22-Convergence

  -Chapter Start: Next day, August 18th, 2:01pm

  “Do I look stupid? Like I get it if it was Jaskrim, but her?” Duals scoffed, her head floating lazily over my shoulder, eyes narrowed with disdain. “I think I’d take my chances among humans before walking in with that at my side.”

  We were posted up in the CDS blue-room of hallways—same as always for CDS jobs, except for the rare occasion of starting at Baku’s Shop. Only this time, I wasn’t in uniform.

  It felt strange, slinging on the older gear I hadn’t worn in a while. Not flashy, but familiar. The cloak draped heavy across my shoulders, coarse against the skin, its folds steeped in the scent of old ash and dried rain, yet remarkably sturdy and warming. Years of sun and smoke had darkened it unevenly, and every crease tugged forward ghosts of forgotten skirmishes. My tunic, weather-faded and frayed at the cuffs, hung looser than I remembered—smelling faintly of iron and a general earthiness. Beneath it, the weight of the eight-inch blade at my hip—blackened steel, single-edged, etched in curling cult script—offered a cold, steady presence. Like a promise no one dared to ask about.

  The rest of the loadout came together from muscle memory when I prepared this afternoon:

  Rope coiled tight at my left side, the hemp fibers rough and scratchy through the glove. Three weatherproof flasks clipped across my belt, wrapped in rough leather to prevent clinking. Firestarter kit rolled in oilskin, creaking faintly as it bent. A lens compass tucked in a thigh pouch beside a water-damaged map, the re-inked symbols faintly smudged where sweat or time had worn through. One satchel packed with utility tools and salts, another with crushed herbs sealed in waxy parchment...

  No glamour, no armor worth naming. Just what worked, just what survived.

  “The tin-can’s not wrong.” Zylas spoke up, casually spinning the Traveller’s Rune between two claws. Its surface caught glints of light as it rotated, runes faintly humming like bees in a jar. “I’d be more useful ripping the legs off freaks than trying to reason with some fossil in a chair.”

  “Sorry, I like where my head still is.” Duals snapped. Her disembodied head zipped between us in a blur of flame-flicker and sarcasm before floating back toward her body, still buried neck-deep in a sea of half-signed documents and broken pens. “If you’ve got no one else, then I suggest you get moving.”

  I glanced toward Zylas, now leaning fully against Duals’ desk despite the faint scorched marks appearing beneath her elbow and the sharp glares being thrown her way. There was another I hadn’t fully considered to join us, to—

  “But would it be wise, for me to attend in her stead?” A voice like echoing frost drifted through the room, its timbre a solemn ripple that curled around the base of my skull. A long, crawling shadow rose behind me, dragging the temperature down like a falling blade. Duals’ body stood rigid, flames trailing unnaturally up from her neck to light her glance back toward the source. Zylas’ claws stopped spinning. Her ears flattened slightly, and she stood upright with a deliberate slowness. Entropy was clearly behind me.

  “I’m not dealing with this Cosmic Cunt.” Zylas snapped, not even turning her head. Her voice was razor-flat, void of her usual smug.

  “I hate to agree with the wolfhound.” Duals said bitterly, standing only half-straight, the light from her neck sputtering, “But I don’t think she’s a good choice. Do you know I had to physically do all her paperwork because she ruins everything she touches?”

  “Fuck it.” Zylas growled, the Rune now flicking between her knuckles like a coin. “Bring Schr?dinger’s Miscarriage. Maybe she’ll drop another timeline and we’ll actually fall into a working plan.”

  She tilted her head at Duals with a grin that could’ve been carved into bone. “Especially if the haunted vibrator with a clipboard kink wants to bitch about it.”

  “Tha thu gu bhith a’ coimhead gu math fuckin’ èibhinn às aonais na fiaclan goddamn agad!” Duals roared—some blend of ancient dialect and wrath that hit the back of the skull like a war drum. Her flames flared white for a moment, then snapped inward.

  “Easy there, titplate.” Zylas cooed, barely containing a laugh. “Keep sweet-talking, and I’ll use your mouth for something besides a bottle-opener.”

