4.2.25 - The 9 Eyed King and His Blind Fate pt 1

Parable 1: The Song Unstrung

Pel maintained his breathing. Once the first breath escaped, he plunged into the depths of his mind to retrieve the lost runes of his innate hymn. His mind bounced in rhythm with his body—hop, hop, hop—jumping in ritual repetition. His concentration faltered, but never broke.

A cold wind swept down from the north and rolled across the isle.

Not a muscle fiber twitched. Pel focused on the raw sounds of life: the wind howling through the braided branches of the sapphire forest, the thin whistle escaping his nostrils as air fled the prison of his lungs, the distant panic cries of distressed birds. He endured it all. When he felt himself at the very peak of clarity, he sang:

"My hearth pleads, my burden lifts the pressure, surround me with the miasma that permeates the flames of space and—"

It didn’t work. The hymn broke. Incomplete, fractured, but whole enough to taste the shape of something greater. He felt the structure forming—his rune, his innate rune.

He refused to let failure silence him.

Once more, he sought the toatao. He listened for the rhythm of the wind, then struck: a kick from his weaker leg, three rapid punches, a sweeping leg rotation into a backflip, which transitioned into a forward spin. He finished with three quick leg sweeps, powered by his dominant foot. Nothing.

Pel paused, breath visible in the cold air, brow furrowed.

Okay… Gurasara said nature speeds it up. The runes are the tomes of life. Power is balance… power is balance… power is b…

A shadow passed overhead—a large bird slicing the sky—then gone. Another gust shook the forest, drawing a wild orchestra from the trees and the hidden beasts: hungry howling gorathas, swooping dances of the elusive ebeks.

How am I supposed to concentrate with all these... birds?

His focus cracked but didn’t shatter. At the edge of collapse, he caught a memory:

Eye see the foreign sky, Doesn’t it look enticing? Will she fly, Or will she cry, Eye am here reciting.

The chant his mother had sung. Like a thread through his mind, it anchored him. His eyes closed. The air slowed.

He became porous—his body no longer solid, but a vessel. Wind moved through him. It spiraled, not as violence but grace, threading itself into his very marrow. The crescendo built—dust lifted, debris danced, foliage crackled in his bones.

And then: the runes surfaced.

“ASPIRATE… ASH…”

A hand around his heart. A squeeze. His breath halted. The runes shattered.

The silence that followed wasn’t quiet—it was loss.

No amount of coaching from Father will let me summon this stupid toatao, he thought bitterly.

His mind, softened by fatigue, had forgotten the body. His strong foot buckled. He dropped to the earth. The breath in his chest seeped away. The warmth and weight of soil welcomed him.

He sighed. His fingers dug into the dirt, pulling shimmer bark and ash together.

Another sycle. I’ll get it right next sycle.

But doubt crept in. The tears of solitude didn’t ask permission—they simply fell. His heart ached. He spiraled.

And then—

“GRAAAAHHHHHHH!”

A roar. Deep. Distant. Terrifying.

Pel jolted up, tears drying mid-air. He landed on a thick branch with a hiss of leaves. Wiping his face raw, he balanced on his strong foot and leaned into the bark for support.

The miasmic wind of the upper canopy howled around him.

With what strength remained, Pel summoned a protective rune and sealed his skin from the taint of the wind. Birds—dozens—fled toward the miasmic wall that divided this world from the next.

Above, clouds gathered—without warning, without mercy. The canopy began to mimic the sky. Leaves tossed and rolled as plasma stitched cloud to branch. Thunder cracked. Blue fire licked across the forest crown. Winds shaped the soot into shifting towers.

Pel watched.

The storm didn't ask for permission either.

He pulled his shell-shaped communicator from his knapsack. No pearls. No messages.

His stomach moaned. Loudly.

He ignored it. One more attempt. One more practice. Then he’d return to the other herders.

How am I supposed to fix my medra if I can’t even stay focused…

Pel leapt down from the branch. His mind was tangled—torn between learned hymn and innate hymn. He reached into his knapsack and pulled out Gurasara’s scroll.

Summoning a toatao is not the goal.

The goal is to learn your innate hymn—the song of your soul, your ancestors, your blood. It is the structure of your inner world. The sound nature hears when you plead for help.

The hymn is broken lines—each a sentence missing pieces. These must be earned through life.

NO SHORTCUTS.

Let us not forget—hymns are a pact. A bond with a deity. Depending on your intent and rune structure, different outcomes will manifest.

These runes are permanent. Some toatao kill. Rarely. But rarely is still real.

Lesson 1: The Art of Concentration

Pel let the scroll fall over his face.

This is so ridiculous! Death? From runes? Blah. What’s a village guard going to fight anyway? We wrestle eggs for Zsabraxas’ sake!

He snorted, laughing aloud at the mental image of oversized, egg-shaped enemies.

He flopped down, scroll to the side, gazing up at the clouds. The plasma now danced like serpents across the sky.

His limbs ached. The rebound toll of hymn-practice always drained him. He pulled out a bapple—a native fruit. The skin shimmered with blue flecks. He sniffed. Bit. Juice ran down his chin and neck.

He used a small gust of wind to wipe his neck dry.

As he chewed, his mind drifted.

Liminality.

The rune his mother once used. Odd. Uncommon. Powerful.

Suddenly, before him: a door.

Massive. Gem-studded. Alive with symbols and creatures he couldn’t name. It grew taller. Towered over him.

He stepped forward. Reached for the circular handle. Opened it just a crack—

—and was transported.

A land of impossible mountains. Of colors he didn’t know. Of silence that had texture.

Snap.

A sound snapped him back. Reality reasserted itself.

He jumped to a branch above and began weaving a learned rune for physical enhancement. His body resisted—too tired. The wind scratched his skin. He bled.

“PEL-I-CAN!!! I ARE HERE… PEL, ARE YOU NEAR… DA NOT—I REPEAT—DA NOT ATTACK!”

A voice. Familiar. From below.

His father.

Roc.

He jumped from the branch, strong foot first, aiming directly for the unassuming figure.

“FATHER! BE VIGILANT!”

The wind made his voice jagged. Roc looked up. Moved faster atop his goratha. Pel’s own goratha was hitched behind.

He kicked off another branch. Adjusted. Measured the distance.

One more kick.

He soared through the air. Fist drawn back. Aimed for Roc’s head.

Contact.

His fist hit Roc’s hand. They stared at one another.

Roc smiled. "You have to work on a more agreeable greeting, Pel."

Pel landed next to him, bouncing on one foot like a child brimming with too much energy.

He kicked his leg playfully. Roc didn’t move.

He shook his head. “We’ve wasted enough sycles with your antics. Solfall is near.”

But Pel’s mind began to blur.

Darkness crawled into his vision.

He stumbled. Legs went numb.

His strong foot failed him.

He collapsed into his father’s arms.

And the world went dark.