“No path alone carries the future. The present chooses and the past remembers the choice.”

-Seer Aleximonopoulos, servant of the House of Balance

Micha Ostor was no more. What was one became three, barring the curse, and those three were sold as a knife, a gem, and a song. Freed from their shackles, the items blessed their owners with great speed, surprising wisdom, and an enchanting presence. In time, their reputation grew until even those living above Blood Falls took notice. One such seeker, the God of Minor Scars, Karistina Larisfin, came up with a plan to snatch all of them at the same time in order to present them as gifts to a visiting honored guest from afar.

The problem was, she wasn’t the only one with such plans.

The trickle of honey and mead tickled the fancy of the courier, but he shook his head as he tried his best to focus on his job. He jumped and leapt and occasionally warped through space itself in the confusing twists and turns of Blood Falls, his first two pairs of legs already curled up inside him from the fatigue. He almost reached his limit when the path was barred by some punk kid who thought it’d be fun to sever distance and time with a paradox, but he pulled through in the end.

After a flawless transition to a bakery rooftop, the courier finally could see his destination, or rather, the recipient of his package. The fool was enjoying ice cream and the view that no one in Blood Falls could escape from; the hovering Godhome, and the unending stream of sacrifices tossed below to the Infinite Lake below. A fitting if ironic choice of venue, the courier thought as he unfolded parts of his body into their true shapes.

His legs spread out and drilled into the rooftop as well as the air itself, while his chest expanded forward and back, revealing glowing organs zapping the air with barely contained energy. His spine split into two lengthwise, and the upper portion crawled upon the growing barrel of a gun made from his arms and the rest of what was left, affirming the flesh to their intended purpose. Finally, the package transmuted itself into the waiting chamber of the gun; a dense lance of metal, sharpened to a point.

The courier exhaled and started the count. His body did the work and his mind went somewhere else in the meantime. Wards and spells lit up on and around his body, and with the third breath out, the shot was made. A straight line as one could make, tearing through the air and soon enough impacting against an invisible barrier, which held for but a second before it shattered. This repeated enough time for the target to realize something was wrong and lift their head up just in time to see the tip of courier’s package.

“Package delivered.” The courier sent the message from his mind into a secure channel, which gave him the corresponding approval ping a few second later. He slowly started morphing back into his less conspicuous form, but not quick enough for a young boy to catch a glimpse of his visage. The screams that came caused the courier to curse his luck and started changing faster, foregoing clothes for the ease and speed of naked agility. With a surprised gasp, he felt a familiar tip reforming inside him, waiting for its next target.

The museum director of Blood Falls few museums beamed as he observed his men carefully put a ruby in the inset of a crown made out of silver ribs. It was to be part of the new exhibit called “God’s Fall”—dramatic and something of a boast, but an apt description. Of course, only this one ruby was something that came from a God…ling. It’s fine, even young deities are technically full deities, so it’s not really lying and besides, we don’t have a refund policy anyway. The museum director as he put in the last finishing touches to the display cases with some wards and spells wound extra-tight and powerful for good measure.

“Now then, I think we should resume our tour, no?” The museum director turned around and addressed the group of people behind him. They appeared both haggard and lively, moving and twisting and grooving in dance moves not at all out of place in nightclubs, were it not for their ragged attire and vacant stare and drooling mouths. They were visitors, once, but they made the mistake of visiting without buying a ticket from the proper channels, and so this was their punishment. Dancing without end.

“I first got the idea of a museum after visiting a place called Fullow’s Art in the Far, Farther East. No way to get to it now since You-Know-What, but they had an agreement with their Godhome that any obsolete artifacts of deities would be donated to the ones in the Retribution Fields in exchange for a soul promise that they’d never use the artifacts for purposes that could disturb the Godhome in any way.

“Of course, it took like a month for that promise to be broken and the deities killed everyone anyway, but I liked the idea of having parts of what makes those pompous asses upstairs either tick or use to bully us poor fielders on display like any other ordinary item. It removes the awe and fascination to a degree and allows a more level-headed examination of what lies beyond this place we call home.” The dance zombies nodded and swayed to the music, though the almost synchronized rolling of eyes all around made it clear that this was far from being the first time the museum director had talked to them at length.

"Then there’s-“ The museum director’s monologue was interrupted by the sound of shattering skulls and glass raining down on everyone. The zombies would’ve moaned in relief if they still had their heads, and the museum security thought nothing at all before their demise. As for the museum director, he was thrown onto his feet, glass scraping skin as his mind tried to make sense of what had happened. His answer came in the form of several figures rappelling down from the skylights and surrounding the museum director.