  “Fucking hell, Zylas, tone it down.” I muttered. The heat in the room was rising unnaturally, static crawling along my arms. I glanced at Duals—her body was now fully assembled, eyes wreathed in heat, her mouth a furnace. “You’re pushing it.”

  “Right, right, my bad. Didn’t realize the lunch-box—”

  A loud CRACK cut her off. Duals landed a metal-heavy fist to the side of Zylas’ head from behind. The Rune slipped from Zylas’ hand, clattering against the tile—tink, tink, tink, clack—before skidding to a stop at my boot.

  I looked back up, Zylas didn’t stagger.

  Her head hung sideways at an unnatural angle, jaw clearly unhinged—one cheek slightly distended, a faint line of blood trailing down from the corner of her mouth. Her shoulders rose and fell with a slow, deliberate breath. Then came the aura—dense, pressurized, like a storm front crashing into the room. The tile under her feet groaned.

  “Zylas…” I said, warily. She raised a paw to her jaw, gripped it, and snapped it back into place with a sickening pop-thud. The sound echoed in the sterile room.

  “You.”

  “Get.”

  “One.”

  Each word was a growl layered with something primal. The air around her thickened, her breath low and rattling, her outline blurring at the edges like heat haze as she fully turned to focus on Duals.

  “You better make the second one count.” She snarled. “Because you won’t get a third.”

  The two locked eyes. Duals’ flames began to shrink back, her face shifting into something closer to stunned disbelief than fear. The standoff hung there—tangible, coiled like a tripwire—until Zylas turned and glared directly into my soul.

  “You’re welcome.” She spat onto the floor, and blood dripped from the corner of her mouth.

  “A blight of might…” Entropy began, her voice a soft, retelling solemnity. Zylas turned her eyes on her next, causing Entropy to stop.

  “I… think we should go.” I said carefully, the words dry against my tongue. I crouched to pick up the Rune—it felt warmer than before, almost pulsing faintly. “Just use the Rune and Coin on any door, right?”

  The pressure Zylas exuded didn’t fade—it clung to the air like static as we descended a narrow, stone-cut corridor. The walls pressed in close, wide enough for only one of us at a time. Definitely not made for someone like Entropy, who had simply muttered, “Amongst the shadow of stars, concealed behind a heart of rage.” before vanishing once again into whatever fold of reality she traveled through.

  “I’m really fuckin’ hoping there’s something to maim.” Zylas growled from behind, her claws dragging slow furrows through the stone. The screech echoed off the corridor in a sound that felt like it scraped against the inside of my spine.

  “Thanks for not killing—”

  “Don’t fucking patronize me.” Her voice thundered off the walls. “If it didn’t potentially ruin your job, I’d have donated her corpse to a scrapyard.”

  “Can I trade your tolerance for something, then?” I asked, stopping at a fork where the corridor split—one path opened into a hollowed-out chamber with a staircase downward, the other continued forward into what looked like a crawlspace. I held up the Traveller’s Rune, watching it pulse faintly and pull toward the longer, downward staircase.

  “You’re only useful for your blood, meatsack.” Zylas snapped. “Don’t think you can bargain with me.” She punctuated the threat by slamming her fist into the wall—stone shattered with a ‘crack!’, like bone giving way. I flinched, spinning to face her.

  She barely fit now—her half-shifted form hunched beneath the ceiling, muscles bulging beneath her coat, fur bristling at the seams. Her eyes glowed, primal and furious.

  “Will my blood calm you down, then?” I asked, rolling up my sleeve, trying to keep my voice even. “If The Chimera is anything like… my other half… I’d rather not start a fight we can’t walk back from.”

  Zylas stared, breath heavy, eyes burning. Her silence felt like a taut rope, stretched to snapping.

  Then, finally, a low growl rolled from her chest—slow and grudging.

  “You really need a safer option.” She muttered, seizing my arm and yanking it up toward her. Her claws pressed against my skin, just shy of breaking it. “You realize if you offered this every time I was pissed, you’d be a corpse by now?”

  “Well, call me your personal blood bank then.” I said, holding her gaze. “But I figure we’ve stopped pretending this is one-sided.”

