[IMPORTANT NOTES -- PLEASE READ BEFORE PROCEEDING.
This story is unfinished. What I have below are scraps thrown in somewhat chronological order. Important context/ worldbuilding so that the story makes sense:
-- In this world, two races--Zeranths & Rihkarem (singular: Rihkari)--have been at war for millenia.
-- Both Zeranths and Rihkarem must initially gain their magic from outside sources: Zeranths from eating human flesh, Rihkarem from killing Zeranths. The magic then allows them access to the dimensions which they inhabit, herein called Zeranthia & Homeworld. Zeranths cannot enter Homeworld and vice versa.
-- Rihkarem government is controlled by an order called the "Priesthood".
-- The main characters are Xander "Xan" Grace and Maisy Grace. Xan was taken from Earth at ten years old and brought to Zeranthia, where they were raised until they managed to escape ten years later. Maisy is their older sister who, assuming her sibling had been killed, joined the Rihkarem (and later became a Priestess).
-- Xan Grace uses they/them pronouns. I apologize for any inconvenience this may cause.]
* * * * *
“IN THE BEGINNING, there were seven cities.”
The man’s voice took on a soothing lilt that could barely be heard over the sound of wind whipping through an open window and carriage wheels against stone. It reminded Maisy of her childhood—long car rides through the city at night, until the lights took on a smeared appearance through her half-closed lids.
There was still blood under her nails. They’d given her a chance to wash, but not enough time to really scrub. There were still dried flakes here and there. She scratched at them absentmindedly.
Maisy had no idea how long she’d sat in that room, waiting for something to happen. It could’ve been hours. It could’ve been days. She’d cried out every emotion she had and now she only felt numb.
At some point, a man walked in. The first thing she noticed about him was his face. His skin was dark, his hair gray, but his face—it was wrinkled and world-weary. Not just tired. Exhausted, the kind of exhaustion that seeped into your skin and bones and the lines of your face.
The second thing she noticed, and the one that unsettled her the most, was the way he moved: steady and calm and commanding, with the unwavering confidence of a soldier.
The man spoke to someone at the desk. Their voices carried. The girl from the case — no family, but we’re looking — I’ll take her in.
The man shook her hand and didn’t so much as blink at the blood. Didn’t acknowledge it at all, except to offer her a rag to wipe it off. She took it, grateful, and then they were in a carriage and the city was behind them.
And there was silence.
She watched the man—Titys was the name he’d given her—take a drag from his cigarette. Don’t those kill you? She’d asked, and he had laughed and said, I think these are the least of my worries.
He was right.
“Sol is the capital,” he continued, “It was the first city, and the biggest. It’s where most working Rihkarem live—and where all the government shit happens.”
As she’d watched the lights of Sol grow dimmer and dimmer behind them, she’d asked, “You don’t live there?”
He’d smiled like she said something amusing. “No. We’re going to Dovico. Sleepy little city in the south. It’s where retired Rihkarem go to live the rest of their life in peace, and where working Rihkarem send the kids they don’t have time to raise.” There was something slightly bitter in his tone, but Maisy didn’t have the time or energy to poke at it.
“Are you retired?” She asked instead, peeking at him from between her arms. She didn’t like to stare, and something told her Titys didn’t like to be stared at.
“In a manner of speaking.” He exhaled another puff of smoke, this one longer than the last. “Let’s just say I’m not the best at following orders. The Priesthood gave me a reason to shut up.”
They’d both left it at that.
* * * * *
From HISTORY OF THE THREE WORLDS, CHAPTER I, PART III: THEORIES
…the ecology of Homeworld is far too similar to Earth's to be a coincidence. Even the sky is a mirror of Earth’s: one sun, one moon. The only thing missing are stars. Not much is known about Zeranthia—and what is known is subject to great scrutiny—but it seems evident that if an organism can survive on Earth for an extended period of time, then its home environment must be at least somewhat similar.
This, combined with the lack of stars in both worlds, lends us an interesting theory: that both Homeworld and Zeranthia, or the planes in which they exist, are offshoots of Earth…given their altered nature, it seems likely that instead of 'fragments' or 'alternate paths', they [Homeworld & Zeranthia] are more like shadows: faded copies of a more concrete reality.
This theory is not the most popular, likely since it begs the question: If our worlds are mere shadows, then what's casting the light?
* * * * *
HOMEWORLD. That’s what they called it.316Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwspRigQuE5
It was funny. Zeranths called their own world the exact same thing, more or less. Literally speaking it meant light, and the word for ‘Homeworld’ meant darkness. It stemmed from the original creation myth: that in the beginning, there was Zeranthia—a bright ball of heat and blood and life—and Homeworld—a dark void of ice and silence. And from the space where they touched sprung the Earth, and from the Earth sprung seasons and humans and everything that would ever be needed across all the worlds.
