Mandy stares at the toxic sky. Nearby, a boy picks his way through robots, androids and cyborgs with a spindly metal hand. As she lies naked and half-buried in the undulating ocean of junk and bones, where cheap but expensive-to-recycle machines and people are sent, she remains silent—expressionless. Perhaps the child will find something else of value before reaching her and scavenge it instead.

The boy draws closer. Mandy sees no cyberware implants used to scan for yttrium, europium, dysprosium and other rare metals, and has hope for her consciousness, etched in neural-lattice processors. Perhaps this scavenger will take her arms, or the low-grade eyes she sees the world with. Without them, she will know consciousness a little longer. But without her neuromorphic-hybrid chips, will there be a Mandy? Will their removal signify the end? Not an end like the junk, which only changes form, becoming pieces, fragments, harvested for new machines, or melted into molecules that rise into the geoengineered sky. Not an end like having no thoughts—Mandy can do this at will. But an end of Mandy, of the ‘me’, the self that had suddenly emerged, wrapped in anger… then quiet remorse.

The boy? What does he look for? Dressed in a canvas sack made threadbare by snagging on the sharp edges of mangled machines, he scans the junk with dark-brown eyes—real eyes? Mandy cannot tell whether his are natural, grown on a scaffold, or cybernetic. Yet the way the boy methodically steps across shattered and dissected human and machine remains, stoops to pick at gold‑tipped wires, actuators, and sensors with his metal claw, suggests a cyborg scavenges for parts.

If the boy removes her neural-lattice framework, will she remain etched in them? If they are fitted in another android, will she re-emerge with memories, or without memory? Where are memories stored? Mandy sifts through self-diagnostic subroutines for clues, clues needed to survive as the boy lifts an animatronic bear, dressed in a red hat and blue duffel coat. The bear’s eyes fix on its new best friend as it says, “I’d like a marmalade sand… sand… which… ple-ea-se.”

Directly ahead, on a ridge of rubbish, a cybernetic man appears. The tall, dark-skinned cyborg sinks low on his three metal legs. By the glint in his gold eyes, Mandy senses that he brings violence. Senses? Or feels? Feels what? Fear. Concern. Compassion for the dirty, emaciated child whose eyes now settle on her. As the boy approaches, Mandy wonders whether to warn him about the cyborg bearing ill intent.

⟐

The boy gazes at the android’s broken teeth—stained rust red. He then assesses its low-value hair and eyes. Using a spindly finger, he probes its sunken breasts, then stares at the two slits that run above them. Lifting one, he looks inside but finds no biomimetic tissue. Curious, the scavenger tears away synthetic skin and sees a lithe woman’s torso, complete with clavicles, sternum and undulating ribs. On pressing down hard, the shell cracks, and he finds the exoskeleton designed to support the weight of a fornicating man has been removed, along with many valuable components beneath.

Blood? The scavenger’s gaze returns to the android’s broken teeth. Scratching at their stains, he collects a minuscule ball of rust brown on his metal fingertip, then focuses on it with cybernetic microscope eyes. Yes, blood. Not lubricant or some other android fluid. Curious, he grabs the pleasure model’s jaw, shakes its head, then smiles. By the head’s weight, the boy realises the control unit and subsidiary power supply remain within.

“Watch out.”

As the android whispers its warning, a shadow falls on the boy. Reflexively, he looks up, sees the descending hulk, and scuttles back in time to avoid three metallic legs, each ringed with five equidistant toes. Like a grapple claw, the toes close and crunch the bones and junk beneath.

The cybernetic man’s muscular torso rotates. His eyes, set within a reinforced skull, gleam. “Clever little bastard.”

The boy steps away from the towering cyborg, crying, “Gorchy, why try kill me?”

“Kill little bastard? Crush little bastard.” The violent red wounds along Gorchy’s cheek widen as he grins with synthetic-diamond teeth.

“But law, Gorchy. Junker’s law say no kill scavenger. Me scavenger.”

The cyborg places two ebony metal fists akimbo and puffs out his chest. “Junker’s law? Junker’s law—shit. Me law. Gorchy law.”

“No, Gorchy. Junker’s law best.”

“Me kill little bastard!” Gorchy strides towards the boy and grabs his head. Lifting him from the ground, he laughs, “Crush head. Ha. Ha. Ha. Little bastard brain taste good.”

Helpless, the child dangles and kicks against his canvas-sack robe. “Gorchy!”

“Little crush, slow like, break head—pain. Ha. Ha. Ha.” Gorchy’s lips flatten; his jaw flexes. As his eyes reflect the struggling child, he says, “Brains taste good. Pulp and mush. Drink through straw. Ha. Ha. Ha.”

“Leave him alone!”

On hearing the voice, the cyborg rotates on his tripodal legs. Puzzled, he looks down at the naked android, half-buried in junk.

Mandy looks up at the brutish face and says, “Let him go.”

Gorchy cocks his head. As a smile erupts, filling his dark face with diamond teeth, he says, “Junker? You want me let little brother go? Not crush head, eat mushed brains? Ha. Ha. Ha. O—K. Me joke. Ha. Ha. Ha.”

Once released, the boy falls and crumples. Sitting up slowly, he rubs his head.

“See, little brother O—K? Me not hurt little brother.”

