[First Era – Year 3 of the Divinity War; Phiira, near Haphron’s Temple]

  The moment he released the bowstring he finally heard the sound he'd been waiting for. It had started as a harmless idea, a way of training his entanglements and timing together as they searched for the hidden temple. How could he have known what it would bring? Sure there were clues. Well, the first clue had been easy to ignore, but the second, not exactly.

  Moraithe stood on the precipice, wearing his customary mystic grin, a thin veil of mist curling around his feet like a phantom's breath. The world felt hollow. The winds that should have carried the scent of distant flowers instead brought only the acrid tang of smoke and ruin. The air crackled, not with power, but with the weight of loss. The kind of loss that gnawed at the edges of the soul, leaving only shadow in its wake.

  The sky above was bruised with storm clouds, and the air hummed with something he couldn't name, something wrong, dark and unnatural, like the very fabric of reality was tearing itself apart. A tremor of dread rippled through him, his heart pounding, as if the land itself whispered in warning. That feeling was the first clue.

  Norgoth strode beside him. A brooding presence as dark as the longbow he held. His luminous veins glowed with an inner light beneath his silver skin, while raven-black hair fell over sharp, piercing eyes.

  Moraithe glanced back to Saffrael, still stunned by her ethereal beauty, and those stardust freckles of hers, white speckles on her purple skin, which contrasted with the rugged lands they traversed. The sight of her unfathomable sapphire eyes, like drinking the depth of eternity, made his breath catch in his throat. Somehow the scent of winterblossoms always seemed to follow her.

  He turned back to the path to find a new target. Moraithe had been practicing the strike again for the thousandth time. He was always too late or too early. The trick was to trigger the entanglement at the exact moment the shot was to land. Entangling the mass of the entire boulder he'd marked with a runic key some leagues back. Entanglement didn't care if the object of an entanglement lay across the glade or across the galaxy. It worked the same in either case. A simple mass entanglement like this would share the mass between the two objects, namely his arrow and the boulder.

  He had already laid a runic key on each of the arrows. Now all he had to do was perform the entanglement. Draw, sight, loose, now entangle. The arrow hit the branch he had targeted and blasted through it with a force he could only have dreamed of, blowing the branch clean off. A mystic grin spread across his face.

  It was the sound that did it. Suddenly a strange chittering and wheezing echoed through the woods. Then, from beneath the shadowed canopy of the bunchknot trees, something emerged. A dark inhuman thing shambling through the woods.

  "What is that?" Moraithe wondered aloud.

  "It's a scout," Norgoth whispered, ducking behind a bush, "one of the Severed."

  Saffrael snatched a sword out of seemingly nowhere. "Then the war has come to this world as well."

  Grabbing another arrow Moraithe nocked, sighted, and loosed. He tried to entangle just as before. The arrow struck the creature—then, inexplicably, tore itself free and dropped to the ground, leaving the creature angrily pawing the earth for a charge.

  "You were too late again," Norgoth observed.

  "Why can't I get the timing on this?"

  Norgoth took one of his own arrows sighted and just as the scout was building up momentum he blasted a hole right through the creature. It tumbled and fell screaming, a strange scream that seemed to call to the skies themselves.

  They waited for an answering call, but all was silent.

  "Lucky it was alone. We'd best get away from here."

  Saffrael's sword disappeared somewhere, and just as mysteriously out came a map. "We have to find that temple—before more of them show up."

  The wind whipped through the tall grass, and the storm clouds above them grew darker by the minute. Moraithe's frustration was palpable, his eyes darting over the endless expanse of land. He couldn't shake the feeling that they were so close, yet it felt like the temple was taunting them, just beyond their reach. He pulled out another arrow and prepared for yet another attempt at the entanglement.

  The wonder of the temple was not anything inside it, rather that it was a permanent entanglement. Those were rare. Few people, quite few indeed knew the technique to make an entanglement last beyond the moment of concentration. To find such a structure, to study it. They hoped to be able to unravel this great secret and catapult their power to heights few had ever reached. If things went as he hoped he would soon go from being no one, among the weakest of all souls, to becoming a power few could compare. Then he might finally amount to something in this war.

