On the other hand, far in the east, where winter had not yet sharpened its teeth. The sky darkens unnaturally fast. Rain gathers, heavy with intent. When it begins to fall, it is light—but wrong.
Thunder murmurs in the distance, patient and deliberate. A convoy of chariots and wagons rushes along a dirt road, urged forward by fear rather than urgency.
One wagon in the centre of the line stood apart from the rest.
At its centre sat a large iron cage, completely exposed to the sky. Inside the bars sat a child—perhaps five or seven years old. The boy gripped the iron rods with small, dirt-caked hands, his gaze fixed entirely on the roiling storm above. His eyes were a striking, unnatural shade of deep purple. Beneath his pale skin, a network of faint, violet veins pulsed softly, perfectly mirroring the distant rhythm of the lightning.
The wagons directly ahead of him were empty.
The wagons directly behind him were empty.
Only the third wagon in the rear carried passengers. Inside its covered interior, a group of well-dressed individuals sat in uneasy, suffocating silence. One of them slides aside the curtain and peers out.
The sky, the rain, the thunder," he muttered, his brow furrowed. "They're all moving in perfect sync. What is happening out there?"
A woman seated beside him slowly lifted a silk cloth from her face, revealing eyes wide with trepidation. Her voice was a low whisper. "Haven't you noticed, Arman? It's a Sin."
The word settled heavily in the cramped space. The other men shifted uncomfortably, glancing at her in silence. Arman let out a soft, humourless laugh that failed to reach his eyes.
"Don't frighten us, Miss Mansiri. We've already endured enough trouble on this road."
She offered no rebuttal, silently drawing the cloth back over her face.
Across from them, another man struck a match, lighting a thick cigar. He took a single, deep puff and leaned toward the small window to exhale—but the moment he opened his mouth, a violent crack of thunder exploded directly overhead. The shock caused the cigar to slip from his fingers. The howling wind snatched it instantly, vanishing it into the driving rain
A sharp, nervous burst of laughter erupted from the occupants.
Arman patted the man's trembling shoulder. "Careful, brother."
The brief levity died instantly when a younger man in the corner spoke up, his voice hollow. "And what of us? We style ourselves as scholars of history and ghosts... yet here we are, witnesses to absolute cruelty. Kidnappers of children."
His mournful gaze drifted through the window toward the isolated cage wagon ahead.
Arman's superficial smile vanished entirely. The skin beneath his eyes looked bruised, dark circles weighing heavily on his features as he stared into the dark.
"Necessity demands it," Arman said, his voice flat and unyielding. "And we obey."
***
It was a different time in the monastery. Saint Gizon was gone and another person was in charge. The teacher of the teens— Saint Reold.
"So children, this is what the ancient humans learned and carved into the walls of great rocks and the bark of sacred trees.
The history of existence is divided into two great Aoens: the first for the gods, and the second for creation — us, animals, birds, trees, water, fire, everything our world has".
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.
"Long ago, before anything was revealed to mortal eyes, there was Aeon Zero— time of Unusual Entities. There was no time. And in that vast nothingness, a lone being began to walk. With each step he took across the void, reality shifted into view—becoming visible enough for future species to observe. This was the birth of time. The Anomaly's footsteps were time itself, realised through distance. And the traveller was God OM".
Reold's eyes darkened with a quiet, reverent awe. "It is said that OM is still walking. And on the day he grows weary, when his stride finally falters and he stops... everything we know will instantly cease to exist."
A young novice, Lutnehi, raised his hand. "Master Reold, how long did the first aeon last?"
The master smiled, pleased. "An excellent question, Lutnehi. None can truly say how long the first aeon lasted, for no humans, nor anything else existed to measure it. Many scholars argue it was an unperceivable eternity. However, we do have something more tangible for the second aeon. Scholars agree that it began roughly two million years ago, with the dawn of humanity."
Lutnehi pressed further, his curiosity piqued. "And how long will this period last, Master?"
The saint's gaze grew distant. "All we have is prophecy. And according to prophecy, this aeon will endure until the day visible, fundamental changes alter the human form."
He spread his hands.
"So rest easy. We're all safe. For now".
Nervous laughter rippled through the room. Lutnehi's lips didn't mimic the smile
He kept staring at his hands, long after the lesson ended, long after the other children filed out, long after Saint Reold blew out the candles and left him alone in the dark.
***
The heavy, suffocating silence of the grey woods was shattered at the sudden tolling of a bell.
