My future with him waits at the end of this climb. I want to exchange vows before the Statera with our family and friends watching. Late night conversations and early morning chores, I want us to have a normal life. Crowns, thrones, and lavish palaces mean nothing to me. I want the blandest days and uneventful weeks, petty squabbles and uncontrollable laughter. Give me the mundane. I need to know the color of our children’s eyes, to hear their laughter, and watch them grow and have babies of their own. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do to watch as silver weaves with the beautiful onyx of Kyron’s hair or tonotice lines taking up residence on his face. This pillar is all that stands between me and spending the rest of my life with the man I love.
The rugged rock turns cold and smooth, startling me out of my wistful thoughts. I lift my gaze to find the temple looming just above me. I can’t believe I made it.
My excitement is quickly replaced with panic as I struggle to find something to grab onto. The white marble floor is impossible to grip. A whimper escapes me as my foot slips. I wait for the feeling of falling, but it never comes. The rocks shift and the soles of my boots rest on solid ground... a marble platform, to be precise. It slides out from the rock spire on all sides, creating a track which circles it. The platform continues to move, taking me away from the stone that has ripped the skin off my palms. If I looked over the side, I would find that I’m now standing high above Ashavee and Greer. Another circular slab of marble moves above the one I’m on and creates a step. One by one, slabs of marble ease into place until they form a staircase to the temple.
I run up the steps, almost tripping over my feet as the marble building comes into full view. It reminds me of the outlook at the Omnis back home. It has no walls, giving a spiracular 360-degree view of the Sibyl landscape. Everything in the temple —which isn’t a lot—is white, the pillars holding the domed roof and the small altar with a marble basin on top. I walk to the center of the room and look inside the bowl, thinking I’ll find the Imperium resting at the bottom. Nothing.
The temple is what it is, no doors, no rooms off to the side. What I see is what I get. The Imperium isn’t here.
I run my palms up my face and lock my fingers across the top of my head. A long puff of air fills my cheeks and slowly flows out of my lips. I pace the room, looking for any sign that proves I’m wrong. The missing stone was mine to find. I attempted to dowhat was prophesied, only to learn we were all misled. The Cruel King’s Stone is what everyone thought it was... a myth.
“Fuck,” I scream. The curse echoes across the open sky, mocking me.
With a fury that heats my skin, I stomp my way down the stairs. I stop at the second to last step, and my head swims at the sight of the drop below. Nausea washes over me and I back away from the edge. There’s no way to get down. The marble is too slippery to get a proper hold, and even if I could, the edge of the bottom step is too far from the spire. Realization knocks me off my feet and I drop to my ass. The bones below are not of people who fell during their climb. They are the remains of those who jumped from this very platform. The only way down is to willingly plunge to my death.
“No. No. No. There has to be another way.” I stand and follow the steps around the temple. No matter the direction, it’s all the same white steps, white domed temple, white altar and basin. There is no way up and no way down. I’m trapped with no sight of the Imperium. I’ve doomed myself for nothing.
The despair building inside me is so heavy that my feet drag as I walk to the center of the temple. I run my fingertips along the edge of the bowl and study the open structure. Nothing is significant about this space. No inscriptions, no ancient tomes, just boring smooth marble. It’s such a plain place to house something that could change the course of my kingdom.
I aimlessly stroll in circles. With so little I can do to better my situation, walking feels productive. I shove my hands into my pockets, and my fingers graze over two cold objects, the Eporri and Posseda. They rest in the palm of my hand, burnt orange and opalescent. The Sacred Gifts are beautiful, but useless to me. I shouldn’t have taken them when Kyron insisted. Even if I failed this mission, he could have used these to fight against the Allaji.It would have only been a stall tactic, but maybe he could have saved a few lives.
My despair gives way to anger, and I chuck the stones across the room. They hit the floor with a crack and my heart drops to the pit of my stomach as they each break in two. Regretful tears pool in my eyes as I run across the room, scrambling to gather the broken pieces. I shouldn’t have done that. It doesn’t matter that they are powerless in my hands. They weren’t mine to destroy.
I cradle the gifts to my chest and rock back and forth as I cry. Broken. Fragmented. Shattered.
Shatter what you have always known and restore Pliris.The words the Sibyl spoke on behalf of the Statera repeat loud and clear inside my head.
“What does that even mean?” I ask, lifting my chin as if I’m talking to the sky. “How can I restore anything when I’m trapped here?”
The reply echoes all around me, and I swear it’s the Statera itself speaking.Only you can mend what was fragmented.
The need to scream and fall into a tantrum shakes my body, but I remain silent. My knuckles turn white as I squeeze the broken stones like I can draw the answer out of them drop by drop. Nothing comes to me, just the same words over and over.
Shatter what you have always known and restore Pliris.
Only you can mend what was fragmented.
Despite them confusing me, they also bring comfort. Deep inside I know they hold the answer.
As if I’m losing touch with reality, I fall into a trance. My body sways like a metronome and I chant, “Shatter. Mend. Restore. Shatter. Mend. Restore.”
Shatter what I know. Mend them into something new. Restore Pliris.
My jaw drops and I open my hands to stare at the Eporri and Posseda. They are the Sacred Gifts I’ve always known, but they were not the one truly intended for Pliris’ ruler.
I bash the stones against the floor, chipping off pieces until they are nothing but fragments of what they used to be. I sweep the shards up into my hands. The sharp edges slice into my already tattered palms. I carry them to the basin and drop them inside. The broken stones litter the bottom of the bowl in shades of red, orange, purple, and blue. I hold my breath, waiting for something miraculous to happen. Should they melt and reform? Will they swirl together like a small tornado, reassembling into something new? I’m not sure. All I know is that I’m disappointed when nothing happens.
I clasp my hands over the edge of the basin, holding them together while I silently pray to the Statera for guidance. For minutes or maybe even hours, I beg the Statera for help. I plead with the creator in every way I know how, bargaining with my happiness and at one point even my own life. It never responds.
I drop my forehead to my arms and squeeze my eyes closed. My palms sting from the cuts I got climbing the rock and holding the broken stones. Warm blood slides along my cold hands. It trails down my wrist, creating a little river that drips inside the basin. I don’t bother to stop the flow, letting my life force slowly leave me. It won’t matter in the end. I can bleed out or walk off the stairs. Either way, this place will take my life.
Something pops and a soft sound I can only describe as tinkling wind chimes follow. I glance up and a slender whirl of smoke rises from the center of the bowl. Inside I find that the pieces soaked in my blood are quivering as if they’re alive. The gentle burn I recognize as hope sparks in my chest. I clench my fist and hold it over the clean slivers of stone. A single drop of blood falls, and the shards covered in it react as those soaking in the small pool.
I stand to my full height and let what I saw sink in. This holy place holds my redemption. Forgiveness always comes at a cost to the sinner, a sacrifice to prove I wish to be redeemed. I pull my sword from my side and bring the blade to my blood-soaked palm. A hiss escapes me as I slice through my hand. Blood flows down each of my fingers and into the bowl, coating each and every piece inside. It’s my sacrifice.
The chimes grow louder, and the smoke shimmers like hundreds of stars are wrapped up inside it. I take a step back, unsure of what will happen next. Every little unexplainable pull, each nagging feeling, the voices that urged me on were all divine intervention. The Statera never left me to face this alone. The thought makes me laugh. Everything, even my disgrace, was part of an intricate plan to set everything right. Of course I couldn’t see it while I was on my journey to fulfil my destiny. Isn’t that how it always works?
The bowl glows red and heat radiates from it. The instinct that led me to this moment knows the fragments are mending, becoming one, and my blood is the bonding agent.