  "How long are we going to keep this up?" he muttered, loosing his arrow once again. But this time he triggered the entanglement too early and it dropped off course. He cursed. "It's here, right? Somewhere in all these trees."

  Saffrael, trailing behind them, glanced up from an old journal she'd somehow replaced the map with. She had that distant, focused look that meant she was processing something—something he wasn't quite seeing yet. She spoke in her usual calm, controlled tone. "It's not just here, Moraithe. It exists—but not in the way you think. You've been looking for it all wrong."

  He stopped, his boots crunching against the dry ground, and glared at her. "What do you mean? The temple's not exactly hiding itself."

  Saffrael, walking a few paces ahead, didn't look up from the journal in her hands. "It's not hiding. It's in a revenescent." Her voice was soft but confident.

  Moraithe stopped mid-step. "A what?"

  "Revenescent," Saffrael repeated, as if it explained everything.

  Norgoth kicked a small rock down the path. "Great. Now we're chasing a temple that's in some magic pocket dimension. Just what I needed to hear."

  Saffrael ignored Norgoth, her gaze still fixed ahead, the journal clenched tightly in her hands. "It's not just in a pocket dimension. It's in a revenescent—but only its physical form was entangled onto this plane. The walls, the floors—they exist here, but their properties don't. That’s why it’s tangible but invisible.”

  Moraithe furrowed his brow, trying to make sense of it. "Wait... so the temple's here, but it's not here?"

  "Exactly," Saffrael said, now turning to him with a hint of frustration in her voice. "The physical structure is here, yes. But it's not fully in this world. You can touch it, you can feel it, but you can't interact with it the way you should be able to. It's solid, but it's not."

  "Like an illusion?" Moraithe asked, his tone bitter, trying to grasp the idea.

  "No," Saffrael flipped a page in the journal. "It's not an illusion. The walls are real. They just don't behave like they should. They're like... remnants. Fragments of something that crossed over but didn't come all the way through. It's physically there, but entangled across into this space."

  Norgoth chuckled, shaking his head. "So we're chasing a solid ghost temple? Great."

  Moraithe stopped pacing for a moment, staring at the storm clouds above them. It made sense in a way, but it was maddening. The temple was right there, but it was like trying to grab fog. "So, we can't touch it like a normal temple. But how do we find it then?"

  Saffrael snapped the journal shut, looking at them with quiet certainty. "Debris."

  "Debris?" Moraithe echoed, his voice full of confusion.

  Saffrael nodded, her gaze hardening as she looked at the landscape around them. "The journal says this kind of entanglement sometimes leaves behind traces, as if the temple didn't come through perfectly. Some pieces—fragments—slipped out. They don't belong in this world. Those are the clues. The debris."

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  Norgoth raised an eyebrow, looking between Moraithe and Saffrael. "So we're hunting down some magical junk? Pieces of the temple?"

  Saffrael didn't hesitate. "Exactly. Things that don't belong. They're anomalies—floating, out of place. Pieces of the temple that didn't fully cross over."

  Moraithe's mind was racing now, slowly beginning to piece it all together. "So we don't just walk up to it. We track the debris. We find the floating junk, and that's how we know where the temple really is."

  Saffrael's eyes sharpened. "Yes. The temple isn't going to give itself away. But the debris will."

  Norgoth shrugged, but there was something more serious behind his grin. "Not my first choice for tracking down an ancient temple, but I'm listening."

  Moraithe glanced at the storm clouds above, a sense of clarity slowly settling over him, a mystic grin beginning to form. They weren't chasing the temple—it was more like they were following the trail it left behind. "Right. Floating debris. That's the key. Stay sharp, and keep an eye out for anything that doesn't belong."

  Saffrael nodded, her focus already shifting as she scanned the horizon. "The pieces are out there. We just have to find them."

  "And then we'll master an entanglement so rare it's only spoken of in legend and song."