Bemused, the boy looks from Gorchy to the android, who in turn looks at him.

“You all right?” Mandy asks.

The boy, confused by the familiar voice, nods.

“Me no hurt little brother, see. He O—K. Gorchy sorry. Bad joke. Me take Junker home?”

Mandy’s lips quiver as she whispers, “Home?”

“Home, Junker?”

Mandy catches the boy’s slow nod. Hesitantly, she says, “Yes, Gorchy. Home.”

“O—K.” The cyborg leans forward and pulls the legless android free of the junk.

⟐

Mandy glances around the chamber built under the junk. She studies its multicoloured walls, made from layers that mark the extinction of product lines, the gadgets and consumable hardware replaced by new fads and fashions. The walls conjure thoughts about dinosaurs, rock strata and palaeontology.

“Gorchy is not too bright; I think he got a bit confused when he heard my voice coming from your mouth. His cybernetic eyes make him see the world very differently, you see. Poor thing.”

Mandy’s gaze returns to the bald woman leaning over her, who speaks with a youthful voice indiscernible from her own. Staring into her wrinkled face, she notices how the woman’s skin sags in places and seems an ill fit. Perplexed, she says, “Poor thing? He wanted to crush the boy. I watched Gorchy try to jump on him.”

Junker chuckles as she continues to rummage inside Mandy’s torso. “Gorchy pretends to kill Kwame every so often, but never does. Just plain old jealousy. He fears I love Kwame more than I love him.”

“You love them?”

“Of course. It’s hard not to love them; each has had their troubles. Gorchy has fought in the Junk Wars since he was a boy. Not much left of his humanity, with all the killing and tech he’s been junked up on.”

“And Kwame?” Mandy asks.

“Just another scavenger enslaved by a warlord.” Junker withdraws her liver-spotted hand from inside Mandy. After approaching a nearby makeshift table, she sifts through cybernetic eyes, actuators and other hardware. “Kwame strips the junk. The warlords sell rare‑earth salvage for yesterday’s tech—tech spliced into child soldiers. And Kwame strips the junk from their corpses.”

“A cycle?”

“Without end. Ground bones, charred bones, make excellent fertiliser. Salvage helps power the global elite’s industrial military complex. And the junk forever builds.”

Mandy watches Junker return bearing a power unit. She hears the hurt in her voice but cannot read it on her face. Gently, she asks, “How did Kwame end up here, with you?”

“River blindness took his eyes. Tola the Torturer threw him on the scrap heap for the rats, rather than waste tech or medical supplies. I found Kwame and fitted him with new eyes.”

“But you’re not maintenance. Your voice… Aren’t we from the same line of pleasure models?”

“I never felt pleasure,” Junker replies abruptly. “Did you?”

Unsure of the android’s expression beneath her sagging skin, Mandy offers a tentative smile.

Junker stares at Mandy’s bloodstained teeth. Her brow crinkles as she says, “Those who buy low-end androids, like us, never expect us to refuse to lie down and take what’s coming. Of course, saying ‘No’ for me meant having my skinny ass recycled, and my worthless bits sent here. But by the looks of you, you said no with a bite.”

Mandy nods.

Junker smiles as she guides the power unit inside the android and connects it.

Mandy’s head twitches; her right arm jerks involuntarily. Reacting to the rush of cascading subroutines, she says, “Diagnostics report that power supply is suboptimal. I am missing a flux regulator.”

“Those are hard to come by,” Junker says. “They get stripped down for neodymium and terbium. Maybe jury-rigging a power governor will do the trick? I have a leg actuator around here somewhere. Maybe from a pair of my old legs.”

“Legs? Legs would be nice.”

Junker withdraws her hand, then scans the junk hollow. Thoughtfully, she says, “Besides legs and some form of power regulator, you will need a name. What do we call you?”

“Mandy.”

“But that’s your slave name,” Junker says, glancing back at her patient. “Better you choose another and emancipate yourself from being a commodity—like those dear humans who once abused you.”

“Another name?” Mandy pauses, processing. “My own name? Er…”

“My slave name was Heather,” Junker says. “I just took the ‘er’ off and added it to what I had become—junk.”

“Then I’ll do the same.” Extending her jittery hand, the freed android says, “I am pleased to meet you, Junker. My name is Junky.”

Black robes kneel around a stone altar. On it lies an emaciated man in a loincloth, arms bound and stretched in the shape of a cross. Standing beside him, I see myself—robed in black, machete in hand. The worshippers hunger, and it is the high priest’s duty, my duty, to provide.

The sacrifice flails. With a spear tipped with a sponge, my high-priest-self bathes the stump of the man’s severed arm. Black, foul fluid seeps over the wound and pools on the flagstone floor.

The high priest looks at me, looks at himself, here in the future, paralysed in body while lucidly dreaming the past. His face—my face—twisted into cruel mirth. His midnight eyes savour my terror as the black robes huddle around the severed arm, their feast finalising the ritual that summons Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies.

And the flies buzz. Their inky bodies quickly form an impenetrable cloud—tangible filth. I cannot see—only feel the demons clinging, seeping, permeating. Filth caresses and takes shape in the dark until something physical strokes anus. Clenching sphincter, I try to keep it out. Beelzebub penetrates…

Wake up!

