Freed from the need to carry their brass fire pot, Arjasoot found themselves able to move in ways they couldn’t before.

They drifted between the tangled maze roots like a cloud, a gust of pollen, a will o wisp. Their bronze sword, their tempered leaf-blade, danced between their hands, cleaving the thinner roots aside as they made their descent.

To better navigate the depths of the God Chasm, Arjasoot had shapped their body into a more fitting form. Coarser hands with thick padded palms. Shorter legs, with long, prehensile toes. A tail, thick and coiled, the envy of any monkey!

Their shifted form made descending the chasm a thing of ease! Why hadn’t they used such powers earlier…?

Arjasoot felt a lance of cold arc through their heart-flame and remembered why. Shapeshifting outside the Hearth-Vale, outside the Cauldron’s ambient warmth –– it would be all too easy to burn themselves out. There were ways to compensate…

...but no. Best to be cautious. Just because they’d decided to risk their life didn’t mean they had to be outright stupid about it.

Arjasoot alighted on top of a thick root, purple in color, seeping with red ichor and tangled in knots. They paused for a moment to catch their breath and stoke their heart flame…

...which was the only reason their ears caught the faint sound of two echoing voices talking to each other.

“...Red Thread to Blue…”

“...to Green. You…”

Arjasoot froze in place. The first voice, obscured though it was by distance, sounded an awful lot like Varayana’s…

They gulped down a fresh breath of moldy, stagnant air and moved. Flowing, twisting through their air and dark, their sword flickering like the iridescent wings of a dragonfly…

...the maze of roots abruptly grew thinner, a dull green light shining through their half-woven gaps.

Arjasoot slowed their pace, drawing upon the few arts of silence they knew to move without being seen or heard. The forest of rotten roots they had traversed was just that, they realized: a forest. And like a green, living forest, they had reached a clearing of sorts, an open space from which the voices echoed with greater volume and clarity.

“Red Thread to Rim. Your Move.”

The first voice, feminine and human, sounded so much like Varayana’s...like, but not.

Arjasoot felt a surge of relief. Varavayana’s mother was alive, and still possessed of her wits.

The second voice that spoke up, deep and melodious and oiled with venom, shattered Arjasoot’s newfound assurance in an instant:

“Purple Thread to Blue Thread. Capture. I ask you again: will you not become my Priestess, Lady Varavel?”

The Smoke Spirit crept along one of the thicker branches, inching along the fuzzy wood with all four of their limbs, bronze sword clutched firmly in their coiled tail. Silently, carefully, they stuck their head out of the tangled root grove to watch. To spy. To see.

The Temple of Areia, Goddess of Love, had not been smashed to pieces, they realized. It had been seized by a writhing roots and dragged down to this deep place. The marble pillars, the golden-green tile floors, the copper statues of lovers and children and wedding wreaths...everything sacred had been brought down to the same level as the Sunken One.

The termites Arjasoot had failed to see on their way down swarmed in abundance here, their swollen abdomens wiggling, their mandibles clicking as they crawled over every inch of root and stone.

Varavel, Priestess of Love, sat cross-legged on a padded straw mat, the hem of their bright red dress stained with a dark liquid. The resemblance to her daughter Varayana ––her full lips, wavy hair and calm grace –– was unmistakable.

Four human men hung upside down over Varavel’s head, bound feet first to the ceiling by a twisted cage of roots. Judging by the furious, offended looks on their faces, they were probably Varavel’s spouses…

...Varayana’s fathers.

Varavel reached down towards the game board, a disc carved from ginkgo wood and etched with an array of circles and lines. They took a playing piece––a blue thread tied to two black river stones–– and moved it back, leap-frogging over her opponent’s own playing pieces.

“Blue Thread to Rim. Escape.” Varavel announced to her enemy. “I confess I’m not sure how to respond to your question, Sunken One...because I’m not sure exactly why you wish to acquire my services.”

The Sunken One, perched on Areia’s broken altar, reached down and moved a playing piece with their swollen, elongated arm…

Arjasoot clapped a hand over their mouth before they could vomit sparks.

Kanwah, the Sunken One, the Once-God, was a being of alabaster beauty, a carved divinity of milky-white flesh and rippling muscles. He was tall and slender, with eyes the color of fresh blood and curly golden locks. His voice was melodious song, gentle yet deep. In any other place and time, this former God would have been a joy to behold…

...but this God had fallen to earth and cracked.

The side of his head, his ribs, his shoulder and his back...they had broken open like the finest porcelain or the thinnest of egg-shells. Numerous tree roots, purple and viscous, erupted from the fractured gaps in his body, digging themselves into the surrounding earth, growing continuously.

Like a seed, Arjasoot realized. This Sunken One is like a seed of evil.