  Her stare lingered. And for the briefest moment, something shifted. No retreat in her posture, no slack in the jaw. But there—a flicker of pause behind the burn in her eyes. A tell you’d miss unless you’d learned how to read her before she bared her teeth. That tight breath between fury and restraint. That moment just before the bite.

  “I’ll be fine.” She muttered, her voice lower now, heavier. She shoved my arm back down. “Let’s just hope they start a fight.”

  Then she grabbed my shoulder and shoved me forward with a forceful push that sent me stumbling a step.

  “Move.”

  We trekked through winding corridors, each one darker and deeper than the last. The stone walls began to broaden, yet the air thickened—not with rot, but with something colder. Older. It didn’t smell like death, not exactly. It felt like death watched. Old skulls lined the walls, resting in recessed alcoves like sleeping sentinels. At first, they came in singles—then by dozens. Eventually, full skeletons began to appear, arranged in haunting still-lives of violence and reverence alike. The deeper we went, the more complete the remains became, as though we were descending not just through ground, but through memory—into the marrow of something ancient.

  Behind me, Zylas kept pace. Her eyes never left me, but I heard her less and less. The scrape of claws dulled. Her ragged breath quieted. She hadn’t shifted back, but something about her—rage or restraint—seemed more tightly wound now. More aware. Eventually, we entered a chamber that felt like a threshold. The space opened wide, grander than anything before. Stone pillars lined the edges, carved not for worship but for warning. The air felt colder here, almost deliberate in its chill. At the far side stood no door—just a massive wall etched with runes, its center recessed slightly as if it waited for something to press into it. From that gap, a slow thread of cold wind whispered out, curling around our ankles like breath held too long.

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  Zylas stepped up beside me.

  “A hell of a graveyard.” She muttered, her voice echoing off the stone. “With air flow like that, guess the big bad wolf is behind those runes, eh?”

  “Think she’s standing beside me.” I joked, glancing her way. Zylas didn’t even flinch. Her eyes stayed fixed ahead, unimpressed. “How do you even know about that children’s tale?” I asked, half-smirking.

  “How the fuck do you know, Mister Cult Boy?” She snapped. “I drink people for a living, not all of them were complete assholes. What’s your excuse?”

  Her tone bit, but something about the words landed differently. Not venomous. Just… honest.

  “Guess I used to read a lot of abandoned and forgotten books to escape this world.” I muttered; the words lighter than I meant them to be. Zylas paused, turned her head slightly to glance back at me. Her expression didn’t shift much—but I could tell she heard it.

  “We all have our own ways of coping.” She said plainly. Then she turned, walked to the runed wall, and placed her hand against it. It passed through like smoke.

  “Stupid fucking—”

  She vanished mid-sentence, her voice cut clean as if a thread had been snipped. I didn’t wait long, unsure if she teleported or merely passed through it.

  “—in’ place. Maybe if you want guests, you should just have them arrive at your front fuckin’ door.” I caught the tail end of Zylas’ visceral complaint, her voice bouncing off the cavernous walls. A sprawling, forsaken metropolis unfolded before us from the jagged precipice we now stood upon.

  “City of the underworld…” I breathed. The scent hit first—damp stone, coppery old blood, and something bitter, like burnt sage and decay left too long in still air. The space defied reason, expansive wasn’t a big enough word. Towering ruins clawed their way up earthen pillars, buildings stacked like insects’ nests, some fused directly into stone spires. Forgotten sunlight slanted through warped shafts in the ceiling far above, filtered gold casting halos on cracked glass and skeletal balconies. Below, a black, sluggish river cut through it all, giving off a briny tang, like seawater turned sour.

  The longer I looked, the more the place came alive, a sickly pulse behind the silence. Vines moved without wind. Shadows didn’t match their sources.

  “Careful now.” Zylas warned, her hand pressing hard to my chest. The heat from her palm bled through my clothes. I hadn’t realized that I was walking, and now a foot hovered over the cliffside. “I might level several bastions if my favorite blood bank dies that easy.”

  “Vjjlldddjjrrttt sjk hhhjjkkrrttt.” A shrill, doubled voice echoed above, the tones overlapping with mine, Zylas’, and something utterly foreign. I glanced up after taking a few steps back.