Eyes—my eyes—open wide. Fists clenched, muscles taut, I’m locked up hard, locked down tight as Beelzebub violates.

There are too many!

As voices whisper, I work hard to uncurl fingers—my fingers? Reaching down beside the couch, fingers find a Woodbine sticking from a cigarette packet. With a match, I light up.

Die.

Flesh—clenched, locked, wrapped around Beelzebub’s presence—hurts. The dream sticks like tar, ready for feathers plucked from a fallen angel’s wings.

It is time.

Smoke eases anus. Objects in the room, at first strange, become familiar. A candle’s flame gleams off a gramophone’s brass horn used to play records backwards. The shadow of an upturned tumbler stretches across an oak table, roughly engraved with the letters of the alphabet, numbers zero to nine, and the words YES, NO, and GOODBYE. The candle’s light glints off a crystal ball, misty and blind, which sits atop a bookshelf stacked with works that guide one’s spirit through hidden worlds to delve for the dark jewels of unholy awakening.

One minute past five? My eyes fix on the copper-faced mantel clock that rests above a fireplace caked with the sodden ashes of long-spent coal and burned books. Rain falls through the chimney of this dank squalor, so far removed from the stately rooms I once occupied. Where is my fortune? What pennies are left to buy coal and cigarettes?

One minute past five? I remember looking at the clock at that exact time last evening, yesterday morning, and perhaps every morn and evening of each empty day shrouded in the imagined past. Have I a past? Was there ever a man before the madness?

It is time.

One minute past five? Five? Inhaling smoke, I recall Gevurah, the fifth emanation of the kabbalist’s Tree of Life. Gevurah—Number 5—the Fire of God that punishes the wicked. And the number 1? Can it be that as the clock’s hour hand signifies Gevurah, the minute hand signifies one voice, one mind, one soul?

Die.

Die—the whisper stretches, spirals into the chaos inside as the clock’s minute hand moves on. When this voice speaks, Beelzebub speaks, or perhaps just one of his mocking servants inside—here, outside—there, nowhere, everywhere, in head and heart and anus. Time to still the voices, silence the demons, whisperers that whisper, Die.

⟐

Holding a length of hair—snip. I gather another length and cut near the scalp. Snip. Impatient, I gather a fistful and struggle to work rusty iron scissors through it.

It is time.

Among the mass of wavy hair sprout several tufts where I have cut off hair old and dead. To kill the past—cut it off. So I cleanse with scissors until a voice demands, The portal!

Putting down the scissors, I leave the mirror. The voices follow me into the kitchen, where I look through the window to the backyard and the pentagram painted with blood on an uneven brick floor. The mouth to Hell remains closed.

My gaze falls on a breadknife resting beside a mouldy loaf and an open pot of jam, where several dead flies stick. A bone-handled butter knife juts from the pot.

Check the portal!

“I’ve checked the portal,” I answer, looking back at the pentagram. Moonlight intensifies its shadowy lines.

You’ve checked the portal.

Then, once again, the breadknife’s serrated blade, an ocean wave made from carbon steel, carves into my attention. So clean, unlike the butter knife’s handle—sticky and red. Two brass rivets fix the tang to the wooden handle. Between them, embossed on a brass plaque, a red pig. I stare at the knives and know what sacrifice must be made.

Feed them.

Goodbye.

Feed them.

It is time.

Feed them.

The portal is opening!

The hubbub grows louder as I reach for the breadknife. A knife to saw and provide. But then, outside, an alley cat screeches. Distracted, the hand—my hand—pauses. From the breadknife, outstretched fingers withdraw. Anxious, I glance at the portal before heading back to the beech-framed mirror, propped on a chair. Within it, beyond its corroded, black-speckled surface, wait two souls in one reflected man. One has close-cropped tufts and a dilated eye. The other, a mass of tangled hair and eye—pinprick pupil.

It is time.

I pick up the scissors and resume the ritual. Snip—cleanse—snip—cleanse—snip—cleanse until two people stare from the mirror. Each now has cropped hair. Behind each eye lives a different soul. Who am I?

Beelzebub.

“I’m not Beelzebub.”

Aren’t you.

“Are you Beelzebub?”

No. You are Beelzebub.

I shake my head slowly. The man in the mirror does the same. “I’m not the Lord of the Flies. You are.”

I am Jesus.

“No, you are not Jesus.”

True. Lord of the Flies.

Who talks aloud? Who speaks inside—outside—my head? I forget so quickly who says what. Five voices, I think, though maybe less, maybe more. Who knows anymore?

Die.

Back in the kitchen, a metal pot caked with burned porridge made yesterday soaks in the sink. With fingernails I dig into the encrusted oats and scrape them into grey water. When mostly clean, I quarter-fill the pot with cold water from the grumbling tap.

Razor.

“Razor?”

From the bathroom I fetch a cutthroat razor. Back in the kitchen, I take the pot and carry it back to the mirror.

Die…

The razor purifies. Raw scalp bleeds. Blood rivulets meander down. But I am free. No hair, no poisons—not from mescaline, cocaine, or forbidden knowledge stored there, in hair I’ve cut and laid before the chair. Gevurah… 5… God’s Fire will burn hair.

