I don't really see myself as someone who feels or thinks the way others do. In truth, I see myself as an error; an abnormality within the world of the norm.
It grows exhausting, this endless pretense: trying to act as though I am the same as them, as though I feel what they feel, care as they care, as though morality restrains me, as though I view the world through a cloudy lens where uncertainty breeds fear.
But I don't. I truly don't care for the mundane woes that plague them.
I am not unfeeling. I can feel–indeed, I am an empath. Yet why should such chaotic abstractions dictate my actions?
I understand. But why, then, should I care?
How long have I lived? Only a short time… and yet it feels longer. Much longer. I have woven needless complexity into my form; an unnecessary burden, or so most would call it.
But life… life is shallow and hollow. It becomes dull when its Weaving and Flow lie so bare, so evident; a lackluster world teeming with individuals who yearn for something greater, something endless. Desire.
Yet only a few yearn with true depth. Only a few burn differently.
Most? They chase the most trivial of dreams, elevating materialism into a realm it should never reach. Their desires cling pathetically to the material world.
To yearn for wealth? For luxury? Am I, Alexander, expected to crave such hollow things, mere trinkets with no true value except to appease their own shallowness?
Do not mock my existence. They have chosen to make their fleeting lives into a mindless quest for meaningless indulgence, like ravenous thralls drunk on emptiness.
Yes. I am "one of those kinds" who believes that mankind's existence is meaningless; a purposeless thing, an error born of a greater mistake.
But unlike them, I do not say we should abandon the pursuit of meaning.
No–I feel only disdain for mundanity. Why lower our true complexity to such pitiful depths? We may have been birthed as a mistake, but must that mistake define us?
No. We should give ourselves meaning. We should forge an incandescent masterpiece out of error itself.
And yet… I realized I was blinded by sentimentality, shackled by subjectivity, unable to perceive the threads others wove into the greater Weaving.
Until I saw it. An untainted glimpse of the Weaving. I saw the Flow.
And within that Flow, I discovered purpose. A divine reason.
I touched it. And in that instant, I ceased to be a mere thread in this endlessly entwining tapestry. I became something more. Something entrusted with a superior purpose.
To shape them until they are perfect–for I bear the remnant of the Sculptor's legacy.
To shift their essence beyond mundanity and open the path to Divinity–for I shoulder a wisp of that Apostle's truth.
I fulfill a purpose within this purposeless world.
A damning sacrifice I accept willingly.
No one will understand. They will find no meaning in my work, but the Flow will remember. The Flow always remembers.
I am the Spindle. The maker of complexity.
And I shall bestow a gift you have long refused to acknowledge.
—Morgur the Second.
*****
"What are those things?" Andrew muttered under his breath, his body hidden as he stole glances from the window of an apartment building.
He didn't know what "level" of the city it was, only that it was high enough to grant them a clear view of what was unfolding below.
Isabella had whisked them from the library the moment the dreadful cadence of the stampede reached their ears.
The "things" in question were humanoid abominations. Their limbs weren't twisted in a grotesque manner so much as reshaped into a proportion that made no sense, bodies stretched to impossible heights, anatomy blurred in chaotic fusion–pieces that didn't belong forced together into a seamless, unsettling whole. Their movements were worse: warped legs thrusting forward in a nightmarish, yet strangely uniform march toward the library… or so it had been.
Now, something was changing. Their deformities vanished in an instant. Anatomy snapped back into human order, limbs corrected, unnatural elongation deflated. The "things" blurred, faded, and vanished as if they had never been.
"Thralls," Isabella said at last. Her tone carried no urgency. She sat with her right leg crossed over the other, arms folded lightly against her chest, back resting on the wall. Her eyes remained closed, her expression calm; unbothered, even alluring.
"I know, I heard you the first time. What I'm asking is… what in the walking nightmare are they? What the hell do you mean by 'Thralls'? The fuck is a Thrall? Make it make sense, please." Andrew's hushed voice trembled with frustration, as if he wanted to shout but fear of the grotesque scene below forced him to restrain it.
"That's the work of our Chosen. A result of Shapeshift or Visionary being forced upon a human. Though, I still suspect Shapeshift. The transformations I've witnessed in these 'Thralls'–as inhuman as they are–retain a disturbing logic to them. The people of Fragr… they are nothing but husks. Walking apparitions. Flesh enthralled and warped beyond the grasp of reason." Isabella's emerald eyes slid open, sharp and superior, meeting Andrew's.
"Alex Warren has done irreparable damage to Fragr. The people aren't dead, but they suffer a misery worse than death. No crater marks the city's ruin. No flames or ash to testify to disaster. Yet Fragr's calamity is no less than Grede's. The absence of carnage is not tranquility. What you see, Andrew, is a facade."
