the Story
— Page 1 —
Kalen Thrynn trudged across the abandoned moon of Myrhazel, his boots raising lonely puffs of ash‑gray dust. No city lights guided him—only a faint, rhythmic glow pulsing beneath the surface like a somnolent heartbeat. At first he thought it a trick of fatigue, but when he paused, the ground answered with another gentle thrum, and soft teal motes spiraled upward in dancing helices. They drifted around his shoulders, mapping cryptic runes in the air before fading. The language was unfamiliar, yet it felt older than planets.
The desert’s hush deepened; even Kalen’s breath seemed to mute. The sky bled into hazy mauve, as though day itself forgot how to dawn. Out of that silence rose elongated shadows—guardians sculpted from stillness, their edges blurring against the color‑stripped horizon. They stood unmoving, watchful, like living ellipses around a secret sentence. Kalen’s pulse quickened, but a daring curiosity overrode his fear. He closed his eyes, inhaled the dust‑laden air, and stepped forward.
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A tremor spidered through the crust. The plain split with a hissing sigh, revealing a mammoth bloom: a chrono‑fungus, its iridescent gills fanning wide like celestial wings. Every pore exhaled spores glowing bright enough to cast shadows. Time bent—Kalen felt minutes elongate into hours, then snap like overstretched wire. In those elastic seconds he glimpsed himself multiplied: ten separate destinies branching outward, each tinted by a different emotion. He chose the vision where courage glowed ultraviolet, and the unchosen paths folded away like petals at dusk.
The fungus unfurled a final layer, and a prismatic archway manifested above it—interlocking tetrahedrons humming at the edge of perception. Inside each crystalline face shimmered a micro‑universe, dizzyingly infinite. As the gate yawed open, gravity winked off; Kalen’s body rose like a mote of dust drawn toward a star. He braced for cold emptiness—but instead drifted onto a vast caravan of translucent beetles marching through open space.
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The beetles were the size of river barges, their shells faceted like diamonds, each facet reflecting nebulae no telescope had ever seen. Filaments of starlight trailed behind their slow, majestic advance, sketching constellations in real time. They walked upon nothing, yet their footfalls sounded like distant drums, echoing across the void.
Kalen climbed one creature’s thorax and discovered glyphs etched in lightning across its armor—an ancient map. Lines intersected at a single sigil: a spiral throne buried deep in the Coriolus Vortex. The beetles’ leader, a towering matriarch whose shell refracted whole galaxies, lowered twin antennae to Kalen’s temple. Images flooded his consciousness: a civilization of spore‑beings that had sacrificed their bodies to survive a stellar cataclysm, encoding their myths in fungal DNA beneath Myrhazel’s crust. Their millennium‑long dream now sought a living herald.
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Nebula winds whipped as the caravan neared the Coriolus Vortex. A storm of radiant binary spores roared from its center, rewriting the laws of matter mid‑gust. The beetles jittered, flickering between dimensions like frames of corrupted film. Space fractured into kaleidoscopic shards; Kalen felt his bones dissolve into equations, then reassemble.
Through the chaos he remembered the forgotten syllable he’d chosen in the chrono‑fungus vision. He shouted it—an unpronounceable chord of mind and feeling—and reality steadied, recomposing itself around the caravan. The spores flowed into orderly helixes and formed a soaring cyclone of violet light. At its eye sat the Mycelium Throne, grown from intertwining mushroom stems that hummed with every dream ever dreamt on Myrhazel.
The Sovereign emerged: neither figure nor fungus but a horizon of possibility shaped like a crown of spores. It offered Kalen a chalice brimming with liquid moonlight. He understood without words: drink, and bind your fate to ours. Refuse, and remain merely a witness to wonder.
— Page 5 —
He drank. Moonlight rushed through his veins, detonating into constellations under his skin. Memories spanning eons overlaid his own: tidal births of continents, the hush of first consciousness, the ache of worlds forgotten. Yet none crushed him; they nested, harmonious as chords in a grand chord.
A crack like sunrise split the vortex. Forests of radiant fungi erupted across the moon’s desolation, painting the gray desert with gardens of aurora colors. The silent guardians knelt, dissolving into luminescent spores that joined the blooming canopy.
Kalen’s silhouette brightened and morphed—antlered with crystal branches, eyes twin spirals of stardust. He was no longer wanderer but Spore‑Crest, chosen avatar of rebalance. The crystal beetles bowed, arranging themselves into a towering pattern that mirrored the night sky. One by one, their shells flared, pinning new stars against the cosmic canvas: the Crystal Beetle Constellation.
With a gesture, Spore‑Crest lifted entire valleys into the air, sowing luminescent forests where emptiness once reigned. Myrhazel’s pulse settled into steady harmony, its millennia‑long dream finally spoken aloud. Far beyond, telescopes would someday detect an unfamiliar star pattern and wonder at its sudden birth, never knowing it spelled a single promise in an ancient tongue:
Wonder, once endangered, now ascends.
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