wandered further in, still clutching her coat closed, trying to decide if anything was edible or if she'd need divine luck to digest half of it.
Caroline grabbed what looked closest to bread.
It was dense, a little cold, but soft enough to press slightly under her fingers. Near it, wrapped loosely in something like waxed cloth, was a slab of meat—probably ham. Or something calling itself ham.
She didn't care.
Better that than wait too long and collapse on her walk back to the surface.
She walked to the counter and placed both on the wood, pulling out a few Stains Jasper had given her earlier—coins worn smooth from use, etched with faint marks.
The man behind the counter finally looked up.
He grunted once. Took the coins. Nodded.
As he bagged the food, Caroline hesitated.
"Do any of you still… follow religions?" she asked. "Down here, I mean."
He laughed.
A real one.
Not mocking—just honest.
"Religion?" he repeated. "Haven't seen a single Christian since the gods showed up."
Caroline nodded, said nothing more, and took the bag without another word.
She stepped back into the street.
This time, she didn't wander aimlessly.
She walked slow, chewing her bread, moving past the shops, the benches, the patched homes and lantern posts that lined the paths. The people smiled less now—not because of her, but because it was late, and the day was winding down.
Eventually, she reached the far edge of the settlement.
Quieter.
Empty.
And there, in the corner, set apart from everything else—
A building.
Or what was meant to be one.
It stood like the bones of something forgotten. Brickwork halfway laid. Beams exposed. A roof frame with no roof, windows that had never been installed.
It was a church.
Or had tried to be.
Someone, once, had meant to finish it.
They never did.
She stood outside the skeleton of the building for a long minute, chewing the last bite of her bread.
Then she stepped inside.
There were no doors to open, no hinges to creak. Just a gap in the stonework and the stale scent of dry dust, moss, and old intentions.
The inside was hollow.
No glass. No light. No symbols.
But there were pews—rows of them. Long wooden benches, weathered but intact, lined up in fading symmetry toward the far end.
And at that end stood an altar.
If it could even be called that.
It was little more than a raised platform, some bricks stacked with uneven effort. Something ancient had tried to exist there. But it hadn't made it. Not all the way.
She sat down on one of the pews, sighing as her shoulders relaxed.
The bread crinkled in its paper wrapping as she leaned back and looked around the space.
It was so empty.
But not dead.
Her eyes scanned the walls, the floor, the places where light should fall.
People here… they smiled. They worked. They lived.
But did they feel safe?
Did they talk?
Did they grieve?
Maybe it wasn't religion they needed. Maybe not even belief.
Just a place.
A space where you could cry without getting stared at. Speak without explaining yourself. Exist without a god hovering over your shoulder.
A church for mortals.
Not faith.
Just hope.
She chewed thoughtfully, a small smile curling on her lips.
Maybe she'd tell Noah. Or the carpenter near the market. Or the children running around catching bugs. Someone would hear it, feel it. Someone would finish what had been started.
She began to hum—low, quiet, something familiar from Earth. A lullaby, maybe. Or something she made up once on a rainy day.
The sound drifted through the air, soft and almost warm.
And then—
Another hum joined her.
A voice.
Slick. Sharp. Dripping with sarcasm like honey over cracked glass. Almost human.
But not quite.
Her head snapped around.
Fast.
First to the door—still empty.
Then to the altar.
The pews.
The corners.
Nothing.
No footsteps. No presence. No one beside her.
But she'd heard it.
That voice.
That hum.
Her eyes darted upward—just in time to catch a soft drip fall from the ceiling and hit the floor with a wet splat.
Then another.
And then—
Movement.
A hammock.
Strung lazily between two of the upper support beams, nearly invisible in the dark.
And something inside it.
Caroline stood quickly. "Who's there?"
No response.
Just a low, curling hum. Mimicking her own. Teasing.
She stepped backward, raising her voice. "I asked a question!"
The thing shifted.
Slowly.
A long, slick tail curled down from the hammock's edge, scales shimmering with faint bioluminescence—indigo striped with pale reef-orange. Droplets of moisture slid down its length, dripping one after another to the cracked stone floor.
Then it sat up.
And its face came into view.
Mostly human. But wrong.
The skin was a smooth aquatic green, mottled with faint violet hues along the jaw and neck. Its hair was wet-looking, dark indigo at the roots fading toward a murky reef orange at the ends—stringy, as if it had never once been dry. It clung to the creature's cheeks and forehead in loose, drifting locks.
Above its forehead—
A lure.
Thin and flexible, like a strand of cartilage grown too long, ending in a small, glowing bulb that flickered like a dying star.
Its eyes were silver, round—too round—with spiral pupils that seemed to move, even when they didn't.
And when it smirked—
Sharp teeth.
Dozens of them.
