When the Sage descended from the mountain to visit a humble village by the shore, word of his arrival spread faster than wildfire. There was not a man, woman, child, or dog in the village proper who did not know of the Sage’s arrival. Naturally, the Fisherman’s Assistant found out two days later, and only then because he spotted a new face in town.

The Assistant had been content to spend his days working on the coast. However, the fisherman had needed an extra pair of hands to sell fish in the market while he and his wife went to mingle with the proper villagers—that is, those individuals who in fact lived inside the vaguely defined village border, rather than in a cottage within shouting distance of said border. Since the Assistant was not one to refuse a task, this was the first afternoon in months that he visited the village itself. Only the seasons had changed; the people and layout were exactly as the Assistant remembered from his last trip to the marketplace.

Business was slow today. The Assistant had only sold two fish in the last three hours, both to the same customer. He was beginning to contemplate a nap on the sun-warmed stones by the roadside when a voice drew his attention. The vegetable vendor had leaned over to hiss at the baker’s cart opposite the Assistant: “Look there—the Sage!”

The Assistant craned his neck to see this new spectacle. A Stranger in a mossy green, mud-stained travel cloak ambled down the street. His face was kind and ageless, just as the Assistant imagined a Mountain Sage to appear, and his hair was the color of fresh-forged copper. The Sage paused to paw through a display of fruits, purchasing a basket of pears from the awestruck vendor. At another stall, he exchanged one coin for a parcel of flatbread. He eventually wandered over to inspect the latest batch of fish.

“Well met, Mountain Sage of the East,” the Assistant greeted.

The Sage tensed. His wise verdant eyes flashed up to meet vermillion ones in an identical, though significantly more overgrown, face. “My mountain is north of here, actually.”

Another street vendor might have recoiled from the unexpected scrutiny. However, unease was a concept that the Assistant had never grasped. He simply frowned at the mistake.

“North? I could have sworn...” The thought faded from the Assistant’s mind. “Right, sorry about that, good sir. Don’t know what I was thinking. Obviously it can’t be East—the ocean is to the east and all.”

After a moment that stretched on for hours, the suspicious lines of the Sage’s face softened into a wry smile. “Indeed it is, and the Crown is to the west. Well met, Fisherman’s Assistant of the West. How much for this fine trout?”

The Assistant quoted a price, coins changed hands, and the satisfied customer wandered off. The fisherman would be pleased; the Sage had paid the full amount without even attempting to negotiate. The Assistant absently marked the transaction in the sales log, humming to himself. Wisps of cloud sprawled across the blue sky, scattering the sunlight into a diffuse silver glow.

Today had been a splendid day, just like all of the days that the Assistant could remember.

Presently, the Traveler came to a remote village by the shore, where the coastal air blew clean and fresh over the rocky cliffs. A hut was nestled among the distant spires of stone. By the cliffside a little way closer to the traveler, an auburn-haired Villager was deeply engrossed in carving a bow. As the Traveler approached, a gust of wind blew the matted forelocks away from the Villager’s face.

“Marshal of the West!” cried the Traveler, drawing his sword in a flash. White knuckles clenched around its hilt. As he approached with cautious steps, the humble Villager looked up from his work. He set the knife aside and brushed wood shavings from his trousers.

“Have we met before, good lad?” Not a spark of recognition flashed in those amber eyes. The Villager inspected the Traveler’s sword with curiosity, not fear.

Long seconds passed. The Traveler sheathed his sword.

“No. My mistake. I once knew another with similar looks.” The Traveler waved at the half-carved bow in the Villager’s lap. “Would you teach me? If, that is, you think I am ready to learn...?”

The Villager chuckled warmly.

“You want to learn from me, a humble Fisherman’s Assistant? If you can ask, of course you are ready. An open mind and willing hands are all that a student needs. Anything you want to learn, just ask. For another fishing pole... fetch me a few of those sticks, would you?” The Fisherman’s Assistant waved at a small heap of branches.

The carving project was a fishing pole, then, not a bow. Smiling faintly, the Traveler fetched three springy-looking sticks.

“The first step to building a good pole is finding the right wood. See how this branch has small grains, while this other one has a more fibrous texture...” The Assistant explained in detail the process of choosing a good starting stick. The Traveler noticed that, although the Assistant’s recollection had been damaged, his attention to detail was still as keen as ever. When the Assistant finished talking about wood choice, he started to carve the half-finished pole again. Each stroke of the knife was deliberate and efficient.

“I never knew that building a fishing pole could be this complex, and yet still intuitive,” the Traveler said in amazement. “You have become a true expert in these crafts.”

“Heh, it’s probably nothing compared to what I used to do. In my younger days, I must have been a much better craftsman.” The Assistant showed the Traveler callused hands, marked with the proof of countless battles and pyrotechnics. “My memory might not be what it once was, but I still have eyes. These hands show that I used to be a decent woodworker. Perhaps even a metalsmith. They still remember how to shape raw materials, even when my mind does not.”

