Evenhere City was a testament to a revolution fought not with swords but with feeling. The oppressive silence of the Age of Echoes had been replaced by a vibrancy of the new age. From the lampposts and balconies, new banners of deep fuchsia silk now hung. Each of them had been stitched with the kingdom symbol: a seven-pointed mallow star with a celadon daffodil at the center.
The cobblestone streets, once a uniform slate, now shimmered with a thousand shades of pink. It was the color of hope that had filled the world's last empty spaces. Music, a concept which was once outlawed and forgotten, now spilled from the open doorways. The air was now rich with a sense of life. The savory spice of roasted blue pumpkins from a vendor's cart mingled with the sweet perfume of purple roses sold by the armful.
Herelings with skin and hair a riot of every color imaginable, chased each other through Here Square. Their laughter echoed off of the colorful walls like a defiant starburst in the air.
A baker with skin the color of a crimson eggplant loudly argued with a customer whose deep magenta skin flushed with indignation. Their passionate dispute drew a small crowd of Here. This was a public spectacle of feeling that in the past would have earned them both an arrest for Public Emoting from the Big Aught Police. Now, the baps were no more, having been replaced by the Royal Color Guard. Their polished armor bore the same symbol as the banners on the breastplate.
A street performer stood on a crate, juggling orbs of pure light that shifted in intensity with the rising and falling cheers of the onlookers. This was the world Jethran and Fable had been nurturing for four years. A place where emotion was no longer a crime to be suppressed, but a language to be spoken, however clumsily, and the Here of Evenhere were still learning the words.
Far above the joyful noise of the streets of Evenhere City, the Rainbowsplendent Palace was a hymn to the light. Its grand gates, wrought from lilac iron, were inlaid with a massive seven-pointed star of polished crystal. It was a magnificent structure of shimmering crystal and polished pink stone, built in elegant spires and graceful arches around the great Tree of Hope.
The Tree stood at its heart in an open-air arboretum. The emerald sun's light filtered down through its crystalline leaves, refracting through the palace's crystal walls and filling every hall with a cascade of dancing rainbows.
Within the Throne Room, where the light danced across walls adorned with moments of a life hard-won, the two kings presided. There, captured in still frames, were the testaments to the life they had built.
A formal coronation photo showed two young Kings, radiating a confident power that seemed almost too large for their simple thrones. Beside it was a candid shot from their wedding day. It showed them both crowned and laughing as Fable playfully dabbed a spot of cake on Jethran's nose.
Above the grand hearth, a magnificent oil painting depicted them in their full regalia. Their confident expressions looked out over a kingdom reborn, the Tree of Hope visible in the background, its seven-hued bark a testament to their victory.
At twenty, King Jethran was no longer a boy. The four years of rule had settled a confident stillness upon him. His hair, as pink as snow, was longer now, resting just below his ears. A neatly trimmed beard of the same light pink shade gave his features a handsome distinction.
He sat upon a throne carved from the pale, swirling wood of the Tree of Hope, his Heartwood hand resting calmly on its arm.
Beside him, on his identical throne, King Fable was the spirit of the vibrant world. His once-gangly frame had settled into a more stately presence, and his boisterous energy was now tempered with a king's thoughtful quiet, though his eyes still held their characteristic mischievous spark. Their Royal Advisor, Dresdi, was finishing up her report.
"...and the Emotional Acclamation Center in the northern provinces reports that while incidents of rage-grief are down, there is a marked increase in public displays of joy that are bordering on civic disruption. We may need to consider sanctioned joy-gardens to give this... exuberance... a proper outlet."
"Joy-gardens,” Fable stifled a laugh. “I like the sound of that."
"A kingdom with too much joy is a problem I'm happy to have,” Jethran added. “Make a note of it, Dresdi. Draw up a proposal for what resources the centers would need for a pilot program."
"I will have the plans drawn up and sent to you as soon as possible, Your Majesty," Dresdi replied with a respectful nod.
“And the new field rations have been a resounding success,” Dresdi reported. “The blue pumpkin ravioli has been reported as an absolute favorite. The Royal Color Guard requests more of the same.”
“Fantastic!” Fable chimed. “I’m so glad to see that we can improve the nutrient intake for the guardsmen. Send a thank you to Serif for suggesting the pumpkins. And what of the new armor?”
“A battalion was sent out early this morning to retrieve the new woven armor from the Whispering Grove, Your Majesty,” Dresdi confirmed.
Just as she finished speaking, a page entered the throne room.
"Your Majesties,” the page announced. “Martier is here with the daily report from the Restoration Guild."
"Send him in," Jethran said, his voice even.