A grin that wasn't threatening… but wasn't friendly either.
The tail shifted again.
The creature blinked slowly and said nothing.
Just watched.
The creature raised one webbed hand in greeting, fingers long and translucent at the edges.
"Caroline Mendacium," it said smoothly. "Welcome to my temporary home."
Her blood ran cold.
She hadn't introduced herself.
Hadn't said a word since sitting down.
She stood quickly, boots scraping against the stone floor as she backed up from the pew. Her heart picked up pace. Muscles tensed, ready to bolt at the first sign of movement.
The creature was massive.
Larger than it had looked above.
Ten feet tall, at least. Maybe eleven. And not bulky—long. Every part of it stretched, too fluid, like someone had started sculpting a man out of ocean shapes and forgot where the spine went.
It wasn't like the gods. They at least pretended to be human.
This thing didn't.
It didn't need to.
It chuckled, the sound half-buried in its chest, dark and almost tired.
"No need to panic," it said. "I'm not dangerous. Not to you. Not to your plan to save the poor, broken world above."
Its voice lilted strangely—sharp consonants softened by something almost… melodic.
"Even if," it added, "they don't deserve saving."
Then, slowly, it reached up to the hammock and loosened a single knot.
Not enough to fall—just enough to let gravity do the rest.
The hammock lowered gently.
No dramatic drop. No sudden thud.
The creature landed on the stone floor with a wet, whispering slide of tail and limb.
Fully in view now.
Its upper body was humanoid in silhouette—broad-shouldered, long-limbed, with slick aquatic skin that shifted from sea-glass green across the chest to indigo along the sides. Bioluminescent lines ran like veins down its arms, pulsing dimly as if breathing.
Webbed fingers. Sharp nails.
Its legs weren't legs at all—just a long eel-like tail, covered in soft, translucent fins that shimmered faintly as it moved, sliding across the floor like it had no bones at all.
The creature's hair hung around its face in long, wet strands—more like algae than actual hair, deep indigo fading to reef-orange tips. It didn't blink often. When it did, the motion was too slow, like it had to remember how.
Its eyes—still silver. Still spiraled.
Still watching her.
He slithered forward.
Each movement was smooth, wet, deliberate.
The wood creaked beneath his weight—less from pressure, more from the slick trail of liquid his body left behind, staining old dust with streaks of shimmer. As he circled her, his tail knocked aside two empty pews and sent a small table crashing into the far wall.
He didn't flinch.
Didn't apologize.
Didn't even look back.
He coiled gently just in front of her and leaned down, long arms folding together, hands interlaced like someone preparing to deliver a very polite threat.
"I suppose," he said with a grin full of teeth, "I've forgotten my manners."
Caroline didn't move.
"That's on me," he added. "A good host should introduce himself first."
He bowed his head slightly, the lure above his forehead flickering.
"Neruin," he said. "Humble... wanderer. And historian of these drifting lands."
He straightened, still looming over her.
"I imagine," he said, "you're after something absurd. Hope. In a place like this. Dark, discarded. Built to be forgotten."
He chuckled.
Low and dry, but not cruel.
"Delusional. Idiotic. Admirable."
His grin softened.
"May your foolish effort shine brighter than most."
Caroline found her voice again.
"What are you?"
The question made him pause.
He tilted his head slightly, as if rolling through answers he didn't want to give.
Finally, he said, "A child of the deep. One of many. Born from a marriage between sea-god remnants and mortal driftwood. You know. The usual fishman folklore."
He waved a hand lazily, but the smile didn't reach his eyes.
"I lived in a trench," he added. "Far below the surface. Before coming to this city of gods."
She narrowed her eyes slightly. "And why are you here?"
Another pause.
This one longer.
Neruin looked at her, really looked.
Then said, softer, "Some places hum when you walk near them. Call you in like an old song half-remembered."
He flicked his eyes up to the altar.
"This ruin's been whispering for years. I like to listen."
Caroline stood her ground, her voice steady.
"Do you know anyone who could help me?" she asked. "Someone who could… spread the word? Give these people something to hold onto?"
Neruin blinked slowly.
His spiral pupils shrank—tightening into small blue points swallowed by shadow.
For a moment, he looked almost hollow.
Then, slowly, the eyes returned to their usual swirling silver.
His grin widened.
Too many teeth again.
He extended a webbed hand, palm open. Said nothing.
Just waited.
Caroline hesitated.
Then stepped forward and shook it.
Immediately, his fingers clamped tight.
Too tight.
He gave her hand a quick, jarring pump—then squeezed, just long enough to make her stumble slightly when he let go.
She recoiled, wiping her hand on her coat.
He laughed—loud, sharp, too amused.
"Oh, I know a man!" he said, tail flicking with delight. "Owen. Lovely fellow. A friend of mine. Big family, lots of friends. Haven't seen him in a while, but he's got a voice people trust."
