Walking down his hallway, Sentence was reminded of his place in the universe. He wasn’t an instrument of hope. Nor of life, nor of peace. He was an instrument of fear, control, and finally change. But not the change in which both sides threw down their weapons and came to a mutual understanding.

He was the change only death could provide. The punishment of the old, no matter what their crimes may be, and the new initiated in a spray of lifeblood.

Why had he even bothered trying to play at the savior? Prisoner would have been powerful enough to grant Elach a bond. He should have turned him aside. Or never even spoken to him. Pretended to be a simple axe stuck in an Issi infused stump. But he had to play the hero. Hope that he could do something bloodless that would change the world.

Instead he’d created another prisoner. One that would barely get to taste the wonders of the world before being chained away. He would make what little life Elach managed to live the best he could damn well give him, he decided as he passed one of the portraits of the ever shifting inverters. Even if it meant delving into forbidden techniques. Sentence chuckled at the thought. He still called them forbidden, even when those who had forbade them were centuries, or even millennia dead and forgotten.

In the middle of his stride, Sentence stepped between spaces and found himself in a dark cave somewhere on the fringes of his headspace. He snapped his fingers and a spark of light popped to life in front of him, spreading to all the light fixtures moments later. They shone with a manufactured glow, their soft white light unlike anything the natural world could produce, illuminating a cozy alcove with a few shelves of books, a single armchair, and a fire pit. If he’d known he’d be imprisoning himself along with Prisoner, Sentence would have thought to move more of his possessions from his dwelling in the real world to here. But that was ancient history, he chuckled, and dwelling on the past would get him nowhere.

His feet sank a few inches into the thick rug that had been woven from the wool of some Issi sheep that no longer existed, soothing and calming him to the core as it worked its wonders. Maybe he should bring Elach back here before he left, Sentence considered. It might do the boy some good. He stood still for a moment and relished in the lavish relaxation of the rug’s Issi before moving towards the smallest of four bookcases.

This one held his personal favorites, and was within arm’s reach from his chair. It held mostly historical fiction, exaggerated portrayals of people he alone remembered for who they were. It was like listening to the tales told at a tavern after a successful battle, drink flowing and spirits raised as high as they could be while under the constant threat of utter annihilation. But they were rooted in reality, no matter how they’d been altered for entertainment’s sake, and if he was going to find a compression technique for an Issi type that had last been seen among the gods’ bonded, exaggerated reality might be the place to look.

Skimming over the Tales of Trehvin left Sentence with a few ideas, but nothing solid. He set the book aside with a small smile, the memories of better times filling him with a happy nostalgia. But, as usual, happiness did not last long, and Sentence moved onto Lucent Nights with a sad smile.

Ten books in, Sentence had a few leads that he hoped he might be able to weave into a technique Elach might be able to make work. The only problem, like every other thing he’d tried so far, was Flow. Elach’s greatest advantage, though until he had an armory of techniques, they were a weight that dragged him down. He pushed that thought aside and stretched as he stood from his chair, intending to hop back to the main house and get supper before spending the night combing through the rest of his small collection.

“I see you’ve snared another one for your collection.” A voice that rattled like rusty chains said from behind Sentence. “Though two could hardly be called a collection, now, could it?”

All of his muscles went taught at the sound. This thing shouldn’t be advanced enough to know itself, never mind speaking. “I see you’ve grown.” He said in a level voice, trying to keep any emotion out of his voice.

A clinking shrug let him know he’d succeeded. “Wasn’t it you who chained the boy to me? Or do I have someone else to thank for the influx of recognition and Issi I just got?”

Sentence stifled a curse. “How long have you been able to manifest a form, wretch?”

“You should know the answer to that.” The voice laughed, stepping into Sentence’s field of view. “After all, there are now three people that know I exist.”