“Huh?! What?! Y-“ Complaints and outrage was stifled with the barrel of a gun shoved in the museum director’s mouth, and with a simple nod to the display case, the newly-minted hostage knew what the newcomers wanted. He quickly undid the wards and spells he’d put in place, along with some others added by security. With trembling knees and enough sweat to fill a bucket, the museum director finished his task, his knees giving way under the stress.

“Thanks for the gift, lover.” The masked figures blew a kiss to the museum director, before skilfully slithering back the way they came and vanishing into the night. The one left behind looked on for some sign that it was a dream or perhaps an illusion, but no, the glass remained and so did the corpses.

“Fuck me.” The museum director finally spoke. “I haven’t even gotten insurance for that thing yet.”

Wine-watered fields were rare, but they existed in Blood Falls. What flows in any river is the lifeblood that sustains, and so as long as it could be taken and watered, it could make things grow regardless of what it was supposed to be. And the smell sickened the boy so much that he’d rather be a paddler dredging through the most foul, waste-blocked canals than one more day working in his family’s fields.

About the only thing that made the boy’s life bearable was the owner of the sweet voice that sang come noon and no later. He quickly wiped his hands on his overall and cleaned up his face as best he could with what little clean water was around, then made his way over to the source of all his joys. A tall wall of jutting metal and unyielding granite stood in his way, but the boy had his own gifts to spare. With sound like parting water, the boy slipped through the smallest of cracks and arrived in his hiding spot, a forgotten grove of trees bent at just the right angle to hide under the crest of a small mound of earth.

With careful steps, the boy crawled to a well-worn spot on the mound, and took a deep breath before taking in the sight. And what a sight it was to see her, the love of his life and creator of all; the daughter of a Blood-Born nobleman and an Angelic merchant. Her wings draped over her shoulder like the most delicate of shawls, while finery and beauty covered the rest of her. She sat alone, sipping tea at her gazebo, but the boy knew better than to approach. But still, the voice that came in-between the sips tempted like the promise of tomorrow, and the boy tired of all felt its call within his soul.

Oh, my love. My deepest, strongest love of all. I love you more than life itself. I love you more than my fear of death. But I can’t bear the thought of you scorning me, so here I lie, waiting for your music to pass. The boy waxed poetry he didn’t know he possessed, his mind consumed with feeling so strong his body twitched, but the reality engraved deeper than his bones stayed his hand, and the pain of rejection paused him even more, enough for him to listen close as someone new came into the foray. Someone the boy despised.

His boots echoed, somehow, against the path to the gazebo in ways many people found all too familiar. He commanded respect, ruled with fear, and demanded love like a tyrant. And as the boy’s love turned to face him and gave him a courteous bow, the battle-hardened veteran’s gaze softened to that of a father. He took her hand and gently kissed it before removing his hat and asking, in the most polite tone his voice will ever take,

“May I come inside, my dear? I have great news for you.”

“Of course, Father. Please have a seat.” The daughter moved to pull out a chair for her sire, and the man took the gesture graciously. As the both of them sat down, the boy-turned-voyeur found himself with a difficult choice to make: whether to stay, or leave. He had no delusion that his love could ever be real or returned, but he feared the arrival of her father would spell the end of her presence here, where he could be the closest to his love. He could not bear the thought of a life without her in any shape or form. And as the vision of his old self dying in the fields, to be forgotten and consumed by the earth, while his love faded from sight, the boy made his choice.

“There will be a visit by the heir of a distant Godhome. He is curious about the Retribution Fields, and we suspect that he will attempt a brief visit of Blood Falls before returning home. It is imperative that you make yourself known to some capacity to the heir in order to elevate our family’s status amongst the rabble. At the very least, attempt to become a member of the heir’s personal servants. I will do my very best to clear the path and eliminate any rivals, but impressing the heir will fall on you and you alone. Have you been practicing?”

“Yes, Father.” The daughter spoke while her gaze remained fixed upon the ground. “I will not fail you on this.”

“Good. Rest assured, there is plenty of time before the heir arrives, so make sure you go above and beyond your limits. Your future depends on it.” The father dropped the last line as though it was a guillotine, leaving with a bow out of habit and without noticing at all the brief look of despair that flashed through the daughter’s face.

Far from the duo, the boy had left the grove and slipped back to his family’s farm, his mind racing with fear, with awe, with despair, and most concerningly, with a burning hope that shone like a beacon through his doubts.