Klindon

Did I die that day? It really felt like it. I remember nothingness. Non-existence. It’s a hard feeling to describe, mostly because it’s not really a feeling. But just imagine running, full tilt, and then you burst through some bushes but there’s no ground on the other side. It hit with that kind of suddenness. The feeling where everything that was keeping you up, just disappeared.

I remember the return of existence. Memories were the first to return, and the crushing pain sent me straight back to non-existence. I bobbed between existence and non-existence for an eternity. Millions of years maybe. But in the end I succeeded in getting a foothold in existence.

It was a long, slow, painful slog back to consciousness, but when I woke, Sentinel was there.

Estaria’s eyes fluttered open to a canopy of leaves dancing in filtered sunlight. The memories rushed at him like stampeding horses, but he forced them back using the techniques he’d learned over the years. Breathe. Focus on the present. Count the leaves. Name the colors. The exercise helped him maintain his grip on reality.

Sentinel’s wooden face appeared above him, chittering softly. The creature’s yellow eyes studied him intently before gently nudging him with its snout. The familiar bark-like texture against his cheek anchored Estaria further in the present moment.

With considerable effort, Estaria pushed himself up to sitting. His muscles protested, stiff from disuse. This wasn’t where they’d fought the shadow creature - the clearing was smaller, ringed by different trees with dark purple leaves he hadn’t seen before. A small stream trickled nearby, its gentle sound mixing with the rustle of branches overhead.

His hand instinctively went to his belt, seeking the familiar comfort of Angel’s dagger. The empty sheath sent a fresh wave of pain through his chest. Another loss. Another wound to patch. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe through it. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Just like Leona had taught him.

Rising unsteadily to his feet, Estaria took stock of himself. His clothes were dirty but intact. His pack lay nearby, apparently undisturbed. The worst damage seemed to be to his throat, which felt like he’d swallowed sand, and his empty stomach that cramped painfully.

“How long was I unconscious?” he asked Sentinel, miming sleep by putting his hands together and laying his head on them. Sentinel tilted its head, clicking its claws together in what Estaria had come to recognize as confusion. He tried several other gestures, but the creature either couldn’t understand or couldn’t communicate the answer.

The gnawing in his stomach and the thickness of his tongue suggested it had been at least a day, probably more. He stumbled toward the stream, dropping to his knees beside it. The water was crystal clear, and after checking for any obvious signs of danger, he cupped his hands and drank deeply. The cool liquid soothed his parched throat, though it did little to ease the hollow feeling in his stomach.

Sentinel watched him carefully, occasionally glancing around the clearing as if scanning for threats. The creature’s protective nature remained unchanged, even in this new location. When Estaria finished drinking, Sentinel nudged him toward where his pack lay, clearly wanting him to eat something.

Estaria gathered his belongings with slow, deliberate movements. His muscles still ached, but the water had helped clear his head. After a quick meal of dried fruit from his pack, he felt steady enough to continue their journey.

Usually, Sentinel took point, weaving through the forest with confident strides, occasionally vanishing ahead to scout the path. Today was different. The massive creature hung back, padding softly behind Estaria, its wooden claws clicking against occasional stones. Every time Estaria glanced back, those yellow eyes watched him with unwavering attention.

“I’m fine,” he said, though the words came out rougher than intended. His throat still felt raw. Sentinel merely clicked its claws together and maintained its vigilant position.

The unusual reversal of their typical roles meant Estaria had to stop frequently, turning to seek direction from his companion. Each time, Sentinel would indicate the way with a subtle tilt of its head or a gesture with one massive paw. The creature’s protective behavior, while touching, began to wear on Estaria’s nerves.

“Really, you don’t need to-” he started to say, but stopped when Sentinel made a low rumbling sound that somehow managed to convey both concern and stubbornness. Estaria sighed and continued walking. The forest around them had changed since his last clear memory - the trees here grew closer together, their trunks twisted into complex patterns that seemed almost deliberate.

The air grew thicker as they walked, heavy with the scent of damp earth and something sweeter, like overripe fruit. Patches of moss glowed with a faint blue light in the shadows between trees. Estaria’s boots sank slightly into the soft ground with each step, leaving temporary impressions that slowly filled themselves in after he passed.

