The sun set in the west, burning the clouds crimson. In the distant east, the sky had almost completely darkened, with silver-bright stars scattered across it like diamond dust upon blue velvet. If nothing unexpected occurred, tonight would surely be another glittering night with the Milky Way ablaze.

  By the shallow waters of the marsh, everyone except Yvette knelt in the grassy meadows, bowing and chanting strange incantations in an unknown language. Their voices resembled birds, beasts, carrying a primal, ancient aura that echoed among the trees and mountains, lingering and twisting as if countless unseen worshippers were harmonizing.

  Among the prostrate crowd, Yvette felt an unprecedented loneliness and helplessness. Her consciousness split in two—one rising as if gazing down upon the other self from a distant height.

  The stars were countless eyes staring at the earth, their gazes arriving from the far beyond—hungry, cruel, like blades hidden in darkness.

  And the others...

  Looking around, the hermits seemed oblivious to the current peril. In her peripheral vision, they were creepily snickering, their egg-like skin undulating like water ripples, as if struggling to break free from the bonds that forcibly twisted them into human forms.

  They were nearly succeeding. Rusted iron rings and locks groaned under the strain, their corroded metal squealing unbearably before heavy restraints shattered onto the ground. More complex transformations occurred beneath their robes—the burlap concealing part of their forms only made the horrific mutations more suggestive.

  Surrounded by untrustworthy others, she drowned in inhuman chants recited by monsters in unison. A tremendous terror gripped her, nearly driving her to flee immediately.

  How long had it been since she last heard a human voice?

  She remembered hearing other human voices, seeing other human faces.

  But now...

  Were there any other humans left in the world?

  Where were they hiding?

  Her mind had shattered many times, each time stitched back together to restore an illusion of normalcy. Beneath the surface, however, lay a web of cracks and scars. A shattered cup glued back together may look intact, but could it still hold water? If what's shattered is a person's rationality, broken and reassembled repeatedly, could this patchwork creation truly live like a normal human?

  In the dim light, Dr. Monis noticed Yvette's robe trembling faintly—was she afraid?

  But today's ritual left no room for mistakes. Stepping forward discreetly, he sensed the emotional fluctuations in her mind.

  Unusually calm... as if she faced not death but a leisurely evening landscape.

  How peculiar.

  As a renowned expert in neurology and psychology—his reputation well-earned even without supernatural aid—Dr. Monis could diagnose extreme emotional instability in his patient.

  Her pale face, lips trembling intermittently, eyes like deep wells occasionally darting swiftly—being caught in her gaze felt like staring into lighthouse beams, heart-pounding. Outward symptoms indicated severe illness nearing eruption.

  Yet unexpectedly, her psychic presence projected inexplicable tranquility. This stark contrast between exterior and interior reminded him of stifling, stagnant air before a storm.

  But the buried ancient deity, the Egg of Lingering Light, had foreseen everything during their prior communication. The god had revealed secrets and the essence of her soul, assuring that truth would make her accept their plan reasonably.

  The deity was correct, though Dr. Monis didn't understand why—perhaps it involved her family. Unaware she came from another world, he only recognized her protective anguish when learning the truth. Did she belong to a rare bloodline coveted by two elder gods?

  The specifics eluded him, but he doubted fear would make Yvette withdraw—her desire to save loved ones was overwhelming. Compared to potentially flawed medical judgment, he trusted his supernatural senses more.

  Thus he remained silent, continuing the ritual.

  As chants swelled, subterranean rumbles arose. The marsh bubbled like thick potions boiling in a witch's cauldron. Embedded candles flickered, their molten wax weeping invisible tears like raindrops.

  Something colossal moved underground—awakening from slumber, its fragmented body attempting reconstruction? The noise intensified—thunderous, drumlike—drowning out prayers.

  The earth seemed to quake, yet not quite—branches shivered, flames wavered, but standing figures felt nothing amiss.

  Hermits' chants became indistinct, yet amidst the underground tumult, Yvette began comprehending the unknown language's meaning.