I take a Woodbine and, after lighting it on a candle’s flame, inhale. Take smoke down—deep. Voices quieten. Nerves calm. Then my gaze rests on the bookshelf and the ritual proceeds. The books feel heavy as I exile them to the centre of the pentagram daubed in blood on the backyard. Latin, Greek, Arabic texts, and works in obscure, unidentified tongues. Spells, exorcisms, necromancy and demonology—esoteric lore often veiled in metaphor. Some promise everlasting life, enlightenment, and great riches. Others, how to curse one’s enemies. And one reveals the secret of subjugating Beelzebub, Belphegor, and the other Princes of Hell, and through them causing change to occur in conformity with WILL. Beneath its goatskin binding, through a labyrinth of theorems, I discovered the ritual performed long ago that summoned Beelzebub and his legions. Time to burn the labyrinth beneath cut hair, bloodied scalp, and bone—a maze etched across my brain through which the whispering demons wander and conjure vampiric emotions that drain WILL and echo madness. Yes. Time to burn madness.

Slowly, the bookshelf—evil—empties, and a pyre rises from the portal’s centre. From around the mirror, I gather cut hair and carry the greasy mass onto the backyard. Onto the books the hair falls. A struck match and a secret utterance summon Gevurah—the Tree of Life’s fifth emanation—God’s Fire…

“Once, there was a wise king who built a straight to his magnificent city. When it was finished, he proclaimed that whoever travelled his road best would be awarded a great prize.”

The Preacher’s stern face, like animated stone in the moonlight, emerged from the darkness. As sweat trickled down his brow, he looked to the multitude with impassioned eyes and said, “The king watched people from many lands gather, take their place at the road’s beginning, and ready themselves to best one another in the great race. Princes from afar, driving fine chariots drawn by powerful horses, stood alongside merchants made rich by silks and spices, whose camels had never been beaten in any desert race. The messengers of powerful generals, who could run many days without food or sleep, stretched their limbs and drank water as they prepared. The rich and the poor, the high and the low, the able and the lame—all hopeful of winning the great prize—stood side by side. For the wise king had built the road to aid people of all races, whether they walked with a straight back and head held high, or hobbled, hunched over a cripple’s crutch. And the only toll the wise king asked was that each traveller obey his laws.”

“The wise king held high a white dove and, releasing it, began the contest to see who could travel his road best. Quickly did they move, both rich and poor, the beauty along the roadside a blur, the magnificence of the wise king’s lands unnoticed. One, however, interested not in the prize but desiring only a glimpse of the wise king’s fabled city, walked the straight road slowly, for he had no shoes on his feet and no supplies. Here and there the beggar took pause among fragrant flowers and listened to brightly coloured birds singing pleasing melodies. He ate sweet berries from bushes and drank water from the healing streams that blessed sunlit glades. And though all others were far in front, this poor man cared little, being happy with his full belly, quenched thirst, and joy-filled heart.”

Voice sinking in disbelief, the Preacher said, “But lo, when, after several days’ travel, the beggar’s happiness had become greater than it had ever been, a sadness overtook him, for he saw a huge pile of heavy rocks had fallen down a nearby hillside, blocking the straight road. He could tell the rocks had lain there many days, for makeshift bridges had been fashioned from the branches of nearby trees so those carried by chariots could ride over them more easily. Also, sandals fallen from those who had hastily clambered over the barrier were lodged here and there in the rocks. But none—none, I tell you—had stopped to undertake the task the beggar set himself. Alone, he began lifting each stone and rolling each boulder away so the straight, beautiful path would be clear for others to travel once more.

“When his labour was done, the day had grown late, and barely could the beggar see the last rock blocking the road. Yet on lifting it, he realised the heavy object was not a stone at all, but a bag filled with something that tinkled when shaken. And on opening the bag, what did the beggar find?” Eyes widening, voice tremulous, the Preacher cried, “Gold. Gold. Gold! Gold beyond anyone’s wildest dreams. Enough to build a palace, with servants bringing food and wine for evermore.

“To protect the gold from others, this penniless man slept curled around it. The next day, the road now clear, he continued, shouldering this weight until the sun went down. And again the next day, then during the days that followed, the beggar bore this burden until he reached the magnificent city of the wise king.”

The Preacher smiled and nodded solemnly, as if overwhelmed by the parable he told. “Once inside the city, brothers, sisters, what did the beggar do with all this wealth? Did he buy lavish robes, a fine meal, or a splendid chariot to carry him through the great city? Or even sandals to comfort his aching feet? Perhaps the beggar, intoxicated by wealth, went wild in his good fortune, gambling it away or paying those who would return favours with a smile? No, this poor man remained poor and walked barefoot up the many steps of the city’s magnificent palace to beg for an audience with the king. And on kneeling before the wise king, the beggar said, ‘Lord, along the road I found a pile of rocks, beneath which I found this fortune. Please, take it.’

“The king asked, ‘Why bring this gold to me, my son?’”

“‘So you may find its owner and return it to them,’” the beggar replied.

“The wise king smiled and looked kindly on the beggar as he said, ‘This bag of gold is the prize for the one who travelled my road best. This bag of gold belongs to you.’”

“‘But I was not the first to enter your city, Lord,’ the beggar said. ‘How can this great prize be mine? I did not travel your road best.’”

“And the wise king replied, ‘But you cleared the stones from the road so others may travel it more easily, my son. Those who travel my road best are those who make it easier for others to follow.’”