He paused to catch his breath more often than he would have liked, each stop earning a concerned chittering from Sentinel. The creature’s protective hovering should have been annoying, but Estaria found himself touched by the genuine concern. After everything that had happened - the shadow creature, the loss of Angel’s dagger, the void of unconsciousness - it was comforting to have someone watching over him.

A branch cracked somewhere in the forest, and Sentinel immediately moved closer, its wooden body tensing. Estaria waited, listening, but only the normal sounds of the forest followed - leaves rustling, distant bird calls, the occasional scurrying of small creatures through the underbrush.

“You can’t protect me from everything,” Estaria said softly, reaching out to pat Sentinel’s shoulder. The bark-like surface felt warm under his hand, alive in a way that still amazed him. Sentinel made a sound that might have been disagreement.

They continued their slow progress through the forest. Much sooner than he would have liked, a small clearing opened, with an obsidian obelisk in the center.

Estaria turned to Sentinel, understanding dawning. “You’ve been bringing me here all along, haven’t you? Even while I was unconscious?” The creature’s head dipped in what might have been confirmation. “That’s why you wouldn’t let me rest longer - we were already most of the way here.”

The obelisk loomed before them, its presence both familiar and intimidating. Estaria’s legs trembled slightly, whether from exhaustion or apprehension, he couldn’t tell. Sentinel moved closer, offering silent support, its wooden body radiating warmth and strength.

Looking at the dark stone, Estaria couldn’t help but wonder how far Sentinel had carried him while he drifted in that void between existence and non-existence. The thought of the creature’s dedication, dragging him through the forest while he was helpless, added another layer to their already complex relationship.

Estaria rested his hand on Sentinel’s rough shoulder, offering a weary smile. The obsidian obelisk stood before them, its surface drinking in what little light filtered through the canopy. His legs felt heavy, his mind still fuzzy from his recent brush with nothingness.

“Not yet,” he said softly, more to himself than Sentinel. “I need… I need time.”

Sentinel made a low, understanding sound and settled nearby while Estaria began setting up camp. He gathered fallen branches for a fire, lined up stones in a circle, and spread his bedroll on a patch of relatively flat ground. The familiar routine of camp-making helped steady his thoughts, gave his trembling hands purpose.

As twilight descended, Estaria sat cross-legged by the small fire, watching shadows dance across the clearing. He’d eaten a meager dinner from his remaining supplies, performed his evening ablutions, and even attempted some light stretches to work the stiffness from his muscles. But now, with nothing left to occupy his hands or mind, rest eluded him.

He lay on his bedroll, trying to catch patches of star-studded sky through the canopy. Beside him, Sentinel maintained its vigilant watch, occasionally making soft clicking sounds that might have been meant to be comforting. But comfort proved elusive as memories of the void crept back, threatening to overwhelm him. The loss of Angel’s dagger felt like a fresh wound, raw and bleeding. Fear of what the next test might bring knotted his stomach, while grief and uncertainty tangled in his chest like thorny vines.

Sleep, when it finally came, was fitful and shallow, filled with half-formed dreams of shadows and emptiness.

Dawn filtered through the canopy, casting dappled shadows across Estaria’s face. He opened his eyes, blinking away the remnants of uneasy dreams. His body no longer screamed with exhaustion, but a deep weariness lingered in his bones, settling like old dust in forgotten corners.

The morning air carried a mixture of damp earth and sweet decay. Nearby, Sentinel’s wooden form blended seamlessly with the surrounding trees, only its yellow eyes giving away its presence. The creature had maintained its watch through the night, clicking its claws softly whenever Estaria stirred in his troubled sleep.

Rising from his bedroll, Estaria went through the motions of his morning routine. He splashed cold stream water on his face, the shock helping to clear his mind. Unwanted memories pressed against his consciousness - Angel’s smile, the weight of her dagger at his hip, the haunting dance of flames. He pushed them back, focusing on the physical sensations around him: the rough bark of trees, the squelch of mud under his boots, the cool morning breeze against his skin.