  It depicted a nightmare-inducing aberration unlike any earthly creature—arriving from distant stars, it once roamed these seas, voraciously consuming early marine life like placoderms and Cladoselache sharks. Gradually understanding this world's rules, it grew from reef-sized to island-sized.

  Over eons, other star-borne gods descended, encased in material shells like falling meteors—most distant and unnoticed.

  Until one day, a multi-breasted deity wandered from eastern seas—stronger but wounded, seemingly fleeing conflict. Passing through, it battled the Egg of Lingering Light in epic warfare.

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  No victors emerged—the Egg was torn apart, its luminous ichor flooding the seas; the interloper's injuries worsened as its unborn spawn, stirred by death's presence, prematurely emerged to devour their mother from within. The progenitor consumed escapees and rebellious offspring until overwhelmed and fully eaten.

  Ancient invocations overwhelmed Yvette with disorientation—alienation from self and world, lost in dizzying historical cycles. Those bizarre colossal deities—larger than islands, cities—fought when vertebrates first appeared; she was but distant future's insignificant speck.

  Why was she told this? Was she still on Earth?

  If so, what were these monsters' spawn around her?

  Was mere curiosity what brought her here?

  Or some deeper reason?

  Layer upon layer of suspicion and fear compounded within her as subterranean tremors intensified, her psyche fraying under invisible forces.

  The underground drumlike thunder targeted her—intent on making her its acolyte. Human minds couldn't withstand such alien harmonies, especially facing an elder god—even a dead one defied resistance.

  But prior inexplicable visions sowed doubt—a thread weaving through mental fragments, subtly reassembling them.

  "It's time; let us begin," said Dr. Monis, nodding to two hermits doubling as priests. Together they held a bloody noose—made from cow tendons harvested that morning. The Egg's demanded sacrifice would be strangled unconscious, then executed with a blunt weapon of human hipbone and lead to crush the skull before throat-slitting and drowning—primitive religion's holiest triple death.

  Yvette stood motionless as the noose-bearers approached with Dr. Monis nearby.

  Why did you come here?

  I must prevent elder gods touching my original world... this possibility lies within reach now. I know what I'm doing.

  Thus reassuring herself, Yvette's unfocused eyes lingered blankly on others as cold wind brushed her face.

  These creatures... bore no resemblance to humans now. Their gaping upper extremities—perhaps mouths—emitted hollow, bizarre sounds resembling laughter.

  Why did they laugh?

  Yet they laughed cryptically among themselves—celebrating conspiracy's success?

  She was told this would end her mistakes—was their claim true?

  How could she be so naive, so credulous...

  She was merely a conduit, a door holding keys they coveted—nothing more.

  These monsters lied, seeking to steal her keys. They couldn't be trusted!

  Else why would they laugh?

  "So you mean to trick me... I see... That must be it... What else could you possibly want?" Yvette mumbled under her breath, her words so slurred they were barely intelligible.

  "Mr. Fisher?" Dr. Monis, occupied with organizing a tangle of sinewy cords, absently acknowledged her muttering.

  The next instant, his face went rigid. A drop of scarlet flecked his neatly trimmed white beard. His legs first went numb, then a searing agony—blacking out his vision—consumed every thought.

  A wet, labored wheeze escaped his lips, like a rusted bellows gasping for air.

  His eyes darted uncontrollably, catching glimpses of frantic faces spinning around him, voices clamoring in alarm.

  "She murdered Dr. Monis!"

  "Stop her! The ritual must not fail—the Light in the Egg protects us!"

  Murdered?

  Struggling to comprehend, he glanced down. An arm was buried wrist-deep in his gut.

  She’d been docile until now. Before the ritual, she’d even surrendered her weapons at the hermits’ request without protest. Yet in the ceremony’s midst, she’d lashed out—without warning, without reason—driving her fist into Dr. Monis with inhuman force.