  The group fell into silence, each of them focused on the task at hand. The storm clouds continued to roll in, and the world felt heavier, as though it were holding its breath. With their plan clear, they moved forward, no longer just wandering through the land. Now, they were hunters, tracking the temple by the pieces it left behind.

  And somewhere ahead, hidden in the storm, the temple waited for them.

  A vine somehow floated in the distance before them. “Look. This must be it.” They rushed toward the floating debris, excitement boiling.

  A roar shattered the tense silence. It came from the distance, deep and guttural, a sound vibrating through his bones, so primal it shook the very core of the earth beneath him. The tension in the air thickened with an oppressive heat, and his breath quickened as his eyes scanned the horizon.

  He'd hoped they would have more time, but it seemed the war would not wait. The war that he and Norgoth had started by breaking Throm'tor's throne to rescue Saffrael.

  Like black fire falling to the earth, the Severed impacted trees and earth, a grotesque wave of writhing shapes that had once been human. Their bodies twisted unnaturally, crawling forward in a mass of venomous hunger, monstrous forms writhing like ink-black shadows. The leader was a hulking silhouette, tall and terrible, his form cloaked in an aura of shadows and black fire.

  With a single motion, the leader raised his hand, and the first bolt of anger shot out—a streak of searing white that flashed across the sky, jagged and violent, like lightning splitting the heavens. It crackled and burned, as it tore through the air with the force of a thousand storms. Then it slammed into the ground shattering stone with a deafening blast that sent waves of burning heat toward them, scorching the air.

  Moraithe felt it hit him then—a direct blow to his chest, as though a fist had punched through his ribs. The sensation was jagged. A fury so hot it felt like his very soul might burn away beneath it. His skin prickled with the heat, his thoughts disintegrating beneath its ferocity. And yet—beneath the unbearable pressure, something deep within him flared to life.

  A warmth surged within him, like sunlight pouring through a cracked window. A soft pulse of peace that pushed back against the fury, like a candle struggling to hold the night at bay. Gratitude. That was what it felt like, he realized with a sudden shock.

  He stumbled back, blinking, confused. It wasn't his doing—he hadn't conjured it, hadn't asked for it—but it was there, deep within him. A wellspring, endless and constant, that shielded him from the attack. He was protected. Untouched.

  The fires of anger struck him but didn't burn. A scorching blast of light turned into harmless sparks as the force of gratitude pushed it away, like a wave crashing against a cliff, breaking into foam.

  Then Moraithe saw his friends writhing upon the ground. They were caught in the same barrage of anger, crumbling beneath the weight of it, their movements faltering, their clothes and hair smoldering. Their faces were tight with effort, their hands trembling as they fought to defend themselves.

  The Severed approached, the darkness in their eyes spreading outward like an infection. Moraithe ran between them to protect his friends, blocking the anger with his own gratitude-suffused body, giving them a moment of respite to regain their feet.

  "Everyone jump on my call," Saffrael shouted, "Now!" And they all jumped. While in the air a stone house appeared to surround and protect them. As their jump concluded they all landed on an expertly cut stone floor. The scent of Saffrael’s winterblossoms pervaded the room.

  Norgoth spluttered. “You had a house in your revenescent this whole time?”

  But the Severed were immediately hacking and burning through the door and tearing off the shutters. One of the Severed had been stuck inside the wall when it had emerged, the trapped body shuddered and moved no more. The walls gave them a chance to regroup and put their backs against something solid.

  Though the searing heat of the attacks had receded beneath Moraithe's shield, something else now crawled at the edges of his consciousness—a coldness, like fingers of ice reaching into his mind.

  Fear.

  It wasn't like the anger. The fear didn't strike with the force of a storm, it crept in, cold and suffocating. It warped reality, bending the world until it felt alien, twisted. His vision darkened at the edges, and the ground beneath him seemed to waver, as though it might swallow him whole. His breath hitched, his pulse quickened, and just as the first tendrils of dread crept up his spine, something shifted.