Andrew risked one last glance. The "people" had already returned to their routines: brisk steps up and down the street, alone or in groups, caught mid-conversation as if nothing had happened. He shut the window in silence, stood, and paced the room. His thoughts raced, but his mind felt too frayed to properly focus.
"Let me get this straight," he said at last. "Are these people still… alright? Not the best word, but it'll have to do. They look alive, so I'll ask."
"'Alright' is a generous word, don't you think? Do they look alright to you?" Isabella's voice was steady, almost disdainful. "Even their shifting forms should make the truth plain. The human shape is a disguise, Andrew–skin stretched over something wrong. They are not alright. They are dead. Not in the conventional sense, but dead nonetheless."
"I don't understand. I don't understand anything at all. These people–Thralls–they aren't 'people' anymore? That's what you're saying?" Andrew dragged his hands through his ash-gray hair, yanking at it until pain cut through his confusion.
"Exactly. They are no longer the citizens of Fragr. What remains is their physical shell, warped beyond recognition. In simpler terms, everyone in Fragr is dead." Isabella leaned forward, her crossed leg falling to the floor.
"How?" Andrew demanded. He was thinking furiously even as he spoke, struggling to piece deductions together. It should have been easy, as natural as breathing, but this was different. Frustrating. "How did he do it? Shapeshift shouldn't reach this level of intricacy. This isn't just physical warping."
"Not really," Isabella sighed, her calm beginning to fray. "We don't know the limits of our abilities. Each description has loopholes waiting to be exploited. There's more unknown than known."
Her voice dropped, sharp with annoyance. "It's only been six days. Six days. What the hell do they expect an eighteen-year-old to do? Fuck all this."
Andrew froze mid-step, struck as though by lightning. His head turned toward her with painful slowness.
"You're eighteen?" His disbelief spilled out.
It had never once crossed his mind that this woman–this elegant, composed beauty–could be younger than him. She wasn't old, of course, but the way she carried herself, the poise she radiated, had convinced him she was far beyond his nineteen years.
"Huh?" Isabella blinked. "Of course I'm eighteen. Do I not look it? Wait… fuck! You thought I was older than you? Jeez."
"No, no, that's not it. You just…"
"Yes? I'm listening." Her gaze narrowed into a slit as she studied the discomfort etched across his face.
"Your mannerisms… you act mature. You carry an elegance I'd expect from someone older. Wiser." He winced as her expression shifted. "Please, don't take it the wrong way. That's honestly how I saw you. You don't carry yourself with the careless attitude most people your age do."
"Correction, 'our' age. And you don't either, 'Mr. Andrew.'" Her lips curved with amusement, not offense.
"I have my reasons." His voice dimmed, eyes dropping as memories flickered through his mind.
"So do I." Her smile faded. She steered the conversation away. "We've digressed."
"Yeah." He steadied himself, frustration settling back into his tone.
"The people are dead. And Alex is where?"
Alexander Warren, the cause of this calamity, was nowhere to be seen. If Isabella knew his location, Andrew doubted she would waste time with this long discussion. She would brief him, then act. Rift was, after all, an obscenely efficient ability.
"No idea. We know he's in the city. But Fragr is… complicated. Twists, layers, endless crannies. A city within a city within a city. Finding Alex is like hunting for a copper needle in a haystack." Isabella's sigh lingered.
Something shifted for Andrew. Knowing Isabella was younger than him softened the weight her expressions once carried. He felt oddly more at ease, almost cordial toward her now.
"So, what now? Why are—" His words cut off as a twisting sensation seized him. It was as if some vast hand squeezed and stretched his body all at once. A horrifying feeling.
A rift tore open in the room.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck! Why now, of all times?" A young man's voice rang out, ragged with anger, just before his body emerged from the tear.
Andrew and Isabella froze, staring at the newcomer: a tall blond with weary, brilliant blue eyes, clad in a torn black windbreaker.
The instant he appeared and locked eyes with them, his body jolted into motion. Isabella shot to her feet, lunging toward him. Andrew, stunned, could only watch.
But she didn't make it in time.
"Nullify!" the blond roared. The word burst like a command, sending an invisible wave through the room.
Andrew felt something vital vanish from him, ripped away as though it had never existed. Knowledge of the ability "Nullification" surged unbidden into his mind.
Motherfucker, how long did you plan on keeping us caged in?
The fuck, it's been an eternity. Why would you do this to yourself, Andrew?
He keeps forgetting–we are part of him. He cannot rid himself of us. We are one and the same.
The voices returned. Verminous whispers he had almost forgotten slithered back into his head, pulling him once more into a world of greyness.
An orange glint flared in Andrew's eyes as his gaze turned cold upon the blond.
Kill him. Kill them all.