AFTER // IMAGE

The glimmering light of the Scope pulses through the streets, magic rushing through the seastone pathways like veins. Ley lines, more specifically, though that’s never been my area of expertise. Above the city of Adartos hovers a painted facsimile of the aurora of the Sky, pure magic weaving out into the Beyond.

That’s where they’re looking. Day after day, week after week, pitifully desperate scientists delve into the mists of the Scope, looking for something. They won’t speak its name — not where curious minds wander, not on the fringes of wakefulness and sleeping. Not anywhere.

We have secrets, us Astrii. We’re a nation of progress, but also of great sacrifice. Some might call it a necessary evil, but I don’t consider it evil at all; we all know that the work we do is in service of our people as a whole, in service of the entire galaxy. Even the land dwellers, primitive and unformed in their knowledge, know better than to attempt to distract us from our work.

And yet, despite our single minded desire for progress, not all of us believe in the future that has been plotted before us by the Scope.

My holdings in Adartos are lavish enough that people question the importance of my work. How can anything be more important than the work being done in the Scope? Never mind the fact that I’m unravelling the secrets of the mortal mind itself, weaving mysteries into the very synapses that blink with every thought. No matter how much they offer me in wealth, knowledge, or assets, however, I blatantly refuse to participate in this farce that is the Scope. The song and dance of quasi intelligent life seeking to prevent the unpreventable, something so terrible that it cannot be uttered, is nothing but a reckless waste of time and resources. The obsession with peace, the desire to learn before conquering, the need to abandon everything else in service of one goal; it is all, to put it plainly, pathetic. I believe in my work too much to sell it for paltry coin to an entity that refuses to take combative action against such a huge threat.

We are intelligent, but only when compared to our lesser land cousins. There are countless things in the universe waiting to be discovered, but the High Astrii seek the answer to only one of nature’s conundra. Life goes on in Adartos, day to day, if only as an illusion that shrouds our one singular goal — the thing that drives every single breath we take. I resent it all. I resent the child, looking to the Scope and hoping to one day be part of that goal. I resent the artist, carving murals into white stone of eyes gazing outwards into the cosmos, far beyond our imaginations. I resent the High Astrii most, the way they lord over us as if their knowledge is somehow worth more than what I have bled and burned to earn.

I was invited to join the High Astrii once. It was many years ago, after my research in Phenidora made such unprecedented advancements in the storage of information building off the model of the live mortal brain that they were able to use my work to reprogram a digital archive spanning back centuries. They recognised my genius, but they failed to realise that I was one step above in the food chain: what they asked for, I took. Without the confidence to hunt, there is no growth. They called me arrogant and ambitious — and what is wrong with ambition? Those who lack ambition grow drowsy and fat with complacency, content to graze on the green seagrass of Known forevermore. I am no grazer. I delve into Unknown every single day, venturing deep into undiscovered and unchartered waters.

I was told it was a great snub to them when I turned them down, but I sense that it will not be as offensive as what I am about to do today.

I glance at my chronoscope, then promptly unfold my legs and detangle myself from the precarious position I have settled upon on my balcony, briefcase packed and ready by my side. If I make good time, as I have calculated I will, I’ll reach the Passage in time for the emissary’s consultation. Contact with our lessers is rare, but always well organised and planned very much in advance. Recently, it has been more frequent, thanks to the addition of a youth to the High Astrii who seems to view the land dwellers as something akin to pets or cute, undeveloped animals. If I didn’t disapprove of giving away such valuable resources as our research to such barbarians, I would almost be able to admit that it’s convenient today for my purposes.

Wings burst forth from my back, so familiar to me that the transition is painless in the weight that my shoulders must now carry, batlike and powerfully muscled at the root of the joint. I prefer not to put on such crass displays, but needs must, and as I stretch my wingspan as far as it can go, all I feel is the distinct sense of rightness.

It’s been years, old friends, since we last met. I’m not sorry for hiding you, but I regret that I will have to do it once more.