Caroline nodded stiffly, already backing away toward the ruined doorway.
"Thanks," she said. "Maybe I'll see you next time."
Neruin didn't laugh this time.
He didn't smile.
He just watched her walk.
And as she stepped through the broken wall into the fading cavern light, his voice followed after her.
Quiet.
Certain.
"Next time, you say? No…"
A pause.
"I don't think you'll have the pleasure."
Caroline stepped out of the ruined church, the broken entryway yawning behind her like a mouth that had just whispered a lie.
She didn't look back.
But she heard it.
A crash—then something else. Wood shattering. Metal scraping. A distant scream choked off too fast. And in the darkness, just behind the frame of the entrance, two small glowing dots shot across the space like sparks caught in a storm.
She didn't wait.
Her steps turned into a run.
Boots skidding against gravel, coat flaring behind her as she sprinted toward the edge of the town. The lamps grew brighter with each step. Civilization. People.
Safety.
When she saw movement—real movement, warm and slow—she slowed down. Pressed her back against a nearby wall and breathed. Once. Twice. Then kept walking.
Her heart was still hammering.
But she had work to do.
Who do I even tell? she thought. She didn't know anyone here. Not really.
Except one.
She turned the corner and found herself once again at the general shop. The same tilted sign. Same crooked shelves visible through the window.
She stepped inside, grabbed the nearest thing her hand landed on—a sealed jar of something orange and vaguely moving—and walked straight up to the cashier.
He looked up.
She didn't wait.
"I have an idea," she said, chest still rising from the run. "I know it sounds weird, but… hear me out."
The cashier blinked slowly as Caroline placed the jar on the counter. He didn't even look at what it was.
She leaned forward, still slightly out of breath.
"I found a building," she said. "Old church. No roof, no windows—just the frame. It could be something."
He raised an eyebrow.
"I mean it," she continued. "You've got homes, a store, food lines… but nothing for them. The people. Nothing that gives them a moment to sit down and just… breathe."
He looked at her like he was waiting for the punchline.
"I'm not talking about religion," she added quickly. "Not gods. Not Oaths. Just a space. To talk. Grieve. Laugh. Somewhere quiet."
The man let out a short laugh and leaned back in his chair.
"Well," he said, "if you want to waste your time cleaning up an old pile of bricks, no one's stopping you. But don't expect people to line up for a sermon."
"I'm not preaching."
"Sure you're not."
He smirked, reaching for the jar.
Caroline didn't move.
She looked at him closely, then asked, "You ever heard of a guy named Owen?"
That made him pause.
The jar stopped mid-grab.
"…Owen?"
"Yeah," she said. "Or… seen an angler-man inside the church? Tall. Slick skin. Sharp teeth. Glowing lure above his head?"
The cashier stared at her.
Then started to laugh.
Not cruelly. Just confused.
"Lady, how long've you been down here?"
She didn't answer.
He shook his head. "Go lay down. Or better yet, catch the next line-car back up. Sounds like you had a little too much of something."
"I'm serious," she said, louder now. "Have you seen him or not?"
He looked at her for a moment longer.
Then shrugged.
"No. I've been here six years. No Owen. No fishman. Definitely no glowing weirdos in the abandoned church."
Caroline didn't say anything.
She just paid.
Picked up the jar.
And left.
Caroline took a slow, steady breath as she stepped back onto the gravel path.
The town behind her dimmed with every step. Lanterns turned into faint halos. Voices into soft hums. It felt like the entire district was exhaling with her.
She followed the trail back.
Same benches. Same twisted signs. Same lamps flickering like old memories. Her boots crunched lightly over the path, the orange jar still tucked under her arm.
She had things to do.
Figure out how to get back to the surface.
Back to the human world.
Maybe find a working car, or a boat somewhere in the wastelands above. A plane if she got lucky—even if she didn't know how to fly.
It didn't matter.
She would try.
And that thing—man—whatever he was, in the church?
Was he even real?
She rubbed her face with one hand, blinking hard. Her eyes stung.
Maybe it was stress. Or lack of sleep. She hadn't rested properly since arriving in Menystria. Hadn't had a full night without dreams filled with suns, gods, collapsing cities.
But she had enough now.
Enough answers to bring clarity to the world outside.
Enough truths to start calming the fire.
And maybe—just maybe—a few last questions to ask Evodil.
If he was stable enough to answer.
Before she realized it, the lamps were gone. The gravel turned to smooth stone. Then to nothing.
The path ended.
Only a flickering pole stood ahead, with a steel cable stretching upward into endless dark.
And the faint sound of the cable car groaning above.
Almost here.
Almost time.
Time for this to end.
Time to return to a world begging for peace.
Time to tell them how the war really began.