  Hundreds—no, thousands—of compound eyes blinked in eerie unison from within two immense, glowing red orbs. They floated impossibly high in the darkness, like twin planets watching from a forgotten orbit. Lilith’s eyes took over, clarity snapping into place. Despite the distance, I could make out a shape roughly Zylas’ size, maybe smaller. Massive talons gripped unseen ledges, and great wings hung like torn veils of night. Then—gone. It blinked out of sight like a glitch in reality.

  Zylas’ head moved sharply, animalistic, tracking what I no longer could.

  “What was it again—the Whispering Shit-Eater and the Ever-Changing Fuck-toy? Take it this is the Whisper-Freak.” Zylas growled, claws twitching in anticipation as her eyes landed behind me. I turned to match her gaze.

  A figure stepped from the shadow—no, it hadn’t stepped. It had been there, cloaked in its own stillness. A person-sized insectoid, blanketed in dark, coarse fur the color of ash. Wings hung heavy around its frame, catching no light, making no sound. Its luminous eyes glowed with a depth that stretched past our timeline.

  “Your carnage not wrought lost me many certainties.” it cooed, its voice harmonized with mine, Zylas’, and its own in a jarring echo. “Ripples brought taut, feasts never measured. Gruel today, for the divinity of tomorrow.”

  “I am not dealing with another god-fucking-damn riddle-speaker.” Zylas snarled, her tone scraping metal. “I will personally fornicate over your shambled remains with whatever constitutes as a bone from your bug carcass if you keep that shit up.”

  She advanced, and I stepped with her, tapping her shoulder gently.

  “If that’s the being from the note, I’d really prefer you not do that unless absolutely necessary.” I spoke, reminding her of why we’re here.

  “Oh don’t worry, I’ll be sure to write a justified note from their innards.” Zylas growled.

  Footsteps. Tap. Tap. A measured rhythm echoed from a stairwell hidden in the stone, perfectly blended into the terrain until now.

  “Daegon, Daegon, Daegon…” Came a calm, playful voice. “Arch-Lord Kalth seems to think you’re from the Keepers of Chained Twilight Sect. Would explain your last name, Etertwight.”

  The voice was disarmingly human, but the speaker remained unseen—just out of reach of light.

  “What are you?” I asked, gaze flicking between the insectoid and the source of the voice. “A Doppelganger? Is that why you’re hiding?”

  A fit of laughter spilled out, followed by wheezing.

  “Sickness and decay, throw not the rock—” The insectoid began.

  A rock flew from Zylas’ hand. It struck something just off-center from the insectoid, and the impact exploded with a sound like brittle glass shattering over metal.

  “Zylas!” I nearly shouted.

  “Part of me wishes it actually hit.” Another laugh escaped the unseen voice, amused by the situation. Then, footsteps resumed as the individual turned the corner—

  “Oddly human.” I said cautiously as the figure emerged.

  He was in his twenties, maybe, but bore the wear of someone twice that. A cane of carved bone supported his limp, etched with symbols not unlike the ones we passed earlier. His skin was warm and earthen, like polished mahogany left too long beneath an overcast sun. His features were angular, thoughtful. Eyes—one brown, one green—locked on me, curious, unguarded.

  “Heterochromia.” He said as if I’d asked. “Old world word. Weird how some things persist.”

  Scars ran like faded threads across his knuckles and jawline—some pale and faded, others fresh with the pink hue of recent healing. He wore tailored clothes with just enough wear to show use: a long coat, stitched tight at the waist, sleeves pushed slightly up to reveal inked cuffs and bracers. He looked like a man who’d fought monsters and survived… and then taken time to iron his collar.

  “Ah, Zylas, the Apex of Eerie’s Respite.” His tone was admiring, amused. “Despite what my moth-laden friend here has said, I’m happy you didn’t end the last vestiges of humanity from that region.”

  He stepped forward, evenly spaced between us and the insectoid. “You didn’t bring a second?”

  “No second, yes second. Before. After. Never present? What—” The insectoid’s words echoed with confusion before being cut off by a looming shadow.

  “For the sanity of Zylas; do not address that which escapes your purview, Mortal.” Entropy appeared behind me like oil returning to water, her presence like static electricity brushing the edge of my spine.

