"Before there was fire, there was frost.
Before there was man, there was hunger.
And heaven built its gates to keep both out.
But gates corrode, and hunger does not."
— Fragment from the Ashen Codex, author unknown
The next morning, I woke.
If I had windows, I would have opened them,
but the house had none.
Only the hatch beneath the water tank,
the single throat through which breath came and went.
Past night I had forgotten to feed the little ones.
The desk reminded me—
golden shimmer of runes across the place I touched.
The marks pulsed faintly,
like veins reminding me of debts.
The system preserved them.
But not forever.
They needed to be fed.
So I climbed out through the hatch,
into the first light of day.
Strangely golden.
Not like any dawn I remembered.
The morning sun in this world
always burst with an intensity that seemed unnatural,
as if it were not a star at all
but some blessing made flesh.
I had called it once,
half in jest,
the Glazing Fairy.
And indeed—
the fairy I had summoned
stirred at the sight of that light.
Its physical need was brightness,
to drink of it,
to shimmer with it.
The rodent, though—
that small, grotesque hunter I had thought would be "cute"
and perhaps a lady's delight—
it squeaked and gnawed for something else.
Seeds.
Good thing the garden had chestnut jutting from the soil.
I watched it nibble,
tiny teeth clicking,
empty eyes staring up at me.
And I wondered why I had asked for him at all.
At the time, I thought it'd be harmless.
A joke.
A trick for charm.
Now it looked less like a companion,
and more like an omen.
Above me,
the sky shifted.
At first golden,
the clouds burned with pale fire.
Then grey spread across it,
like the skin of dead gods stretching thin.
By noon,
the star at its peak burned not yellow,
but an impossible blue.
And I could not tell
if it was blessing—
or curse.
I needed clothes.
And a face that wouldn't disgust me.
The mirror in the tavern window showed both.
My hair had browned from neglect,
half straw, half grease.
I slicked it back in a parody of elegance—
a pompadour,
the kind a rich man's son might wear.
It didn't suit me.
It mocked me.
My teeth were worse.
Jagged cracks, yellow enamel.
A mouth made for spitting curses,
not smiling.
Dentists in this town were butchers with pliers.
I couldn't afford that pain.
So I pressed in veiners instead:
slivers of silver,
chips of iron,
wedged over enamel until they gleamed like wealth.
When I smiled,
it was half rust,
half shine—
a grin like a coin pulled from a grave.
The fairy had offered once,
to heal them.
But I knew her tricks.
Her gifts always came twisted.
Every "cure" bought with chains.
So I chewed with iron and silver in my mouth,
and every bite of bread in the tavern
tasted like rust and blood.
The barmaid looked twice at me.
Not with desire—
with curiosity.
Not handsome, no.
But not nothing either.
My father, and his father before him,
had all married beautiful wives.
Something of that bloodline clung to my jaw,
the angle of my cheek.
Enough to make strangers wonder.
I sat there with my bread and ale,
my fairy's shadow flickering at my ear,
and thought about where I had come from.
I hated it.
Still.
---
Back then—before here—
I was worse.
A lean man hunched over a desk.
Clicking my mouse,
scrolling threads.
Reddit open.
Comments stacked like corpses.
On the desk:
cups stained with Coke syrup,
burger wrappers folded like monuments of rot,
tissues wet and forgotten beside the keyboard.
The ceiling creaked.
Cockroaches crawled like constellations.
My snacks were alive with them,
and I didn't even notice.
Hair greasy, shirt yellowed,
teeth already ruined.
Eyes weary,
red with sleepless hate.
I hated everyone.
Everything.
Not even my whore mother could understand.
The last sound I heard
was a door slamming.
I ignored it.
Kept scrolling.
Kept typing.
Kept hating.
The Marvel Rival threads
still glowed on my screen.
When the door broke open,
the bullet entered my skull
and punched through the monitor,
censoring whatever filth I had been watching
with a spray of red.
Probably one of the hood boys I'd mocked.
How they found me,
I didn't know.
I had deleted my account.
Too late.
Fuck.
---
When I woke,
I was in a library.
The largest I had ever seen.
Golden buttresses,
pillars dimmed with dust.
A ceiling of kaleidoscope glass,
beyond which swam shadows—
creatures gliding like whales
through a sea I could not name.
Were we underwater?
Or beneath reality itself?
A record of judgment, maybe.
But heaven would not take me.
Not even if I begged.
Then the voice came.
Not from the air.
From the walls,
the floor,
the marrow of my bones.
Everywhere at once.
It granted me three wishes.
The first:
what shape I wanted for my next world.
I thought it was still Earth.
That was my mistake.
I wished to be born rich,
independent,
company mine by right,
first generation.
I wished to be beautiful,
and for my family to be beautiful.
I wished to be alone.
An only child.
Because I hated my brother.
I swore he had snitched me out.
When I was born,
I found my family growing,
branching,
everyone whispering my name,
my father important.
I spent my youth burning money
on pleasures of the flesh,
drunk on indulgence.
And now here I was,
brushing my teeth with cigarette ash and solvent,
smiling through iron veiners.
---
The second wish was ability.
The kind I dreamed of.
Summoning.
Not exactly Pokémon.
Not exactly Yu-Gi-Oh.
But close enough.
I wanted to control people,
if I'm honest.
Imagine summoning girls.
Making them obey.
The voice asked what creature I would want with me.
I said: a fairy.
Something cute.
Something to spy through.
Something to attract women.
What I got was her.
A sprite,
half bound,
half mocking.
She grants wishes—
but never straight.
Always bent.
Always poisoned.
And the rune she branded me with
runs like gold through my veins.
I can summon through hand,
through flesh,
through ground.
But anything not connected to me
lacks intent.
A puppet without strings.
Even when I summon her,
control falls short.
Always one step below.
I asked for something cute.
She gave me a red-and-white vermin,
black-eyed, twitching.
Some found it adorable.
To me it was nightmare.
I've asked her for more wishes since.
She hasn't answered.
Maybe it's a cooldown.
Maybe it's a debt.
Maybe she's just waiting,
watching me squirm.
---
Back in the tavern,
I tore bread with iron teeth,
swallowed rust with ale,
and wondered.
Was this really my second chance?
Or just the punchline to the cruelest joke
the universe had ever told?