The Traveler’s suspicions were confirmed. Someone must have indeed worked powerful sorcery on the Marshal’s mind. He should have been pleased that his greatest Enemy no longer considered him an opponent. Instead, he mourned the irony of this meeting: the one time that the Master of Flame was actually willing to teach the Traveler anything, said Master no longer remembered the ways of flame that the Traveler most wanted to learn.

The Fisherman’s Assistant lounged against a throne of barnacle-encrusted rock, peering into the depths of the ocean. An equally deep puzzlement was etched across the few surfaces of his face that could be seen beneath a cloud of overgrown auburn whiskers. His voice crackled like water tossed upon a stove.

“The villagers say that the tides brought me from danger to friendly nets. Neither they nor I know what form of danger might have set me adrift in the first place.”

The Fisherman’s Assistant waved a calloused hand at the dark-clothed Traveler perched on the neighboring rock. Though still spry with youth, this Traveler had seen and done more in his lifetime than most who had survived to a wise old age. Only in recent years had he learned to exercise caution. The Traveler was tense and ready to flee at the slightest sign of hostility. However, the Fisherman’s Assistant did not appear concerned with anything more than the distant blue line of the melded sea and sky.

“Consider yourself fortunate, lad. You still remember your youth. Perhaps, when you grow as old as I am, you too shall forget... no, no, I jest. Fear not, lad! Nothing is truly lost in this world. One day, I will rediscover the past that I have misplaced.”

“If the Sage’s gift can ever be undone, my position is indeed precarious. You will know that I am not your friend. Your power is matched by only one, and that one is not me; I defeated you by sheer luck. You will call upon your flames, and I will be toast—again, as it ever was,” the Traveler thought. A gust of wind swept in from the sea, and the Traveler shivered. He pressed a gloved hand to the padded inner edge of the opposite forearm, where steel lay concealed under a dark sleeve. The sleek lines of the knife comforted his nerves.

“One day,” the Traveler echoed aloud. He spat out a laugh that any ordinary villager might have found agreeable. The sound was enough to tear his companion’s sunset-red gaze from the horizon.

“And you will be there to see it,” the Fisherman’s Assistant said. His eyes crinkled with well-intentioned fondness. The Traveler returned the smile, but his fingers dug into the charcoal cloth at his wrist.

“I will be there,” the Traveler promised. Dark eyes slid shut as he tilted his face toward the golden sunset. He would enjoy this gold while it lasted, yet never could he forget the bitter sting of steel. Perhaps one day, the Traveler would find that the Fisherman’s Assistant remembered more than he ought to, and a wayward legend would set the sky aflame over a village turned to ash. The Traveler hoped that the day would never come, and yet—“If we are indeed fated to clash again, may this trial be our last.”

Citizens moved in neat lines upon the walking lanes of the main roads: order, pure and beautiful under the evening sun. Standing atop the Hall of Governance, the Cloud watched over the manifestation of her design and smiled. This was one province, not an empire, but the Cloud’s success could not be denied. This was her penance for the missteps of the past: the creation of a new order—a better order.

Order, once instated, could only grow. Such was the nature of perfection. All in the city obeyed the new order set forth by the local governor, who in turn obeyed the Cloud. All was clean and bright under the sky; all was strong and efficient over the land. All save one. The governor himself had sought not the purity of their task, but rather the promise that she had traded for his cooperation long ago.

The Cloud laid a hand upon the governor’s shoulder.

“Thank you for your efforts, friend. Your cooperation was invaluable. Our task is almost complete, and soon you shall have your just reward.”

The Cloud descended to the town square, admiring the efficiency of the citizens. In the marketplace, goods exchanged hands with barely a word; in the streets, carts and wagons expertly flowed about one another, directed by traffic controllers. The Cloud walked among these citizens. Almost perfect. She paused to speak in one ear, and another, and another.

Soon. All would be perfect soon.

The Cloud vanished into the dusk, her white robes blending with the grey of the streets.

The sunrise shone in splendid gold when the Cloud returned to a tranquil town square. Citizens went about their business in neat lines, but several were stationary. They held mops and buckets, cleaning the last crimson stains of imperfection from the cobblestone street.

The Cloud smiled. True order needed no governance; it existed in self-perpetuation.

The Cloud departed in silence, and a thousand strands of time unfurled before her mind. Past and present, choices and consequences—the right whisper in the right ear, she knew, could topple an Empire or raise it anew. The future she chose was one that had already come to pass. One day, the golden Crown would tarnish in corruption; one day, as the wheels of rebirth turned once more, a young Scholar would peer into the depths of night and interpret a distant star as the first trace of dawn. Some paths eternal, and some transient—all became cyclic in the end. It was the way events were, and it was the way events must always be.