After a small breakfast of dried meat and the last of his fruit, Estaria packed away his camping gear. His movements were mechanical, practiced, giving his hands something to do while his mind circled warily around the task ahead. The obsidian obelisk waited in the center of the clearing, its surface somehow managing to both reflect and absorb the morning light.

Drawing closer, he noticed the number ‘3’ etched in resonance writing on its surface. The marking pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat just below the stone’s surface. Sentinel followed at a respectful distance, its wooden claws clicking against exposed roots and stones.

Estaria took several deep breaths, centering himself as best he could. His fingers twitched, missing the familiar comfort of Angel’s dagger. Instead, he pressed his palms flat against his thighs, grounding himself in the present moment.

The obelisk’s surface seemed to ripple as he focused his attention on it. Resonance memories waited within, like words written in invisible ink, only visible to those who knew how to look. Estaria reached out with his consciousness, not physically touching the stone but connecting with the energy contained within.

The forest around him grew distant as he opened himself to the resonance memories.

The throne room materialized around Estaria, its walls composed of living wood that pulsed with an unsettling organic rhythm. Fleshy, wooden pillars lined the path to the throne, their surfaces shifting between bark and something more sinister. The air hung thick with the scent of decay and growth intermingled.

Klindon sat upon the throne, her posture perfect as always, her dark eyes Sharp and calculating. She wore the same dress she’d worn at the harvest festival three years ago, though now it seemed to writhe and twist against her form.

“It’s about time you got here. The last one got here much faster.” Her voice carried that familiar edge, the one that had always preceded his worst moments growing up. Every syllable dripped with disappointment and contempt.

Estaria’s chest tightened. Even knowing this wasn’t really his mother, that this was another test, her presence sent him spiraling back to childhood uncertainties. His hands grew clammy, and he fought to keep them still at his sides.

“You’re so weak.” She leaned forward, her face twisting into an expression of disgust. “Why do you think you’re fit to speak to a god? Look at you.”

The words struck deep, finding purchase in wounds that had never fully healed. Estaria felt himself shrinking under her gaze, just as he had countless times before. His throat constricted as memories of similar conversations flooded back - standing in their kitchen, in the fields, always failing to meet her impossible standards.

“I’m not weak,” he said, but his voice came out smaller than intended. “I’ve survived everything thrown at me. I helped people in Appledale. I-” He caught himself listing achievements, falling into the familiar pattern of trying to prove his worth to her. His hands shook as he realized how quickly he’d reverted to old habits.

The throne room seemed to pulse around them, the wooden pillars writhing in sync with Klindon’s satisfied smirk. She had him exactly where she wanted him - defensive, off-balance, scrambling to justify his existence. Just like always.

“Helped people? Is that what you call what happened in Appledale?” She laughed, the sound echoing unnaturally off the living walls. “You couldn’t even save one person. Not Angel. Not your child. And now you can’t even hold onto a simple dagger.”

Each word landed like a physical blow. Estaria’s breath came in short gasps as he struggled to maintain his composure. The loss of Angel’s dagger was still too fresh, the void of unconsciousness too recent. He found himself listing more accomplishments, more reasons why he deserved to be here, his voice growing increasingly desperate.

“I survived the shadow creature. I helped Sentinel. I’ve passed the other tests-”

“Tests anyone could pass,” Klindon cut him off with a dismissive wave. “You’re nothing special, Estaria. You never were. Just a disappointment wearing borrowed power.”

The throne room continued its unsettling undulation, the pillars creeping closer with each pulse. Estaria’s mind raced, trying to find solid ground in the face of his mother’s relentless assault. Every defense he mustered felt hollow, every achievement suddenly seemed insignificant under her withering gaze.

“Your father and I used to joke about how easy it was to mold you. You were never a son. Just a resource. We never wanted you. I never kissed you goodnight. I was just glad when you finally shut up and went to sleep.”

The words struck Estaria like physical blows, each one finding purchase in his deepest insecurities. But when she claimed she’d never kissed him goodnight, a memory burst through his defenses with startling clarity.