Martier entered. He wore the simple livery of a palace aide and kept his gaze fixed firmly on the polished pink stone floor as he knelt. In a quiet act of benevolence, King Jethran had given a position at the palace to the former Mandated Hereman. Jethran looked down at the hereman who had been the architect of so much of his childhood misery.
Vengeance would have been easy. Exile would have been just. But Jethran had chosen a different path, a harder one. He had offered mercy. He had given Martier a position, a purpose, a quiet corner in the world. It was a constant test of his own benevolence, a daily reminder that the principles of his new kingdom had to apply to everyone, even the ghosts of the past.
"The report, King Jethran," Martier said, his voice low and formal as he offered a scroll.
"Thank you, Martier,” Fable took the scroll. “Is everything in order?"
"Yes, Your Majesty," Martier replied.
"You are dismissed," Jethran said.
Martier bowed and exited as quietly as he had entered. Jethran watched him go, the stiff bow a daily reminder of how much the world had changed. The hereman who had been a tyrant now looked... small.
"Your Majesties, if I may," Dresdi said. "There is the matter of the opening ceremony for the Quintennalia Celebration. I understand there has been a Regal Divergence on the exact display we want."
"Regal divergence," Fable barked with laughter, seizing the opportunity. "I suppose that's the diplomatic way of saying that I have proposed an act of breathtaking, living magic and my husbran has countered with celestial graffiti."
“That would be correct,Your Majesty,” Dresdi replied with a smile.
"I'm still not convinced," Fable said, tapping a finger on the arm of Jethran's throne. "Fireworks that spell out Gray is Gross feels a bit... on the nose."
“It's a classic for a reason!” Jethran grinned. “It's concise, it's honest. What's not to love?"
"I'm just saying," Fable countered, "a million enchanted butterflies releasing edible glitter and flowers upon the crowd feels more celebratory and less like we're still yelling at a ghost. Not to mention it's more eco-friendly."
"Are you accusing my slogans of being bad for the environment?" Jethran asked with theatrical shock. "I'll have you know my carbon footprint is immaculate."
"For the record, Your Majesties," Dresdi interjected with a slight smile, "I am partial to the butterflies."
"See?" Fable crowed triumphantly. "Even our most esteemed Royal Advisor agrees. My butterflies are the superior choice. They represent life, beauty, and sparkle."
“Dresdi, I am wounded by your lack of support,” Jethran rolled his eyes, but his own smile betrayed his amusement.
"Fine. You can have your fluttery appetizers.” Jethran smiled. “But I'm reserving the right to a single, very large, very gross firework at the end of the night. For tradition's sake."
"A compromise! I knew you had it in you," Fable said, reaching over to pat Jethran's Heartwood hand. "Dresdi, please note that the kings have reached an accord. The Quintennalia will feature both beauty and a tasteful amount of pettiness."
It was in that moment of profound peace that the world fractured.
Fable, in the middle of a laugh, suddenly went rigid. The joy vanished from his face, replaced by a look of profound shock. He let out a sharp gasp, his hand flying to his chest as if his heart had been physically struck.
The brilliant emerald of his eyes clouded over with a pain that wasn't his own.
"Fable!" Jethran was at his side in an instant, his own laughter dying in his throat.
"Dresdi, go find the medic!" He knelt, his hands hovering over his husband's trembling form. "What is it? What do you feel?"
“I don't need a medic,” Fable’s eyes were unfocused. “She is here on the palace grounds."
"Who is here?" Jethran asked, his voice tight with confusion and fear.
"My sistra," Fable’s gaze met his, and his eyes were filled with an empathetic certainty. "And she is in terrible, terrible pain."
Suddenly, a frantic chime echoed from the palace's magical alarm.
"Your Majesties, there is an intruder,” a breathless guard appeared at the door. “At the main gate. She's... she's quite insistent."
They arrived to find the grand entryway in a state of controlled chaos. Saga, a force of elemental energy, stood in the center of the pink stone floor. Before her, three members of the Royal Color Guard were incapacitated by tendrils of gilded vines which were holding the guardsmen against the wall.
"Oh, spice!" Saga snapped as Jethran and Fable appeared. "The king is my broven, you clods!"
Jethran waved a hand, dismissing the magic with an ease that gave Saga an immediate pause.
"Saga? What is it? What's wrong?" Fable asked, rushing to his sistra.
"They're gone, Fable,” her fierce expression crumbled. “Momra and Dadzu. They've faded."
In the solemn quiet of the throne room, the full story tumbled out. Fable sank onto his throne, his face pale with a shock that went bone-deep. Jethran’s heart ached, not just for Fable, but for the echo of his own past, the memory of his mother, Regale, being torn from him.
"Faded? Both of them?" Fable whispered, the words lost. "But... I haven't spoken to them in years. I always thought there would be more time. How? Was it–," Fable's voice broke. He couldn't bring himself to say the name of the malady that once haunted him.