Without a moment to lose, I glide out over the city, my briefcase in hand. The light hums in my veins, coursing up through the ley lines themselves, aiding my strength as I push through to the last thing I will ever see. Beneath me, no one bats an eye at the man soaring above the streets or the enchanted portmanteau in his arms, gaze fixed determinedly on a single point. There’s something within me that gasps with losing breath, aching to cry out look, look! But that is childish sentiment, something I thought I did away with aeons ago, and something I do not wish to encourage. Instead, I let the colours of Adartos ribbon out at the periphery of my vision, a marble kissed font of wealth, honour, and prestige. Gold wings arcing out from the pristine architecture of my brothers and sisters, pavements lines with the iridescent scales of the leviathan seabeasts from which we harvest resources. Globes and orbs and pockets of space, personalised and yet without the need for privacy when all beauty is to be shared. The gardens within these greenhouses amused me, once, seeming little more than a wasteful hobby. Now, I find myself wondering if the years ahead will fog these memories from my mind.

Not because I think I’ll miss them, but because I have to make sure that whatever I do out there, it’s better than this. In time, they’ll come to regret their foolishness.

I tear through the Sky, shimmering synthesised clouds raining down like snow upon the pavement as I weave between buildings, my wings old but strong. It’s like shaking the pins and needles out of a dead limb — uncomfortable at first, almost burning with the pain, but then so freeing. When I crest the city’s border, diving into the water is as easy as breathing.

We have aqueducts running through our cities, canals as plentiful as roads, and some civilisations choose to live their lives in interconnected webs of bubbles. In Adartos, the city itself is the bubble, magical wards keeping the crushing pressure of the ocean’s depths from crashing down on our heads. Controlled amounts of water stream through the city side by side with land features, cascading through the opalescent waterways into a maze of rivers. Astrii cannot live without the sea, an old proverb once said. What it really meant was that man cannot live without that which he was born from or accustomed to, but the literal translation rings true, too.

It’s why my decision took so long to make.

I carve my way through the dark waves. A single blink and a beacon of light bursts forth from the crest seated upon my head, piercing the dark waters like a needle through felt. There’s an underground locomotive that the emissary will be taking, soon to arrive at the Passage and prepare for the opening of the channel between land and sea. It may be fast, but with the runes of speed I drew upon my wings this morning, I cut through the waters as smoothly as a knife.

Still, when I reach the Passage, the emissary is already there. She’s young enough to be foolish, but not so young that she’s inexperienced. I watch as the spell takes effect, opening up the Passage from a speck of light until it is as wide as a clearing, the patch of sea floor dry for the first time in centuries. A fish flops pathetically in the sand, choking on air. There is nowhere for me to hide, but that is no problem: a finger pressed to a carved symbol on my arm activates my temporary invisibility rune, forged from magic syphoned from an illusory mage working at my lab. I’ve been planning this for a long time. I’ve considered every possibility.

The land contingency descends, odd and uncivilised even in appearance. Their arms are too weak for swimming, their tails too narrow to use either as paddle or rudder, and even their fur lacks the oil of the Astrii. I have never seen land dwellers until now — not in person, at the very least, though I have perused much documentation and research in preparation for my life above the waves.

Such is my plan: when the emissary’s contingency is closest together and the exchange with the land dwellers is in progress, flashbang them with my amplified light spell. Following this, activate the runes of fleet footedness at my ankles — the wings of the Astrii are built for gliding, not flying — and run up the sides of the tunnel, my feet on the water. After such an eternity of planning, my plan feels almost too simple and rudimentary, and yet the Passage is designed to allow travel only one way and can be closed as swiftly as it is drawn open. Yes, this is my only option, for I’m far too recognisable and, more to the point, far too recognisably Astri to blend in with the land dweller entourage, if I’d ever lower myself to such a consideration in the first place.