He was eight, having fallen asleep reading in bed again. Through the haze of memory, he saw his mother pause in the doorway, shaking her head at the familiar sight. She’d slipped into his room, carefully removing the book and marking his place - page six - before drawing the blanket over him. The lamp’s flame had wavered as she adjusted it lower, casting his sleeping face in gentle shadows. He’d stirred briefly as she placed a kiss on his forehead.

The realization hit him like a splash of cold water. This wasn’t his mother - this was a test, and he’d fallen for it completely. The emotional manipulation had worked because it played on real wounds, real fears. But that one lie had shattered the illusion.

The throne room continued its unsettling undulation around them, wooden pillars writhing like living things. The false Klindon’s voice droned on, spewing vitriol and criticism, but Estaria let the words wash over him without finding purchase.

What makes someone worthy to speak to a god? The question settled in his mind, cutting through the chaos of emotion and memory. His hands, which had been trembling, grew still at his sides.

He studied the creature wearing his mother’s face. Even now, it maintained that perfect posture, that air of superiority that had always made him feel small. But he wasn’t that child anymore.

The question echoed in Estaria’s mind, but no answer emerged. His previous certainty wavered as he searched within himself for something - anything - that truly made him worthy of speaking with a god. The silence stretched between him and the false Klindon, heavy with unspoken judgment.

The throne room dissolved around them, wooden walls and writhing pillars fading into nothingness. Wind whipped at Estaria’s clothes as they found themselves suspended in the sky, looking down at a vast expanse of land below. Two massive armies spread across the landscape like living ink stains, their formations clear from this height.

The larger force moved with practiced precision, their coordinated maneuvers speaking of experienced leadership. The smaller army seemed to respond always a step too late, their movements reactive rather than strategic. Banners snapped in the wind, though Estaria couldn’t make out their insignias from this distance.

Something tugged at his awareness - a familiar resonance, like a chord struck on a distant instrument. He focused on the sensation, following it to its source. There, at the head of the larger army, rode a figure whose resonance sang with power. Every movement of their forces flowed from this general’s commands, each position change and tactical shift executed with devastating effectiveness.

The false Klindon’s voice cut through his observations. “You could never do this. No one would ever follow you.” Her words carried the same dismissive tone she’d always used when pointing out his failures. “You could never be one-tenth the man this one is.”

Below them, the battle continued to unfold. The resonant general’s army pressed their advantage, their formations moving like water around stone, surrounding and isolating portions of the enemy force. It was beautiful in its terrible efficiency, a display of martial expertise that made Estaria’s own combat experience seem childish in comparison.

The wind carried the distant sounds of battle - the clash of steel, the shouts of men, the thunder of hooves. But all Estaria could focus on was that resonance, so similar to his own yet wielded with such different purpose. He watched as thousands of lives moved at one person’s command, all that power channeled into the art of war.

The world shifted and blurred around them, the vast battlefield dissolving into confining walls lined with shelves. The sudden transition from open sky to enclosed space made Estaria’s stomach lurch. Books surrounded them, their spines faded and worn, some bound in leather that had cracked with age. The air hung heavy with the distinctive aromas of different inks - oak gall, lampblack, and others he couldn’t identify - mixed with the musty sweetness of old parchment.

A single candle cast dancing shadows across the cramped room, its flame reflected in dozens of glass bottles filled with various writing implements. At a small wooden desk, hunched over a massive tome, sat a woman so diminutive she needed to sit on several cushions to reach the desktop properly. Her fingers traced lines of text with practiced precision, her eyes darting across the pages with remarkable speed. The resonance emanating from her nearly knocked Estaria back - it pulsed with an intensity that made his own feel like a guttering candle beside a bonfire.

The false Klindon’s voice dripped with calculated venom. “She’s the smartest person in Terrindral. She’s learned to use her resonance.” The creature wearing his mother’s face curved its lips into that familiar smirk. “You can barely remember what happened a week ago.”

Estaria watched as the woman made notes in a small journal beside the tome, her handwriting precise and elegant. Complex mathematical formulae filled the margins, along with diagrams he couldn’t begin to comprehend. The resonance around her seemed to enhance everything - her thoughts, her understanding, her very perception of the world.