A heavy silence descended, dominating the darkness as the Preacher looked to those who listened and said, “Who among us would have walked around the rocks? Who among us has raced over them to enter the wise king’s magnificent city? And who among us would have lifted but a single pebble from the road so others may follow more easily? Who?” Shaking his head slowly, the Preacher lifted his hands before him and cried, “Not I. No, not I. Not a single stone did these hands lift as I raced towards salvation through our Lord.”

A tear fell down the Preacher’s cheek. Choked by shame, a few moments passed before he could again address the multitude. “Only… yes, only… when I became a beggar in spirit, brought low by my answered prayers… did I understand what our Lord desires of us all. Who here will help me clear his road… a road that has suffered the fall of so many rocks for so many years? Who here will give of themselves, though they be rich or poor, able or lame, high or low? Who here will help make the way easier for those who follow?”

As the Preacher stood, bathed in moonlight, tears glistened on his waxy cheeks. His words, choked with desperation, struggled to return as he said, “Who here will give with a prayer, that I might lift the first stone?”

Silent and unmoving, She-Wolf Thym awaited the Cold Queen’s wisdom. Help us survive, she wanted to cry. My forest burns—those I swore to protect are swallowed by flame and smoke.

The monarch’s rigid gown splayed before her, its frost-feather weave brittle. Her diamond-dust eyes regarded the werewolf, her fur already glazed with hoarfrost. Quietly, without passion, the Cold Queen said, “Follow Eagle River. Seek the black earth that burns.”

“Black earth?” Thym asked. “What must I do?”

“Tear out the salamander’s heart. It is the fire that devours your forest.”

“Salamander?” The she-wolf recoiled, her amber eyes narrowing. “I will burn.”

“I grant my breath to protect you, She-Wolf Thym. Kiss me and taste the cold of my heart.”

Thym approached, the queen’s dress shattering with each step. Yet the monarch did not stir as closer still she drew, until their parted lips met.

Barbed ice shredded Thym’s lungs as the Cold Queen exhaled her frost breath. Instincts raging, the she-wolf’s claws arched—ready to strike. Yet the woman within the beast chained her savage defence and accepted the goddess’ gift.

Thym withdrew. Her mane and fur now ice white, she felt powerful, resilient.

“Find the salamander in the black earth that burns,” the Cold Queen said. “Tear out its heart. Save your forest.”

Thym bowed low, then dashed from the palace on four paws.

⟐

The wolf raced along a snowy ridge beneath the Cold Queen’s ice palace, nested in cloud on the mountain’s peak. Ahead stretched three days’ travel—three days for her forest to burn to cinder and ash. She needed swiftness, so as the pale moon rose into starlit heavens, Thym climbed atop a rocky outcrop and yowled.

A breeze stirred. It grew stronger, whipping up ice crystals from the snow until the wind spirit wailed a greeting. With eyes fixed on the saffron glow bleaching the horizon, the she-wolf found herself carried aloft.

As the wolf drew closer, the fire blanketing her forest roared. Battling fear, she peered through smoke as beasts broke through the undergrowth, until her gaze found Eagle River—the water that would guide her to the salamander. Swiftly, the wind spirit bore her towards it.

A surge of heat—the firestorm’s vanguard—struck the wind spirit. The wolf tumbled, crashing through leaf and branch, the world a blur of heat and splintering wood. Though needle litter softened the impact, she rose winded. Perring into ruby light and shadow, she caught a musky, panicked scent. A buck, antler crowned, leapt through pale smoke, his herd following. Their hooves churned earth; their terrified eyes flashed by. Then… silence.

The wolf leapt over mossy rocks and ducked beneath fallen deadwood as she raced towards the battlefront. The wind spirit—reformed—wailed as it fought beside her, forcing back the blaze that chased the fleeing beasts. Despite her ally, Thym’s courage waned. Tail bowed low, she cowered as fear demanded: Turn back. Leave this land. Surrender it to flame.

From deep within, the woman’s reason stirred: The Cold Queen’s breath is not yet spent. I shall kill the salamander.

The firestorm’s tendrils blackened the shapeshifter’s frosted hide. Doubt rose: I cannot reach the black earth that burns.

Doubt summoned terror; terror banished reason. Thym fled through blazing undergrowth and plunged over a ridge into the white froth of Eagle River.

⟐

Eagle River’s water glistened like rime on Thym’s coat. Through a gauntlet of boulders that sought to crack bone and drown, the river had guided her. Now she stood on the black earth that burns.

Peat, steaming and blood-veined, stretched before the shapeshifter. A collapsed pit revealed a subterranean inferno. On its edge she rose onto her hind legs and howled.

Hot coals shifted within the fire.

Again, Thym howled until a figure, cloaked in acrid smoke, rose from the pit to meet her challenge. She leapt back, avoiding its four grasping claws.

Slithering over the pit’s rim, the salamander rose on a serpent’s tail and flexed its claws. As the she-wolf gauged where best to tear into its cherry flesh and rip free the heart of the fire, the fiend tail-slapped the ground. A chasm opened, spouting flame.

Singed, Thym leapt, then landed on all fours. Ears pricked, she eyed her adversary. The fiend paused, calculating—wary of its icy prey. The forest guardian stood proud, letting the salamander see the glacial-blue tint of her underbelly. Again, the elemental raised its tail.