  “On a list of things to violently murder, you’re only fourth now.” Zylas muttered.

  “I would be second, and my moth friend here would be first?” The man offered with a smirk.

  “Don’t be so full of yourself. Daegon’s first.” Zylas barked.

  I winced. “I’m touched.”

  The Moth unfurled its wings—huge, velvety membranes opening like ancient scrolls. Wind rushed past us with an unnatural chill, curling around my collar and pricking sweat to my neck.

  “We’re not here to fight.” I said, stepping forward and placing myself between them. Zylas’ eyes bored into mine. She didn’t need to say a word, since I could feel her restraint like a hand around my throat.

  “Normally, I’d say wise choice.” The man replied. “But I think we’re at a disadvantage without the rest.”

  He took a few more steps, his cane echoing with each one.

  “Sadly, I can’t give you my name. But you may call me Seat Five, the Witness, or Ever-Changing Perspective. That is Seat Two—The Moth. Our Whispering Sorter.”

  We were led only a short distance—though it felt longer—down a corridor that sloped inward, carved into the natural stone. The entrance to the room we reached was nearly imperceptible, the wall seeming to ripple slightly when we passed its threshold, an optical illusion that made the opening vanish the moment we were through. The air inside was noticeably colder, tinged with the mineral tang of wet limestone and a faint acrid smell—like burnt resin or old paper left to rot.

  Seat Five entered first, his cane tapping out a slow rhythm on the smooth stone. Seat Two followed in near-silence, keeping wide berth around the still-simmering Zylas, who prowled at my side with predator casualness. The space inside was wider than expected, ceiling low but the room long, like a war council hall, all sharp acoustics and faint echo. The table was hewn from dark, slick stone, still carrying the faint musk of damp earth and age.

  “So tell me.” Seat Five began as he lowered himself into the furthest chair. “How did you secure the aid of Zylas? Even Seat Two in their glimpses didn’t foresee such an outcome.”

  I didn’t answer immediately, instead choosing a chair halfway down the table. Zylas followed close, and as I pulled it out, she placed a hand—firm and unnervingly warm—on both the backrest and my shoulder, her fingers just grazing my neck. Her claws hadn’t yet extended, but I felt them just beneath the skin, a veiled threat or comfort depending on her mood. Entropy had since vanished back into the fold of wherever she recedes to—a void I felt more than understood.

  “We fucked for hours.” Zylas said flatly.

  I whipped my head toward her, face contorted in disbelief. Seat Five’s expression was not far off. He blinked slowly, glancing between us as though calculating whether this was a joke or an omen.

  “I… see.” He managed, voice tightening as he smoothed his coat and cleared his throat. “Regardless. What we’re really interested in is your ideals, Daegon.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, straightening in my seat, spine lightly brushing the chilled stone backrest.

  “Eerie’s Respite’s Overseer appears to have taken a strong interest in you. So has Arch-Lord Kalth. For a simple human, you’re attracting an unusual amount of attention in the world of Cryptids.” Seat Five’s tone held something surgical—measured, but not yet trusting. He folded his hands, each knuckle marked by faint burns and cuts.

  “Stop pussyfooting and ask the question.” Zylas snapped. I caught a shimmer from Seat Two in the corner of my eye. Their wings pulsing slightly, the light around them bending wrong.

  “Very well.” Seat Five said. “A minor calamity threatens the balance of the Contract humanity signed over a century ago. The Overseer believes you may be the solution. Seat Two disagrees. I remain… skeptical. Whether you serve as a balm or a blade is still undecided.”

  “If he’s willing to stick his dick in a blender, I think he’s got both worlds balanced in his decision making.” Zylas muttered, claws beginning to dig—gently, but purposefully—into my shoulder. Her claws were muted by my leather, the only thing truly stopping her from drawing blood. Yet her act was like a warning wrapped in affection.

  “I… I’ve been given a rather new perspective over the last month or so.” I said, shifting slightly to nudge Zylas’ hand. She released the pressure, albeit reluctantly. “If you’re worried I’ll favor Cryptids over humans, I don’t think it’s that simple. I’m not who I was in the past. I’ve grown to see both sides…”

  “On the contrary, it’s the opposite.” Seat Five spoke.