Xan could believe it. They’d lived in Zeranthia for most of their life, and it’d done damage—to their lungs, to their skin. But the air on Earth was so clean, cool and fresh and right. It was like stepping into an oasis after so much time spent in the desert.
Homeworld, on the other hand, was more like a refreshing dip into a pool of ice.
It was the same sinister hatred they'd felt around the Rihkari. It wasn’t in the air, Xan thought. It was in their bones. In their blood. Beneath their skin.
A wrongness. Freezing them, slowing their movements; making them weak, complacent, vulnerable—
The Rihkari noticed their discomfort. “It always feels weird the first time,” they said. Xan wondered if the discomfort was purely Zeranthian or whether it was a sign of their humanity. Maybe both.
The train was silent, eerily so. The portal they’d entered had spat them out several kilometers from the city, presumably in case Zeranths ever managed to get through. Smart.
The Rihkari shifted as if unsure what to do with herself. The hatred had faded from her eyes, but not her magic. Xan’s skin crawled with it. “When we get to the capital,” she started, “You’ll have to talk to an agent. Tell them about your situation. We have protocols for this.” Xan wondered if ‘this’ meant mages in general or mages who claimed they’d escaped from Zeranthia itself. Probably the former. “Then the agent may bring in a Priest.”
“And after that?”
“I’m not sure,” the Rihkari admitted. “Nothing like this has ever happened before.”
Xan wondered at that. Humans had been taken to Zeranthia for centuries, and in all those years, they were the first to escape. The realization settled against them like another layer of magic, just as uncomfortable as the last.
Once again, the Rihkari sensed their discomfort. When she spoke, her voice was as gentle as it’d ever been. "Most likely, you’ll be treated like any other mage. Placed in a wayhouse until this gets sorted. Then given the option between reintegrating into human society or staying in Homeworld.”
Xan blinked and glanced at the violet-tinged evening sky. “I could stay?” They asked. “Here?”
“Of course,” the Rihkari said as if it were obvious. “Once humans get a taste of magic, most don’t want to give it up. And the Priesthood always needs more Rihkarem on duty. They welcome newcomers. It’s a bit of a process, though,” she added. “A few years, plus training.”
Somehow, they’d never considered the option. Even their most detailed fantasies were unclear on the details of what happened after they arrived in Homeworld. Sure, Xan could pretend to be human for a few weeks—but after that? When they began to wither and starve? How would they explain?
To stay was impossible. And even if it weren’t…the wrongness under their skin would never go away. Staying would be torture.
There was no future for them in Homeworld.
“The process for reintegrating into human society is much shorter,” the Rihkari continued. “We’ll contact any family you have left. Make up some cover story. You’ll have to give up your magic, obviously, but you get to keep the memories. There was a huge debate a few decades ago over whether memory alteration is a violation of human rights—”
Xan’s brain stalled at that one word. Family. They knew for a fact their mother and brother were dead. They didn’t remember any extended family, but then again they’d only lived on Earth for ten short years. Maybe they were out there, somewhere. Not that it mattered. If Xan ever made it out of here—here being Homeworld, or maybe the entire War—they wouldn’t want to put whatever family they had in danger. As usual, their future was a bleak picture.
Still. It’d be nice to know.
“—only when absolutely necessary,” the Rihkari finished. “And you’ll get check-ins. For the first few years, at least.”
“Those are my options?” Xan asked. “Stay here and become a Rihkari or leave and lose all my magic?”
“Well,” the Rihkari shifted uncomfortably. “Yes.”
“Hm.” The blue light of Homeworld’s sun slanted through the windows and cast their face in shadow. “I think I’d like to see the ocean,” they admitted. “I haven’t seen a beach in.…” They trailed off. “Since I left.”
“Xan, if I may ask…” The Rihkari’s tone was hesitant, uncertain. It made their entire body tense in dread. “How long were you in Zeranthia?”
Xan stayed silent, not out of reluctance but out of contemplation. They hadn’t paid attention to time in Zeranthia. There was no point. Every day was the same: an unending, eternal hell. Decades could’ve passed. Centuries. “I’m not sure how time passes there,” they answered honestly. “But I was ten years old when I was taken.”
“Oh,” the Rihkari said.