The Green Man broke through the final layer of brush, his eyes widening at the sprawling expanse before him. The village of Kitegya sat directly upon a massive, mirrored lake. From the shoreline, the houses seemed to float atop the water on interconnected wooden docks, creating the beautiful, surreal illusion of a flooded city. The air carried the vibrant hum of a living settlement—children splashing in the shallows, adults throwing heavy woven nets, and smoke rising from chimney pipes.
He didn't care about how pretty the village looked; his eyes were locked on the crowd. The last two times he met people, he was treated harshly. This time his legs refused to move. He hid behind a massive oak tree, his heart thumping hard against his ribs.
Hidden behind the tree, he searched their faces for any sign of kindness.
He was well aware of the fact that the only way forward was to cross the floating village. But the fear of rejection kept him behind the tree.
Subconsciously he kept repeating
Should I go…..Should I go...should I go.
After a long battle with himself, he at last decided that he should go.
He revealed himself and slowly, he put one bare foot into the shallow water. The cold bit his skin, and the splash sent ripples across the smooth surface of the lake.
The entire village went dead silent.
The fishermen stopped mid-cast. The kids stopped playing, their laughter cutting off instantly. Hundreds of eyes turned toward him at the same time. It felt like the water itself had told them a stranger was standing there.
The weight of all those eyes felt like a heavy stone on his chest. Panic hit him. He spun around, ready to run back into the woods.
But his feet froze in the mud. If he went back, he'd end up in the village where the old man had beaten him with a stick. He couldn't go forward, and he couldn't go back. His breath came in short, panicked gasps. He sank against the oak tree and pulled his green shawl tight over his face, trying to disappear.
Then came the sound of splashing water.
A few fishermen were walking toward the bank, their faces hard. They were holding jagged spears made out of heavy, white animal bone.
Nobody moved. Nobody spoke.
The lead fisherman stepped onto the grass and raised his bone spear high, staring right into the stranger's face. The Green Man didn't flinch. He didn't get mad, and he didn't look scared. He just stared up at the sharp bone with wide, empty eyes, too tired to care if he lived or died.
The utter absence of resistance made the fisherman hesitate. The bone weapon stopped mid-air, hovering a mere inch above the Green Man's forehead.
One of them finally broke the silence. "Who are you?"
He had no answer.
"Is he a spirit?" another murmured.
"What is your name?"
Still, silence.
With nothing to answer the Green Man looked away from their faces, his gaze dropping to his own bare feet. Several of his toes had already turned a horrific, necrotic black from the frost of the deep forest.
The lead fisherman noticed the blackened flesh. The hostility in the men seemed to evaporate, replaced by a quiet, bewildered pity. The traveller was a bizarre creature, he carried no malice, offered no words, and didn't even try to defend his own life.
One of the men clapped his hands together with a loud smack, drawing the stranger's attention. The leader jerked his chin toward the deep water, pointing the way.
They walked ahead, and he obeyed. When they reached the lake's bank, a crowd had gathered. This time, the weight of their stares pressed down on him, and he felt true fear.
Spanning the deep water was a long, narrow bridge built entirely from bleached, interlocking bones. Its surface was a nightmare of tiny, jagged bone spikes pointing upward like needles.
The fishermen walked across it without hesitation. But he stopped. He sensed something terrifying deep beneath him, something he himself couldn't understand.
The fishermen looked back, waving him forward.
He obeyed.
He stepped onto the bridge, one careful step at a time, keeping his chin up. Every time he lifted a bare foot, the flesh remained completely pristine. The spikes left no cuts, spilling not a single drop of blood. Across the water, the hard faces of the villagers opened up in silent shock.
For a moment, everything stood still. His movements were so deliberate, so careful, that it seemed time itself only existed around him. They all watched in awe.
When he finally rested his foot on the village ground, the water was crystal clear and shallow, lapping warmly against his ankles—a stark contrast to the winter chill.
He finally found the courage to look up. The faces of the villagers swam in his vision. His focus locked onto a woman at the front of the crowd, whose two young children were clinging frantically to her skirts. One of the boys buried his face deep in his mother's wool clothes, trembling at the sight of the traveller.
The sight of the kid being that scared of him hit something deep inside his chest. A sharp, stabbing pain flared behind his ribs, and the dizziness came back instantly. His eyelids started twitching violently, fluttering out of control.
Open and close.
Open and close.
The blue water and the terrified faces smeared together into a grey blur before everything went black, and he collapsed into the warm water.