The manifestation of Sentence’s chimeric Issi prison wasn’t fully formed, but the fact that they had managed a form at all was beyond concerning. They looked like a torso from the ribs up with chainmail instead of skin, and links of chain falling from the abdomen imitating the entrails of a corpse had it been in a similar state. A curtain of chain fell over where the arms should be, formed into long octopus-like tentacles that dragged silently along the ground. The manifestation had no neck, their head a ball of oily black liquid that dripped into chain links that clinked to the ground before shattering into shards of black glass and disappearing.

“Why have you come here, wretch?” Sentence said. “Are you hoping I will allow Elach to truly bond with you so that you may leave?”

“Oh, I know that will never happen.” The manifestation laughed, a sound that made Sentence want to claw his eardrums to uselessness. “But it doesn’t have to, does it? Because you know exactly how much of you is bonded with that boy, and it isn’t one hundred percent.”

“You haven’t answered my first question.” Sentence said with a forced calm. His hatred threatened to bubble over, and with each passing moment it got closer and closer to the edge.

“Which one was that again? Oh, right, why I’m here.” The manifestation nodded, splatting chains over Sentence’s rug. “Because I want to negotiate. As long as I’m stuck here with you, that boy will never truly be free. I’ll weaken him, hold him back, and make sure he eventually finds his way back to the cell for eternity. But you don’t want that, for some reason. And I’m willing to undo my part of the bond. At a cost, of course.”

“No.” Sentence said.

“What do you mean no?” The manifestation asked, reeling in surprise. “You haven’t even heard my demands! Don’t you care about the kid?”

“His name is Elach.” Sentence said. “And I do care about him. Just not in the way you seem to think I do.”

“Then I demand you transfer half of your Issi into me.” The manifestation said, thinking that he’d gotten Sentence’s attention. “I’ll let the kid go once you do.”

“You don’t seem to understand your position here.” Sentence said, and he dropped all pretenses. His Issi flared, not like a dying sun, but that of the celestial entity executing said sun for its crime of existing. “All you have, I’ve given to you. And don’t think I can’t see the spirit lurking in the depths of your Issi, wretch. I see you for what you truly are.”

The manifestation shrunk away, finally realizing that they were dealing with a monster the likes of which are only supposed to exist in fairy tales.

“And you don’t even realize the follies you’ve committed.” Sentence belted out a short, cruel laugh, the kind he hadn’t let out since the last time he executed an eternal. “If I destroyed your actual being, the mishmash of shackles and Issi used to contain Prisoner, the backlash would destroy him. And I swore an oath not to harm any more innocents.”

“An oath?” The manifestation laughed the laugh of a cornered animal lashing out at its predator. “To who? Everyone you cared about is dead!”

“To the only person whose opinion truly matters.” Sentence said, stepping towards the manifestation and getting a sick thrill from the way they shied away. “To myself. But that is only for the pure item. You see, when an item, place, or anything else manifests a form, their fates are intertwined and yet slightly separate. If you kill a juvenile manifestation, such as yourself,” Sentence gestured at the manifestation, “they simply return to their original form. But if you kill a mature manifestation, do you know what happens?”

Sentence smiled wide, feeling the sharp corners of his mouth grind against each other under his thick beard. “The item they manifested from crumbles to dust. No backlash, no returning to a previous form, nothing. Which means that, although you gaining sentience was a horrible mistake on my part, you will serve an end for me.”

The manifestation shrieked and tried to run, but they stayed in place. Sentence stepped forward with a snikt as his feet cut through the thick wool of the rug, the manifestation screaming their non-existent throat raw as he drew ever closer. He drank in their panic and fear like a fine wine he remembered from centuries ago, stomping on a chain tentacle that burst into single links under the impossible weight of his foot.

“You better hope Elach fails, wretch.” Sentence whispered, his words cutting through the shriek like surgical steel. “For as he grows, you grow. And when you’re fattened up and powerful enough to fully manifest yourself?” Sentence ran a finger over the black orb down to where the manifestation’s chin would be, a waterfall of black liquid soiling his rug as it spilled out of the orb. “The harvest will be plentiful.”