The emissary is conversing with a strange cloven hoofed beast. The syllables I can catch are all the common tongue, a rejection of our complex Astrii tradition of linguistics. The least these bottom feeders could do would be to attempt to learn our language, but even that is beyond the small mindedness of these creatures. No matter — it serves as a good distraction for my own means.

My chronoscope ticks readily. When the hands are in place to perfectly allow for enough time for my ascent, I trigger the flash.

I wouldn’t say I’ve practised this so much as I’ve studied it, flexing the muscle of the light magic that’s seated deep within my flesh until it was loose and ready for this overexertion. My findings determined that a flash of this scale would deplete my light magic until a period of rest, leaving me vulnerable and, much as I hate the word, weak.

Fortunately, I am also adept in the weaving of arcane and astral magics. For the past few weeks, I’ve been syphoning the life force of my underlings in small doses, barely enough to be noticeable and easily remedied by ample doses of caffeine. To me, however, this stockpile is enough to give me the extra push I need.

Light explodes forth from my body, blindingly bright. If I were foolish enough to have my eyes open, they would be burnt to the point of near blindness — nothing a healer couldn’t remedy, but in this case, enough to disorient and disable any pursuers I might have. I can almost see it in my head, the way I glow like some holy being, a god among people. A nova of galactic proportions, light pillaring up through the Passage like a marker that screams here is he, Ozaron of Adartos!

But my time is limited. At any point, the emissary could trigger the closing of the Passage, and so my fingertips dip to my ankles, brushing against the rune I painstakingly carved into the bone the night before. The needling pain was only a sign of my commitment. Now, there’s no pain, only pure adrenaline rushing through my veins as the supernatural strength and speed seeps into my form like a familiar embrace.

One foot against the rippling wall of water, then the next. This part I didn’t have the privilege of testing under laboratory conditions, but my calculations and hypotheses should hold true. Still, if I fail here — no, I cannot fail. I shall not fail. Not I, with all my knowledge, expertise, and sheer physical might at my side.

It holds. With a crack like the thunderclap of a deepstorm, I run. I hear the cries of the minglers behind me echoing up the Passage like a clear note through a flute. And then I feel it rather than see it: the water pushing up against my feet. Above me, so distant that it feels otherworldly, the window to the Above growing incrementally smaller like a potter narrowing the neck of the ceramic he crafts on his wheel.

The pressure beneath my feet only pushes me onwards, spurring me to move faster. Better. The burn in my muscles is like fire, searing at my joints — I feel held together by string, a loose piece of thread and a fine stitch the only thing stopping me from unravelling completely into a pile of bones. But this is my only chance; if I fail now, my reputation will be lost. I’ll be branded a traitor rather than the insurrectionist I am, rebelling against this farce of a system. Going to the Above not to aid them, but to further knowledge of the Unknown, the true aim of the Astrii.

The pain is nigh unbearable, my lungs burning like I’m inhaling dry smoke that crusts me from the inside out. The opening is closing faster now, and for a moment it seems as though I might not make it. I don’t have a choice. I have to keep going. It’s too far for a contingency plan, too far to turn back, and yet not far enough to succeed.

I have to dip into the reserves. Without them, I’ll be as feeble as a withering seabloom, but it’s either that or the eternal shame of failure. I cannot fail. I have never failed before and I will not start now.

The well within me lights up and my feet pick up, skimming across the water like a skipping stone. The walls are closing around me, but I’m so close, so so close, just a little bit further—

I’m through. Beneath me, the Passage closes. The land dwellers will drown down there, never to see their precious homeland again. My disappearance will be reported by every reputable source in Adartos. It will be viewed as an unexplainable mystery: why would such a great scientist and well respected individual possibly leave the haven of the Astrii? They’ll bicker back and forth, debating all the wrong things, for now that I’m gone, there is no one left to dissect the mind. Pitiful, pitiful things.

I never doubted myself for a second. I knew exactly what tools I had at my fingertips, dancing at my command like an orchestra at the ready of its conductor’s baton. It’s laughable, now, the thought that I could ever fail. Me? Never.