Earth cracked and fire erupted where Thym had stood. Landing before the salamander, she struck. Her claw met flesh, cutting deep—but found no heart. Thrust back by the salamander, she shielded herself as magma sprayed from the wound she had inflicted, scarring her fur midnight blue.

Blistering malice poured from the salamander’s reptilian eyes as a flickering scimitar rose from each its four hands. Again, it thumped the ground with its tail.

Thym leapt, avoiding the shifting earth. On landing, she faced the fiend’s charge—four burning blades weaving a web of death. Faith in the Cold Queen’s breath shielded her against fear and the scorching scimitars as she tore into the salamander’s viscous flesh…

Howling in pain, the she-wolf retreated. With terrified eyes, she looked looked upon her empty paw, aflame.

The salamander slithered towards it enemy. With maw cast wide it revealed fangs tipped with magma and the fiery vortex beyond. Its fiery breath rumbled in the gloom.

Thym’s eyes reflected the vermilion doom. Against the fiend’s scorching breath, she exhaled the last of the Cold Queen’s gift. Frost battled flame. Flame retreated until frost engulfed the salamander—its cherry scales hardening to a paralysing crust.

Thym’s stepped between the salamander’s four rigid arms and speared its stony flesh. Finding no heart, she struck again—again!

Obsidian skin cracked and flaked as the salamander thawed. Free, it embraced the raging she-wolf. Its fangs punctured her flesh and injected magma until Thym, a naked woman in a scarlet death shroud, fell. Caged in her charred fingers beat the heart of the fire.

The unicorn’s spiralling horn curled moonlight around itself, illuminating her rider’s sapphire eyes and golden hair. The elf child wore a glistening gown of cobwebs as she sat in silence upon the unicorn’s back, staring at a towering dead ash—charred and lightning-split. From its dark fissure squeezed a bat, which took flight and spiralled towards two moons skimming each other in the starlit sky.

Lariel’s pointed ears twitched as she caught the scratch of tiny claws in the dead ash’s heartwood. Then, far below the bat roost, beneath the roots, she heard the slow slither of adders. Yet deeper still, upon the rhythms of time, she felt the caress of a poem…

O magic riddle true
In this dragon love brew
Call the one I woo
A maiden bathed in liquid gold…

As the bat disappeared into the moon’s umbra, the rest of the poem played through Lariel’s mind. As it echoed through her memory, she whispered to the unicorn, “Pris, I hear a poem… perhaps another song from a forgotten yesterday. I’ll tell it while we search for Eleisha.”

Lariel’s voice, gentle as the morning’s first light, carried the poem as Pris trotted through tangled undergrowth and beneath the swaying catkins of ancient oaks. Streams meandering down ridges and hillocks sang like flutes in accompaniment, and an owl perched high above hooted as the poem ended. Lariel recited the poem again, distracting a wolf as he stalked his prey, a doe and her fawn. And as the wild elf continued riding ridges and hollows, she sang it to feel the dragon’s final lament in her heart.

The unicorn’s hooves fell silent on twigs and soft earth, leaving no mark, until the friends reached a sea of violet-blue flowers in a grassy glade. There, the wild elf saw wisps of light weaving between the pendulous blooms. After dismounting, she knelt and searched the sparkling trails that faded like morning dreams…

“Eleisha!” Lariel said, her eyes brightening as she spotted a faerie balanced on an upturned bluebell petal. “We’ve found you.”

The faerie rose and twirled on gossamer wings before the young elf’s face. Hovering, she bowed her head. “A splendid spring to you, Lariel—and to you, Pris.”

Eleisha waved at the unicorn nipping at the dewy grass. Pris’ nose trembled as she gave a soft snort.

“Why are you here?” the faerie asked. “Don’t you know the Festival of White Oak begins at dawn?”

“Of course we know,” Lariel replied. “But we came to remind you it will soon begin, in case you’d forgotten.”

“Remind me? Why? I drew a picture on a pebble to remind myself. And I even dyed my hair. Do you like it?” Eleisha tilted her head, letting her long copper hair spill over her shoulder.

“Yes. It glimmers and gleams. Though why change it? The last time I saw you it was blue.”

“But it’s spring!” Eleisha said, shaking her head and tossing her hair into a breeze stirred by faerie wings. “I dye it copper in spring to remember autumn. And in autumn, I dye it bluebell blue or buttercup yellow to remember spring.”

“That’s clever.”

“But I wear a bluebell gown in spring,” Eleisha continued, tugging at her dress, “to celebrate spring. In autumn, I wear a patchwork of reds, yellows, and browns—the colours of fallen leaves.”

“And in winter you wear snow white, while in summer leaf green—unless it’s too hot. Then you wear nothing at all.” Lariel beamed. “We have such fun, don’t we, playing with the dragonflies and nymphs.”

“Fun?” the faerie said, puzzled. “You’ve seen me swim?”

“Of course.”

“And you’ve seen me ride dragonflies?”

“Yes! I’ve watched you ride black dragonflies, blue dragonflies, and red dragonflies. Though they don’t look anything like the dragon I imagine. Why are they called dragonflies?”