The world blurred and shifted once more, and suddenly Estaria found himself suspended in mid-air beside a colossal cliff face that plunged straight down into roiling ocean waters. The salty breeze whipped at his clothes, carrying the distant cries of dragons that soared through the air like living tapestries. Their scales glinted in the sunlight as they wove in and out of an intricate network of caves dotting the cliff’s surface.

But all of this - the majestic dragons, the impressive cliff face, even the enormous obsidian tower that crowned the precipice - faded into insignificance compared to what waited at the tower’s summit. The resonance there pulsed with such overwhelming intensity that Estaria’s knees would have buckled had he been standing on solid ground. It dwarfed anything he’d ever felt before, making his own resonance seem like a candle flame beside the sun.

Through the haze of power, Estaria made out two figures at the tower’s peak. A man stood before what appeared to be a massive crystalline structure, with a woman at his side. The man’s movements were precise, deliberate, and with each gesture, the very earth responded. Trees bent and swayed at his command, the ground itself rippled like water, and the air crackled with barely contained energy.

The display of power brought tears to Estaria’s eyes. This was resonance wielded with absolute mastery, with a depth of control he couldn’t begin to comprehend. Each manipulation of the natural world flowed seamlessly into the next, creating a symphony of power that made his attempts at using resonance seem like a child’s clumsy finger-painting beside a master’s artwork.

The false Klindon’s face twisted into an ugly snarl, her features contorting with contempt. “Even he proved unfit,” she spat, her words laced with venom. “Who are you beside him? A speck. Unworthy.”

Estaria couldn’t argue. The words rang true, echoing his own thoughts as he watched the display of power above them. His chest tightened with the weight of his inadequacy. How could he, who barely understood his own abilities, who had failed so many times already, who couldn’t even protect a simple dagger, hope to measure up to this level of mastery?

The resonance from the tower’s peak continued to pulse, each wave a reminder of the vast gulf between what he was and what true power looked like. Estaria felt himself shrinking in its presence, crushed under the weight of his own insignificance.

The throne room materialized around them once more, the fleshy walls pulsing with an unsettling organic rhythm. The creature wearing Klindon’s face whirled on Estaria, its movements jerky and unnatural. Spittle flew from its lips as it screamed, “What makes you think you’re worthy of what they proved unworthy for!”

The sound echoed off the writhing walls, multiplying until it seemed to come from everywhere at once. The false Klindon’s eyes blazed with an intensity that would have sent his younger self cowering into a corner.

Estaria stood still, letting the echoes wash over him. His shoulders relaxed as a peculiar calm settled over him. “I’m not,” he said quietly, the simple words cutting through the cacophony.

The ground beneath his feet shifted and squished, but he maintained his balance. Memories of the others he’d just witnessed flashed through his mind - the brilliant general commanding armies with strategic precision, the scholar whose understanding stretched beyond normal comprehension, the master of resonance atop the obsidian tower. Each of them possessed abilities far beyond his own.

But something else nagged at his consciousness, a truth he’d been avoiding. His grief, ever-present but carefully contained, pressed against the walls he’d built around it. For once, he didn’t fight it back.

“I’m not more worthy,” he continued, his voice growing stronger. The understanding bloomed fully in his mind, clear and sharp as morning sunlight. “Streacresh called, and their ambitions took them elsewhere.” The words felt right as they left his lips, each one carrying the weight of truth. “Streacresh called, and I came…” He met the creature’s gaze steadily. “I came and they didn’t.”

The false Klindon’s face contorted, flesh rippling and splitting. Its mouth stretched impossibly wide, revealing row upon row of needle-sharp teeth. A howl of fury erupted from its distorted throat, the sound more bestial than human.

But before the creature could launch itself at him, the throne room dissolved. The writhing walls, the organic pillars, and the monstrous being all vanished like smoke in a strong wind.

Estaria found himself sitting cross-legged in front of the obsidian obelisk, his legs cramped from maintaining the position. Sentinel stood nearby, its wooden form a reassuring presence in the quiet clearing. Afternoon sunlight filtered through the canopy above, creating dancing patterns on the forest floor. A light breeze carried the scent of moss and growing things, grounding him firmly in the present moment.