“Purple Thread to Red Thread. Advance,” Kanwah said, his beautiful outer shell of a face smiling gently at the Priestess before him. “You do yourself too little credit, Lady Varavel. Your grace, knowledge, courage and arts are quite exceptional by mortal standards. Your devotion to your chosen Deiuos was able to restrain me for a time. Me, of all beings!” Kanwah allowed himself as soft chuckle. “I can think of no finer Priestess to herald my coming upon this earth!”

The Strangling Root’s smile turned as ugly and brittle as his half-broken skull: “What else can I do but try to win your service?”

“Green Thread to Rim. But therein lies the paradox, honored deity,” Lady Varaval replied. “I am hardly special as far as mortals goes. All the qualities you’ve described stem from my consistent devotion...to my Goddess, to my loved ones, to my ideals.” She placed her hands over her heart: “If I were to abandon these devotions in order to serve you, I would no longer be faithful, honorable, graceful or wise. Such a Priestess would be useless for your aims, I fear.”

Kanwah, the Strangling Root stroked their marble chin in thought. “True,” they mused aloud. “A most perplexing conundrum indeed. How can we resolve this?”

“You can resolve this by letting us go, you covetous maniac!” Vasura shouted from overhead, swinging back and forth, desperately trying to shake himself free from his ceiling prison of roots.

“Hush now,” Kanwah said, raising their hand towards the furious scribe and clenching it into a fist. “Hush, Hush…”

The roots around Vasura tightened. The scribe wheezed and gasped for breath.

“Better,” the Strangling Root said. “What was I thinking about? Ah yes, of course!” Kanwah snapped their fingers and turned to Varavel. “How about this? I threaten to kill your lovers and all the worshippers of your Goddess unless you serve me as a Priestess! This way, you would still be serving me for the sake of your love and devotion!” He beamed like a child who’d gotten their first math sum right: “I doubt even Areia would fault you for such a noble act of sacrifice!”

Arjasoot felt their heart-flame twist with the chill of anger. No matter where they went, it seemed, they kept running into proud rulers eager to expound the virtues of sacrifice.

Lady Varavel went very, very still. “Is that what you truly believe, honored deity?” She asked, words carefully enunciated. “Is this scheme you describe truly an act of virtue?”

“Your questions is filled with rhetorical barbs, Priestess,” the Strangling Root said with a huff, “but in respect to your talents, I shall answer anyway.” Kanwah rested their hand on their knee and stood up from Areia’s altar. “The essence of a Deiuos is authority,” they proclaimed. “Authority over their worshippers. Authority over their domain. A Deiuos requires authority to protect their interests and assert their moral law. If they lose their divine authority, it is their duty to gain it back by any means…”

They gave Lady Varavel a stern look: “...no matter how vile. In desperate times, even murder is permissible.”

Lady Varavel stared down at the pristine game board lying on the ground between her and the broken God. A small, sad smile creased her lips. “Desperate times call for desperate measures?” She mused out loud. “A reasonable enough philosophy. Still, I’m reminded of the words that someone precious to me once said... words both wise and foolish.”

Lady Varavel fell silent. This silence stretched on, broken only by the chittering of writhing, climbing termites..

Kanwah, the Strangling Root looked down at the Priestess and frowned.

Arjasoot adjusted their grip on the tree root, moving slowly so as not to make any noises.

Kanwah started to fidget, a motion that rippled through the roots growing from his broken back.

Lady Varavel folded her hands onto her lap and continued to say nothing.

“Well?” The Kanwah demanded. “What did this person say?”

“I dare not say it,” Lady Varavel whispered bowing her head. “Her words would not please you, honored deity, and to wound your heart is the furthest thing from my wishes…!”

“Out with it!” The Strangling Root snarled.

“Is this your true desire?” Lady Varavel asked again. “As a mere mortal, I do not wish to provoke a God’s wrath…”

“You’ll provoke my wrath if you persist with this false humility!” Kanwah said. “What did this person say?”

Lady Varavel sighed. “Very well,” she said. “I pray that as a wise deity, you will not punish the messenger for the message she bears.” She cleared her throat and spoke:

“She said...that the Gods above are blessed with Supreme Authority: this is beyond question. Whether the Gods deserve their Authority, however, is a matter of question indeed.”

The Strangling Root went very still.

“What are you insinuating?” He asked.

“As a humble devotee of the gods, it would be the height of hubris for me to insinuate anything,” Lady Varavel said, veiling her face with her interlaced hands. “However...if this woman were here, I suspect she would point out that you were stripped of your authority and cast from Heaven’s Spire.” The Priestess’s next words were gentle, and all the more cutting it: “What did you do, honored deity, to earn such a punishment?”