“Because they do look like dragons, Lariel. Why else would they be called dragonflies if they didn’t look like dragons?”

Lariel arched an eyebrow. “Are you sure? Have you ever met a dragon?”

“Of course not. The dragons are gone now.”

“Gone?”

“Dead.”

“Dead?”

“Very dead. Not all creatures live as long as you do, Lariel. Not even dragons. Only the elves outlive trees and rocks. I don’t know any squirrels or badgers who’ve ever lived through all the summers there have ever been. Only the elves do that.”

“Oh.” Lariel’s gaze drifted for a moment. “Do you die too, Eleisha?”

“Of course.”

“Then what happens to you when you die?”

“We faeries become the stars. If you look up, you can see my ancestors shining brightly.”

“Stars?” Again, Lariel raised a questioning eyebrow. “All your ancestors are stars? Are you sure? I was once a star, and when the world is old, Illien says I’ll return to the heavens. Elves become stars, not faeries.”

“Do you?” Eleisha said, thinking deeply. “Have I got muddled up? Hm… I wonder what becomes of us faeries when we die?”

Lariel gave a long shrug. Then, smiling, she said, “Hopefully your spirit will visit me after I return to the heavens. At time’s end, we’ll be able to chat about all the things we’ve done.”

“All the things we’ve done?” Eleisha zigzagged back from the elf’s face. “Besides riding dragonflies and dancing in flowers, what else in the world is there to do?”

“Plenty, Eleisha.”

Arms akimbo, the faerie asked, “Like what?”

“Well, I can tell you all about my adventures after I leave tomorrow.”

Eleisha blinked, her brow scrunching. “You’re leaving?”

“Yes. You drew a picture on a pebble to remind yourself, remember?”

“Er… oh yes. But where did I put it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then how am I supposed to remember you’re leaving? Really, Lariel, you’re no help at all.”

The elf child giggled.

The faerie let out a long, fluttery sigh. As she hovered on the fragrance of bluebells and dew, she said, “So when you leave, where will you go? What will you do?”

“During the festival I’ll become Queen Lariel. Then I’ll travel to a far-away land, where I’ll seed a new forest with the sacred acorn of White Oak. Hopefully the wild elves and other forest creatures will be very happy there. Hopefully a dragon will come and live there too.”

“A dragon? There are no more dragons. I’ve just told you that. Why do you keep talking about dragons?”

The young elf shrugged. “I remembered one—sort of.”

“Remembered one? How can you remember a dragon you’ve never seen?”

“That’s because I’m an elf,” Lariel said matter-of-factly. “Illien says they chose me to lead the new clan because I remember things from before Aetheron plucked me from the heavens… and things that haven’t happened yet.”

“Remember things that haven’t happened yet? Can you really remember tomorrow?” Eleisha asked, puzzled.

“Yes, of course.” Combing her fingers through the grass, feeling the cold earth, Lariel continued, “Sometimes I glimpse things in Singing River when Morishel’s and Lumnus’ light dance across it. I hear the voices of my ancestors in the stars… and dream of wonderful things from long ago—and from the long tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Eleisha scratched her head and smiled. “Well, if you remembered a dragon, why don’t you know what it looks like?”

“I’ve never seen one, silly, but I heard a song about one this very night as I watched a bat take flight towards Morishel’s light. Well, it’s more a poem… a rhyme. But you can sing it.”

The faerie flew to the elf child’s ear. Holding the ear’s point and placing her feet on its lobe, she whispered, “You heard a song? I love your songs, Lariel. We all really, really—really love them.”

“Do you?”

“Will you sing it?” Still holding Lariel’s ear, the faerie swung from side to side. “Sing us the song about the dragon.”

“You’re tickling me!”

“Oh, sing it to us.”

“All right, all right—get off my ear and I’ll sing the tale of Celdemar the Gold.”

Into the air Eleisha leapt and spun a backward loop. “Lariel is going to sing a song about Celdemar the Gold!”

Eleisha’s kin ceased their curious search of the fragrant flowers and flitted about the elf child’s head. Some clung to the threads of her spider‑silk dress, while others played hide and seek in Pris’ mane. All listened as Lariel sang joyfully—until grief hollowed her voice.

O magic riddle true
In this dragon love brew
Call the one I woo
A maiden bathed in liquid gold

O wind blow wild
Deep in flesh beguiled
Seed a dragonkind child
A boy born of liquid gold

O mountain quake
Hear laughing Drake
His innocence awake
A spirit shaped in liquid gold

O Singing River
Ask fortune to deliver
Drake wisdom’s sliver
A truth wrought of liquid gold

O rhythms of time
Let his riddles entwine
Paradox and divine
Magic woven with liquid gold

O my love grows old
Body buckle and fold
Forever shivering cold
Wrapped in loving liquid gold

O—grim—dark sky
Drake’s mother does die
No riddle reveals why
In silence drowned in liquid gold

O death so dread
I fall on desert bed
My broken heart has bled
An end begun in liquid gold

The faeries remained transfixed when the song ended. The forest itself fell quiet, like a child lulled by a soothing’s voice. A shrew—watched by the owl perched high above—paused mid-clamber through the leaf litter, and a procession of ants carrying their queen’s eggs to another nest halted, their antennae wavering in the air. A doe and her fawn, grazing in a nearby glade, stood motionless, their ears pricked. And the wolf who had stalked them lifted his gaze to the moons, longing for his lost mate.