  “This fuckwit couldn’t—” Zylas began, before a cold shadow formed behind her, like ink through water.

  “Inquiry. Curiosity. The offer forgotten and the promise never sealed—yet honored still.” Entropy murmured, her words soft yet immovable. “The knot was tied in a thread that does not exist, yet here you all are, feeling its pull. The Timeline... remembers the absence.”

  “You’re back up to third.” Zylas muttered.

  “Sorter whispers false certainties. The Binder breaks an Oath. The Vault’s Catalogue isn’t. The Path unfolds without choice.” Her voice pressed against the world, soft and invasive, like a thought you couldn’t claim as your own. “The Unculling stirs in ignorance.”

  Seat Five stiffened visibly, his composure cracking. “How do you know—?”

  “Don’t seek balance.” Entropy said. “Seek what precedes balance. Pray the question finds you before the answer does.”

  She drifted to the far side of the table, now visible—half-formed, woven from shadow and suggestion. Where her face should have held indifference, it now bore something worse: a smile.

  “Deliveries. Delusions. Deliberations. Delegations. Death. Deceit... Deals.” Entropy paused, her face returning to its solemnness of before and glanced back over to Seat Five, whose expression gave away his shockedness. Seat Two from behind entropy remained eerily motionless, but you could tell his focus was entirely on Entropy. “Any less, nor more would progress prevention.”

  Zylas’ claws had returned to their pressured placement on my shoulder, yet the weight of her presence wasn’t something of anger.

  “Even if we were to believe you…” Seat five began, though the soft hum of Entropy’s voice was carried below it.

  “Impossibilities. Future foretold yet unseen.” Seat Two’s words carried the same ominous undertone of Entropy.

  “Great, so she actually does abort timelines.” Zylas barked, her words also undertoned by Entropy’s own voice.

  “What does that even mean?” I asked, glancing up to Zylas.

  “According to some dickless cultist, certain beings can change fundamental parts of the world they exist in. If they get too strong, they stop altering, and begin rewriting.” Zylas spoke plainly, looking over to Sear Two. “If that cricket used to accurately see multiple futures, but suddenly wasn’t able to, it’s only reasonable to think something changed those.”

  “World-altering Cryptids exist, but we’re talking our entire world changing.” Seat Five spoke, his voice back to a calmness. “I find it hard to believe a single entity…” He paused looking over at Entropy. “Could alter all of that by themselves.”

  Entropy’s head tilted slightly, one eye held a chasm of void and the other filled with the cosmos.

  “Born into sand and sky. Left loyalty behind for truth, after losing his embrace,” she said softly, eyes shifting to Zylas. “Survivor. Barely. Through claw and bone. Never again will—”

  Entropy stopped as the air around Zylas rippled with menace. She turned her gaze to Seat Two.

  “An efferent of chaos. Wielding peace through calamity to glimpse greater truths. Revered… and still, you care. Against your very nature.”

  Then her gaze met mine.

  “And the Dealmaker. Death-marked—by birthright, by demon’s claim, now by Time’s ledger. You gave flesh to set her free. Traded mind for illusion, memory for mercy. Reality… for my attention. Body, for fur. And still, devotion was not yours to give—yet still taken.”

  Seat Five didn’t look at her. He stared at the center of the table as though afraid it might look back. “You make it sound like he has nothing left to give.”

  “He doesn’t.” Entropy said. “And that is why only he remains.” She did not blink. Her voice thinned, stretched across past and future like breath over a blade.

  “All others broke. Burned. Bargained and failed. Across a thousand convergences, a thousand timelines—he is the only constant. The only soul that suffers well.”

  really fucked me up mentally. Not only this, but quite a few older works were corrupted. Granted, the book itself was mostly saved. I had all the official stuff in my little discord server with some more zealous readers, but not a lot of the off-writes. I figured out what to do with these 'interims' finally, and was planning to do a 'a day in the life of' mini-series I could upload to whenever with no schedule. These could be requests, or brain-bugs of mine... So, I spent the last two weeks depressed and writing what I could remember of them, and recovering what I could of the others works. Alright, that's all my bickering. Lets get back to existentialism from Daegon.