  Onlookers saw only the blood soaking his robes, his torso grotesquely misshapen. They couldn’t know the blow had shattered his spine, churning his organs like meat in a grinder.

  Locked in disbelief, Dr. Monis stared up at her. The delicate face he’d once admired was now twisted with loathing. Her lips parted, whispering words he’d never expected to hear—

  "Liar... Your deception ends here... I’ll never give you the key..."

  Why? He’d envied her—the god’s chosen one. What madness had driven her to this?

  Darkness encroached. Madness, he realized, was the only explanation. She was insane. The deranged needed no reasons for violence; their rage and joy flickered as unpredictably as candleflame.

  As he stiffened, collapsing onto the grass, his fading vision caught her turning away. Then—her back split open.

  Wind howled, guttering the candles. Inside the gaping flesh—not blood or bone, but a tangle of crimson filaments, pulsing like sea coral, like fungal threads, probing the air with hungry tendrils...

  ……

  The Pipeship cut through familiar seas, threading its usual route between the islands near Anglesey. Trade followed patterns: haul grain from A, sell at B, load local goods for C. Today’s port of call? Duffield Island, where barley and wheat would trade for ale and cheese—a routine unchanged for years.

  But last voyage, after a hushed talk with the abbey’s prior, the captain had ordered a premature departure, abandoning half their cargo. Grain prices plummeted at the next stop, yet the captain ate the loss without protest—strange for a man who counted every shilling.

  The crew nursed their unease. Two voyages back, a man had died horribly—an “accident" nobody dared discuss. Whispers claimed his vengeful ghost still haunted the Pipeship, waiting to drag it down.

  Now, stepping onto Duffield’s docks, the sailors exchanged wary glances.

  No one greeted them. No smoke curled from the monastery’s brewhouses. The chapel bell, which should’ve tolled for vespers, hung silent.

  The captain—an islander by birth, raised on old tales of capricious gods—frowned. Others dismissed local superstitions, but he’d prospered by respecting them. While rivals’ crews met storms or sickness, only he remained St. Quintin Abbey’s sole purveyor of blessed ale.

  He knew the monks worshipped something unnamed beyond scripture. The god had rewarded his devotion; blasphemy meant nothing to a pragmatist.

  Ordering the crew to stay aboard (none argued after Geoffrey’s fate), he marched uphill alone.

  Silence thickened with every step. No chanting. No footsteps. Just his own breath and the creak of the abbey gates—locked, but for a letter wedged in the jamb. His name, in the prior’s hand.

  The message was courteous, then staggering: Their god had sailed for distant shores. Every monk had followed, seeking its promised land. This parting was their blissful choice. Prayers for him would continue—from afar.

  P.S.: By the gate lay antique silverware—a token for his years of service. And a warning: The god’s absence left the island cursed. Return, and doom would follow.

  Crumpling the letter, the captain noticed the greenery—once ever-flourishing, now crisp-edged and blighted. A miracle undone. Winter always spared Duffield’s plants; even basil outlived its season. "The god’s will," monks used to smile. Had it willed this decay?

  His boot scuffed a stain on the flagstones—dull brown, claw-like streaks scraping toward the cliffs.

  He recoiled. No. Some laborer’s muddy handprint, nothing more.

  Snatching the relics, he fled to the ship, spine prickling with imagined pursuit.

  ———

  Belowdecks, the crew lounged, restless. A weathered sailor eyed the grain sacks, debating whether to suggest moving them early. If tonight’s trade fell through again, they’d sell at a loss next port. Delaying meant a frenzied rush before dusk.

  Then—a glistening trail on the floorboards. Brine? But the planks were inside, dry as tinder.

  A younger mate moved to inspect it. The old hand grabbed his wrist.

  "Porthole leak," he lied. "Grain’s doomed anyway. Check the rigging."

  Once clear, he hissed, "Some roads stay untraveled, lad. Recall the fool who stole that golden dagger? They say his ghost swims after us now. Keep your head down if you want to keep it on."