  The stench of rot filled his nostrils. His hands were dripping with blood—his own? No, no. It didn't matter. The stone shifted beneath his feet like it was made of soft earth, threatening to swallow him whole. His stomach lurched. He could feel the cold, wet breath of something breathing on the back of his neck, the sounds of scraping nails against stone.

  The world bent and shifted. The ceiling was alive, the knots in the wood swirling with movement, each one formed into a grotesque face, whispering in a thousand voices. His limbs went numb, his knees buckling, and he fell to the ground, unable to stand. His heart hammered in his chest as the world continued to twist around him, and all he could do was gasp for breath, his mind struggling to hold onto itself.

  Through the suffocating haze of terror, he heard it—screaming.

  "It burns! Please, help us!" Norgoth's voice, raw with panic, shattered the hallucinations for a moment, but only for a moment. His words slipped back into the nightmare's grip.

  Norgoth screamed, his voice strangled as his flesh stripped away in blackened cords of ash, luminous veins curdling within him.

  "Norgoth!" It was Saffrael this time, her voice strained, desperate. "No! Please! Help!"

  Moraithe could barely focus on their voices. The fear was too much. It wrapped around him, crushed him, paralyzed him. But through the haze, through the pain, he could feel them, fighting, struggling against the flames of anger the Severed wielded.

  And then, a thought pierced through the fog, quiet but certain. He could help them.

  Gratitude. The warmth, that strange, constant pulse within him. It hadn't failed him in the face of anger. Maybe, just maybe, it could help them fight back. It couldn't shield them from fear, not any more than it had him. But it could protect them from one thing—the burning anger that had the power to turn them to ash.

  With what strength he could muster, Moraithe reached deep. His chest tightened as he focused on that warmth, that strange, endless well of gratitude he couldn't fully understand. It pulsed inside him like the steady beat of a heart, like the rise and fall of breath. He couldn't move. He couldn't fight the fear that clutched at him like chains. But this—he could do this.

  The gratitude spread.

  A soft, golden light erupted from him, flooding the air around him like sunlight bursting through fissures in a storm, wrapping around his friends like a protective cocoon. The light pulsed, steady and unyielding, like the calm in the eye of a storm. It was shielding them—not from fear, but from the flames of anger that threatened to consume them.

  Norgoth gasped as the shield wrapped around him, his shaking hands steadied. Saffrael's wide eyes flickered, down to Norgoth as his flesh was slowly restored. Her expression softened, the tension melting from her shoulders as the searing heat of the anger faded.

  The Severed lunged, their twisted faces contorted with hunger and rage. The nearest ones hit an unseen barrier, flung backward as if struck by an invisible hand. They snarled and staggered, confusion flickering across their grotesque features. The Severed paused. Their fury had no place to go. The shield was too strong, too constant. Moraithe felt their rage shattering against it, turning into harmless sparks. The anger could no longer burn them or break them.

  Gratitude. It countered anger as one of the four great powers—gratitude, anger, self-assurance, and fear—somehow they had been entangled across all of the universe, becoming magics in their own right. But gratitude was the greatest of all, for it could be traded for goods and services. It was their currency, for it could both shield and heal. When others feel gratitude for you, this natural currency forms inside your soul. He didn't remember earning any particular wealth of gratitude, so where had it all come from?

  His gratitude now shielded them from the searing wrath of the Severed. And though fear still gnawed at their minds, they could fight. In fact, the power of his gratitude was rapidly healing their scorched flesh.

  But Moraithe's own vision was still warped, still twisted. His mind reeled with images—bodies rising from the earth, twisted faces leering at him, the sound of cracking bones. The fear was still there, eating away at him. But he held on, focusing on them. The shield around them was strong, stronger than he ever thought possible.

  He couldn't move. He couldn't escape the cold grip of fear that still clutched his chest. But they were protected. The fear hadn't taken hold of them, for they had cultivated enough self-assurance to resist it. Their self-assurance stood as a bulwark against fear as surely as his gratitude had against the bolts of anger.

  Moraithe realized, with a strange clarity, that maybe that was enough. Even paralyzed by terror, he had done something. He had protected them. A mystic grin formed at that small triumph.