“‘Here they come, the shadows.’

  ‘May the child of our minds be born and rebuke this finale, Sheila.’

  ‘The whole world is watching, Dario. Watching us get devoured by oblivion.’

  ‘And a second afterwards, they won’t be anymore, either. The next ideas to emerge will be conceived by our children of metal and slime.’”

  —Moments before one last kiss in the World before the World.

  The Flame landed over a platform of a material that anyone could have confused with opal. Deep in it colors danced, and its lustered surface reflected the light from the fires raging on the creature whose weight it now supported. The flame could admire its ugly visage now, the charred flesh of the snout and the molten eyes. But this mirror so unnatural wasn’t the reason The Flame had come to this far corner of the sea. No, another structure reflected their light, a den of the very same opal-like substance, crudely hewn or erected, built heavenwards, a pathetic attempt at recreating a spire. It stood in almost total darkness, the only light reaching its exterior that emitted by far Retriever puppies.

  The Flame slapped a drifting, panting Border Collie off their face with just enough force to push it off their path. In front of them, the hole, the stairwell, the steps arranged in a spiral, and the settling reality of it all being too small for their current body.

  But from that twisted throat came out a breath of brightness, the shine of a meek soul contained inside the vitreous walls. And in search of that soul the Flame had come.

  Their heavy paw, claws curled inwards until they touched the wrist, knocked on the wall to the left of the entrance, and called out. “Chimaera, are you awake?”

  A stirring. The unmistakable melody of bones cracking to life. A raspy voice echoing down the stairwell. “A visitor? There’s no such thing in this wretched place.”

  Whichever odor emerged from the mouth of the failed spire didn’t reach the sooth-clogged nostrils. And yet the Flame knew that it had to be the scent of rot and stale air.

  “I come to seek your guidance. You are knowing of the creatures of the sea. And there’s one in particular I seek to hunt.”

  A drop of bone against the steps. The squelch of slime invading new nooks and articulatory surfaces as the shambling being inside the false spire approached the exit. And illuminated from below by a core heterogeneous and meek, two metallic eyes, leading the end of a misleadingly straight spine. Some of the brazen bones could still be seen as its legs and tentacles of thieved ribs and stolen vertebrae pushed the body out, like a sea snail emerging from its carapace. The small eyes analyzed the titanic creature in front of them from feet to toe, the metallized Chihuahua brains surrounding the milky core beginning to orbit around its once-osseous chainmail armor, the little cage of ribs over whose gaps rings of dentine had been chained together, forming a protective blanket that still allowed the shine of the crystalline heart to perspire through.

  “Long time no see, Flame. Have you bested your eternal rival yet?” he greeted the sentient, burning dog with a soft gaze. Then he raised his lower left arm, that was often concealed among the vertebrate tentacles. Like clinging roses buds of black held onto the bones, each one a clear eyeball with its accompanying lids, each one tightly shut.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  “No, Caenor, and I never will: Parvov thinks no more. My father’s lost.”

  “And you come to me expecting to find him, Flame? The eyes can only see that which the world preserves.” Caenor rasped, ready to turn on his heels and return to his restless watch.

  The beast reached with a single hand, and its claws dug into the head of the Splinter. And while an animal would mind such intrusion of their flesh rather awfully, Caenor just groaned out of annoyance.

  “I sought you for another reason. Parvov died in battle against a Reaper. One that took Morbilliv’s body. Parts of said body being still tangled into the mesh the creature is sounds like a strong possibility, and surefire way to pin down the murderer of my father.”

  Three of the tentacles collaborated to shove the gigantic hand off the head of Caenor, the involved psychosarc at the edge of simmering, kept coherent merely by its owner will. “No touching me, Flame. I could check with each of my sightmates, but I refuse to do it for free. You may render one of my magic eyes blind if you succeed on your… hunt.” He scratched the place where a chin would be, if only because the suggestion to do so was implanted somewhere among the memories of the world long lost. “It’s no guarantee: I lack information regarding the fate of this gaze if the creature I stole it from dies.” He forwarded the arms showcasing the eyes like engorged ticks. “But I am willing to part with one of the eyes in exchange for a rare resource. Up for a riddle? First clue: There are at most twelve of them in the world, and seven of should be unavailable as they reside above the Barrier of Memories.”

  Entertained, the flame sat on their haunches and let their cracked tongue loll from their mouth “You want an Original? That will be challenging to accomplish. Rabies, Distemper and the Heartworm travel together in a ship of Corgite. The brothers are no issue: Dirofil seems to be underusing his talents. Morbilliv is in possession of Parvov’s body, and looks rather troubled by it. But I, immortal, fear Lyssav.”

  “I am not sending you on a fool’s errand, old… let’s call you friend if only for the sake of nourishing camaraderie, Flame. I want you to bring me an Original out of the Original’s own volition. Rest assured that no harm will come their way, my interest is merely of the… observational sort.”

  The Chimaera advanced up to the border of his self-made kingdom, and stared down the collie layer, at the few distant retriever puppies uncovered by the drifting sheepdogs. “After all, what could a flawed Splinter do to royalty? The core Babesi possesses far surpasses mine.”

  “You are a Splinter of Dirofil, if the dogs can damage the Originals —and they can— so can you.”

  The mechanical eyes whisked around in the clear head, and they held the stare of the flame. “I am no Splinter of Dirofil. How many times do I have to tell you?” There was hurt in his voice, accompanied by a deep annoyance.

  “But you look like one.” The Flame probed further, in a way that Caenor couldn’t attribute to anything but an innocent information.

  “We are so young, aren’t we? I am not a Splinter of Dirofil. I wear a body resembling one. That, I grant. But I Splintered from another; I am a far rarer sight than Splinters of an Original.”

  The flame remained silent, thinking. “Only perfect cores cast Splinters into existence,” they ruminated as they tried to come up with an answer

  Caenor raised a digit, and by its side, a frilly slime tentacle “Not perfect: flawless.” He let the word hang in the air for a moment before elaborating further. “Perfection implies a nebulous, inherent quality to an item or being. Perfect things, ironically, do not imply perfected things. Flawless, however… it makes us think of masterful wrighting, exquisite craftsmanship. It doesn’t imply the object under discussion came to be in such a state, but rather that whatever were their wrongs, they could be righted. My projector owns a flawless core.”

  “Then, why not bring your progenitor here? Unless…” The flame turned around in place, slowly, as they thought, and observed the deserted expanse of the collie layer until they completed a full circle and their flaming orbits settled over the visage of Caenor once more. “… is he dead too?”

  “Not to my knowledge, but I doubt there’s a force in this world that can drag him out of that sterile chamber he calls a laboratory for good. Alive, that is. He must not even know a Splinter can splinter.” Without turning the Chimaera began crawling back, into its shell that was tower, and up the stairs he disappeared, leaving the flame to warm none with its variegated lights.