With the sound of splintering metal, a fresh crack appeared across the Sunken One’s cheek.

“I DID! NO! WRONG!” Kanwah screamed, black spittle spraying from his beautiful lips.

The Strangling Root’s furious voice rippled forth, raising up a cloud of dust, blasting termites across the floor and knocking them off the walls.

Arjasoot, buffeted by the blast of sound, felt their grip slip. They scrabbled for leverage and managed to regain their hold on the tree root…

...but the sword slipped from the grip of their tail and plummeted.

“COWARDS, ALL OF THEM!” Kanwah rasped. “I DID WHAT ANY OF THEM WOULD DO, IF THEY HAD THE GUTS! AND JUST LIKE THEM, YOU THINK TO LOOK DOWN ON ME, YOU LITTLE…!”

Arjasoot’s sword clattered against the temple stone.

Kanwah’s head snapped to the side: “...what was that?”

Ajasssot froze in place, hoping against hope that the Strangling Root would not suspect.

“Who is there?” Kanwah snarled, taking a single step forward and cracking the stone beneath his foot. “I can sense your presence, pestilential Ne-Dlegh-Maghu! Hide no more! Show yourself!”

Arjasoot slumped. So much for the element of surprise, they thought. They opened their mouth to draw in a vortex of air, readying themselves, if needed, to go out in a literal blaze of glory…

“Where are you?” The Strangling Root demanded.

Before Ajrasoot could burst forth, a gentle sibilant voice answered the Sunken One’s question:

“I’m right here.”

Varayana –– the Swordmaiden, the Curse-Brand, the Exile –– stepped out from the shadows, a beauty of lush lips and dark curling hair, clad in a checkboard-patterned dress and layers of iron chains.

The sword sheath belted to her side was empty, Arjasoot realized. Ina of the Axe was also nowhere to be seen.

Lady Varavel, Priestess of Areia, turned towards the familiar voice. Her unflappable composure and tranquil expression crumbled at the sight of her daughter. “Varayana…” She whispered. “No…”

The Four Fathers of Varayana, dangling from the root covered ceiling, were less subtle in their dismay.

“Vara, what in the hells are you doing here?” Argus snarled.

“Vara...go…” Vasura wheezed, forcing the words out past his cracked ribs.

“Flee this place, child!” Zol pleaded.

“We’re not worth it! Go!” Ramides shouted.

Kanwah, the Strangling Root tilted his head to the side, the roots in his brow creaking as he did so. “How fascinating…” He said. “To think that the treasure my servants sought would come straight into my domain. And all five of my guests seem to know you. Cherish you, even!”

Thousands of termites and grasping roots spilled form the walls and rose up from the floor, moving to surround the Swordmaiden.

“What is your name, precious one?” The Strangling Root asked.

Varayana drew herself up to her full height. “I am Varayana the Exile,” she proclaimed. “Varayana of the Four Fathers. Varayana, daughter of Varavel. If you’ll pardon my rudeness, Divine One, you’re settling for too little!”

A wolfishly, hungry smile broke across the Sunken One’s lovely lips. “And pray tell, why would you say that?” He asked.

Varayana placed a hand over her heart. “I learned swordcraft, dance, lore and wealth-winning from my fathers, and the arts of devotion from my mother. I bear all their talents and strength –– in fact, I dare say I surpass them!"

"Is that so?" Kanwahs said.

Varayana looked towards Varavel for a moment for continuing: "Unlike my mother, I have no ties of loyalty to the rest of the Deiuos.” Her own smile turned cruel, a wolfishly grin more than a match for the Strangling Root’s. “In fact, I have no shortage of grudges to settle with those who dwell in the Spire of Heaven.”

Kanwah threw their head back and laughed, an unpleasantly pleasant sound: “No wonder my minions tried to capture and bring you to me! And to think, I could have simply invited you here!”

“It is true,” Varayana said, inclining her head. “If your servants had told me about your presence here, I surely would have come!”

The Strangling Root raised his long, swollen arm, holding out his open hand towards Varayana: “If you understand me so well, then surely you know the question on my mind!”

Varayana raised a ring-adorned hand and brushed a rippling lock of hair away from her face: “Shall I become your chief priestess, to preach the glories of your name, inspire fearful worship and gather you power to exact revenge upon the Gods?” She walked past her trembling mother, the tread of her sandals echoing loudly against the stone floor. “That was your question, yes?”

Kanwah’s smile grew wider, gash-like.

Varayana let out a breathless chuckle as she approached the Sunken One. “Well,” she said, reaching out with her sword hand to grasp the Strangling Root’s arm. “Faced with such a generous offer, how could I say no?”

Next Chapter: Chapter Fourteen