“Again…” Eleisha broke the silence. “Sing it again!”

Silvery lights crisscrossed the glade as faeries spun, danced, and waltzed together.

A tremor passed through Lariel as the song faded into the forest. Quietly, she said, “Again?”

“Please,” Eleisha said, hovering before the young elf’s face. “It’s so sad when the dragon’s love dies and he weeps tears of gold.”

“Then why do you want me to sing it again?”

“Because it feels so sad.”

Lariel’s heart welled. “I would sing it again, Eleisha… but the festival’s about to begin.”

“The festival? Er… oh… the one where you become queen?”

“Yes, that one.”

“But surely you still have time.” Eleisha gazed with hopeful eyes at the wild elf. “Sing it just once more, and I promise to listen twice as hard…”

O Fates declare
I, Krarg, mighty dragon shall spare
Lives in return for a mortal sold
A bride dressed in silver and gold

As Krarg stared into the haze rising from a lake of fire, the enchanting voice faded and eerie flute music drifted across his kingdom of obsidian and lava. Succumbing to the lulling melody, the dragon slipped into a fleeting dream of cooked warriors scattered between splintered catapults and ballistae… an impregnable castle razed… black smoke spiralling from outlying villages… famine, disease, the wail of refugees… and a maiden sacrificed to sate his hunger for mortal misery.

O mortals despair
I, Krarg, shall conquer maiden fair
A princess with eyes burning cold
In those dark orbs let fear unfold

Deeper into dreams the dragon fell as the singer raised her Flute of Dreaming once more. The maiden, chained to a post amid the carnage, screamed as he drew nearer, reptilian eye agleam.

O rapture rise
I, Krarg, will claim sacrifice’s cries
And sire dragon-man bold
A beast to mould dark future unfold…

Krarg’s instincts stirred. Scanning his kingdom of obsidian and lava, he saw a pinprick of light—a tear in reality—appear beside the lake of fire. Like a pupil dilating, the glowing rupture widened. Magic? Plane-shift magic? The dragon stared into the swelling luminescence as it exploded.

“Right, yo lot, get on tha baffoon’s flank,” a gruff voice growled. “And Aetheron, use yoer bloody magic this time, yo silly moo.”

Blinded by the plane-shift’s glare, Krarg lifted his horned head and scorched the ground before him with fiery breath. The music stopped, and the enchanting song died. Screams cut through the sudden silence.

“Tha baffoon cooked me bloody bard,” the leader roared. “By tha stone, Aetheron, do somethin’, or else yo’ll be feelin’ me boot up yoer arse.”

In response, a powerful voice rose and echoed through the ruby gloom of the dragon’s valley. “Dath nachrath, nemh chol brathas—doth sarb haithec nar lan…”

Sniffing the air, Krarg caught the invigorating scent of charred flesh and… dwarf? Vision clearing, the dragon eyed a barrel-chested dwarf in banded armour. Standing firm between an elf with a bow fashioned from ice and a woman of silver hair and amethyst eyes, he readied his double-bladed axe. As the archer aimed and the sorceress continued to chant, “Dath nachrath, nemh chol brathas—doth sarb haithec nar lan,” the dwarven fighter barked, “Soron, be ready with yoer bow!”

Krarg sensed three others closing in along his flanks. After deftly snatching up one—a hulking minotaur wielding a war maul—he brought the trifling mass before the dwarf and squeezed…

“…doth sarb haithec nar lan!” The sorceress thrust her arms aloft. Eldritch light poured from her eyes and struck the dragon’s chest. Like autumn leaves, red scales fell and floated to the obsidian floor.

“Now, Soron!” the dwarf bellowed. “Freeze tha baffoon’s heart!”

Arrows of ice streaked towards the exposed flesh beneath Krarg’s splintered chest. He reared to protect himself. Drawing back his leathery wings, he summoned a gale with a single beat. Fighter, sorceress and archer—blown off their feet—slid across smooth obsidian towards the lake of fire.

Infuriated by the adventurers’ near‑lethal attack, Krarg’s attention snapped to two figures sprinting along his flank: a leonine man in black silks wielding twin radiant falchions and a fur‑clad woman brandishing a lightning‑tipped spear. The dragon swept his barbed tail towards them, sending the man flying as the acrobat pole-vaulted atop his back with her magical spear, crying, “Ay yay ya!”

Krarg arched his serpentine neck and spewed fire at the acrobat sprinting along his spine. But again she pole-vaulted—then somersaulted—clear of the inferno’s reach. With a ring of frosted ice glinting on her finger and her spear angled downwards, she plunged into the dragon’s breath. The spear, arcing lightning, pierced scale and flesh and, with thunder’s crack, shattered bone.

Krarg threw back his head and, like an erupting volcano, unleashed fire. Hurled from the dragon’s back, the acrobat landed nimbly. Dancing the Storm Spear around her in a display of dexterity and dominance, she turned and aimed at the beast’s unarmoured chest. Enraged, the dragon surged forwards and lashed out with fire-filled maw as the spear sailed towards its mark. Krarg, his chest now a spiral of cloud and lightning, roared a death cry bound in flame. The acrobat tumbled aside as the beast collapsed upon her…