The rune sputters out, having served its purpose, and I sink into the water like a wet creature of the sea. And indeed, in some ways, I am; compared to the land dwellers, I’m something of a mythical mercreature, containing multitudes of knowledge as deep and as vast as the oceans they cannot penetrate. My wings melt into my back like wax.

I assess my surroundings perfunctorily. I’m near the coast, a village sprawled out against the sands, and my sharp eyesight can make out gawking bystanders at the edge of the pier. Expecting the return of their own contingency, presumably, and shocked to see an Astri instead.

I can spin this however I want. Label their people as traitors, say that I’m a gift from the sea or even a prophet from the gods. They know so little about Astrii that it’s almost too easy to fool them, but I feel no pity for idiots.

I glide to the shore with an adept swiftness born only of a swimmer.

“Astri-an! Astri-an!” the children cry, clinging to their parents’ skirts and pointing with wide open mouths. They are quickly shushed.

I draw myself out of the water, taking the time to stretch each fibre of my body. My garments are resplendent in comparison to the garish cloth garb of the land dwellers. So simplistic, so rudimentary.

I clear my throat. The common language comes easily to me, as do all things.

“People of Wyldre,” I command, eyes fixed upon each of them in turn, “your friends have deserted you.”

The gasps, shock and horror. So predictable.

I pace forward, crouching in front of a shivering child.

“Fear not,” I murmur, the smile on my face as warm as it is false. “For the Astrii have sent me to guide you in their place.”

“Astri-an,” the child whispers.

I suppress my sneer and instead straighten to my full height.

“There will be no more need for emissaries to the sea. I’ve been appointed in their place. From now on, there will be no contact with the sea — I will be conducting the research of the Astrii up here.” I stretch my arms out to my sides, gesturing at their paltry village and its messy cobbled streets.

Upon second thought: “Note that my placement here is only temporary. Once I have sufficiently guided you, I will be instructed to move on to the next community in need.” One hand over my chest, a rueful smile. The perfect construct. “It pains me to leave, but we Astrii are nothing if not charitable.”

It’s like pulling on the strings of puppets, the way they sway in time to my words, rapt with attention. As they should — for a higher being such as myself to grace them with my presence, let alone my words, is an honour beyond what they deserve. They’re little more than a stepping stone, to me, but they need to believe I value and need them every step of the way. Just like they did in Adartos.

One of them steps forward, beads adorning his long ears. A browbird, but not one like me. We’re unfortunate enough to share the same designation.

“Of course we’re honoured to accept this, uh, gift from the astreans.” He speaks with hesitation, but his gaze is steely. “It’s only that my husband was part of the delegation and I find it difficult to think he would leave us all behind so readily.” Behind his legs, a snotty child sniffles.

“It’s easy to be tempted by the,” I wrinkle my nose slightly at the bastardisation, “astrean ways. Especially since our own emissary was very devoted to her duties.”

The silence hangs in the air for a second.

“I’m not sure what you’re suggesting,” the land dweller ventures, though it’s clear I’ve planted the seed of doubt in his eyes.

“Oh, I’m not suggesting anything.” A kind smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. A palm to his shoulder, comforting. “I’m sure you know your husband much better than I do. If he intended to return to you, nothing could stop him, could it?”

Abruptly, tears pool in the browbird’s eyes and he casts his gaze downward, one hand nestled in the hair of his spawn. His lip trembles slightly, his crest flickering darker with the weight of realisation and emotion. A realisation that I planted there as carefully as sowing a seed in anticipation of the harvest.

A voice pipes up from behind him, young and high pitched. “And what should we call you?”

Ozaron may have been my name once, but I am not that person anymore. I’m reaching up towards the sky — the real sky, not the false Sky that shone over Adartos — and someday, I’ll reach heights only matched by the stars. I am the earth, the cosmos, and everything beyond it. The true Beyond, the Knower, and the master of the Unknown.

“You may call me Ozone.”