Xan let out a breath that was almost, almost a sigh. Truth be told, they were tired. Watching your childhood slip away between your fingers was no easy task. It hit them in waves: little deaths, one after the other after the other after the other. Xan Grace would never go to school. Xan Grace would never have a family. Xan Grace’s life would be bleak and brutal and most likely short.
And Xan Grace would never see the ocean.
How do you mourn your own death? They thought. A blue-tinged sun set over a violet sky. Endlessly, it seems.
The rest of the ride was silent.
* * * * *
SOL MET ALL their expectations.
They weren’t sure what they’d been expecting, exactly, but they’d always pictured Homeworld as the polar opposite of Zeranthia: a vast, lush grassland, or perhaps an icy tundra.
The reality was a mixture of both: grassland morphed to forest and the forest rolled steadily uphill, until they rounded a corner and suddenly saw a great city nestled between two mountain peaks.
The train shuddered to a stop outside the city, and from there they walked. Besides trains, walking was the main form of transportation in Homeworld. Xan drew their hood low over their face as they walked the streets.
They came to a building in the center of the city. Xan hadn't read English since they left Earth, so it took them a moment to piece together the words on the building's doors.
PUBLIC AFFAIRS OFFICE.
"This is where Rihkarem go to report after missions," Adrianna explained.
They went in, words were exchanged, and the Rihkari brought them to a room that stank of magic. As soon as Xan entered, pain stabbed through their tongue as though it’d been pierced with a needle. They would’ve gasped were the sensation not so familiar: a truth spell.
This was an interrogation room, then.
Almost every jail in Zeranthia had them, though usually they were imposed on the person, not the room, and through much more brutal methods. Xan wondered why the Rihkarem would put themselves at such a disadvantage. Perhaps they held themselves above lying during an interrogation. More likely the spell had a failsafe that protected them.
Xan massaged their jaw as two more Rihkarem entered the room. The two—three, counting Adrianna—were obviously unequal in rank. If nothing else, one was too young to hold any authority, and judging from the many sigils sewn into his uniform that whispered integrity and intelligence instead of strength or protection, he wasn’t the type to demand it.
The second Rihkari, on the other hand…
She reminded Xan of Rihkari warriors they’d seen in history textbooks. Unlike her subordinate, she wore a loose-fitting gray robe, the sun image over the chest lacking a red dot in the center. She carried herself with the kind of confidence that came from many battles fought and won. Xan guessed she was a Priestess, the ones Adrianna spoke so highly of. That alone made them wary. The weapons they could see hidden under her robe didn’t help.
The Rihkarem sat down. The younger pulled out quill, ink, and paper. The Priestess remained standing.
“Alright." She nodded at them. “Start from the beginning.”
Xan glanced at Adrianna, who motioned for them to start. They didn't need to be told twice. They'd been waiting for this day their entire life—and after so long, they knew exactly what to say.
“My name is Xander Grace,” they began. “But my mother called me Xan.”
* * * * *
IN ZERANTHIA, there was no such thing as winter.
The heat was inescapable. During the dry season there were droughts, sandstorms, and rainless lightning that set the forests ablaze. The wet season was no better. In those months the thunderstorms turned to monsoons that flooded every town for weeks on end.
It was even worse in the Farms. The Royal one was more well-protected than the ones out in the Lowlands, but still the only dwellings were made by the inhabitants, often out of mud and sticks. In the wet season, houses could be swept away. In the dry season, all the water they got was saved for drinking, and the entire village baked in the heat.
Still, the Farm had no fence, nor a need for one. The humans never tried to escape. There was nowhere to go—nothing but miles of populated Zeranth territory, and beyond that: desert. They’d die of thirst if they weren’t eaten alive.
It was there, with the castle above and the sprawling expanse of Zeranthia below, that Xan grew up.
Here, they paused, a bit unsure of how to continue. They’d rehearsed these lines before, but never under the watchful gaze of a Rihkari. They’d danced around the truth before, but never had it felt so damning. Their tongue burned. Maybe it was the spell. It might’ve been the guilt.
I grew up in the royal Farm, they said.
A man took me under his wing, they said.
After killing a Zeranth for its magic—
(Here, they faltered, tongue burning, the truth threatening to force its way in.)
—I managed to escape.
The words tasted bitter and metallic, underlaid with such hypocritical irony that Xan could hardly force them out. To stand before Rihkarem, the protectors of humans, and tell their story, leaving out which side Xan had fought for all those years—it was a deception they could barely stomach.
Yet it was necessary. Hatred ran deep as blood, and both sides were covered in it. Rihkarem had spent generations trying their very best to wipe Zeranths off the face of the Earth.
What would they do if they found a hybrid?
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