"No, Fable," Saga said, her voice trembling but hard. "This new plague is a pure malice. It takes anyone. It just... turns them to dust."
"They say that it was him,” her gaze flickered towards Jethran, cold and accusatory. “His magic that stained it. The Hum is no longer pure. It's poisoned and broken. This Fading... It didn't happen until he came."
"This... Spectrasy,” she spoke with venom. “That's what is to blame."
“Saga,” Jethran corrected; “I haven't been to Silvarii Hollow in nearly five years. If my magic caused this, and it spreads as quickly as you say it has, then why did it take so long to start?”
The simple logic was warring with what she knew because she had been told.
"Dadzu's last command,” her voice hardened further. “It was for you to return, Fable. The Hollow has no leader. Eldru Briar is using their fear to seize power, and you are here... playing king."
“They don't want me there,” Fable argued. “You were there. Do you not remember the things that they said?”
"You have to come home," she insisted. "It is your birthright. Your duty. You are supposed to be the Mayor, not... this."
"A mayor can't stop a plague, Saga!" Fable cried out. Jethran put a steadying hand on his husband's shoulder.
"What we can offer is help," Jethran said, his voice calm and measured. "We have the best healers in all of Evenhere. I can have them dispatched at once."
"Oh, thank you, Your Highness..." Saga sarcastically exclaimed, as she offered a grandiose bow. "But what we need is our Mayor."
“It's like looking into the past,” Jethran whispered as he stepped back.
"We need a magical solution," Fable interjected, ignoring the blatant comparison to his sibling. "The healers only work on the physical. My magic isn't going to help. Neither will yours.”
“I don't even think Spectrasy will help in this instance," Jethran added.
"How would you even consider that the plague-brought would somehow help to heal the plague that he caused?" Saga demanded, her gaze fixing on Jethran again.
Jethran opened his mouth, but Fable reached up, placing his hand on Jethran’s chest to stop him.
"Because I know that Jethran is not responsible," Fable continued, his voice ringing with conviction. "I have seen what his magic can do. The life he has restored. But he is right. It will not be enough to heal what’s happened here. We need something more."
Saga’s expression shifted, as she took a breath. "Before I left, Post said the eldrus were speaking of the old tales," she offered with trepidation. "The Pixxels of Power. He said they believed only a plea to them could restore our… silver safety."
"The Pixxels! Saga, that's it!” Fable's head snapped up.
“It's got to be!" He seized upon the idea. "The oldest Silvarii Stories say they are the primordial source of all elemental magic. They can re-tune the Hum of the world itself!"
"And we have proof? We know that these Pixxels exist?" Jethran asked, his tone gentle but skeptical. "Beyond simple Silvarii Stories?"
"It's in the oldest songs," Saga retorted, a flash of her fathru's dogmatism in her eyes. "It's a truth deeper than proof."
"But the trials are... deadly," Fable said. "There are stories of Silvarii who have traveled and tried to beseech them but never returned."
"I will go,” Jethran, seeing Fable torn, stepped forward. “I will speak to these Pixxels and convince them to help us."
“They won't give an audience to you!” Saga laughed.
"No," Fable insisted. "She's right. The legends are clear. It must be a Silvarii who makes the appeal."
He looked from his sistra to his husband. Knowing that impossible decision was before him and was his alone to make.
"Saga can take you,” Fable sighed. “The King of Evenhere, arriving with the Dotra of the Mayoral House of Lore as his guide… together, you might convince them."
A heavy silence fell.
"I'm not traveling with this sprittle," she spat.
Jethran flinched. He understood the anger behind Saga's pejorative. Her grief needed a target, and he was the most colorful one in the room.
"Saga! Do not speak of your King that way," Fable commanded.
"He is not my king," she retorted. "He is the reason our parens are dead. I will not guide the plague-brought."
"He is the King of Evenhere, Saga. As am I," Fable demanded. "This is our only hope. For Momra. For Dadzu. Do this for the memory of their love, Saga. This is not about the misinformed laws of our people. This is about saving the very lives of our people."
"And how do we find them?" Jethran asked, his voice steady. "Are they just waiting at the end of a path?"
"Remember the lullaby Momra sang for us?" Fable pleaded. "The one about the two lost stars finding their way home? Even in the darkness, the notes can be found."
"The oldest Silvarii Stories say their elemental realms lie at the seven edges of Evenhere," Saga replied, her voice clipped, acknowledging the memory. "But the paths are hidden, protected."
"I can feel the resonance of the Hum," she added, a flicker of pride cutting through her grief. "As we get closer, the notes will become purer. From there, the Trials of the True Elements will direct our path."
"But they will strike you down when you arrive," Saga said, her gaze fixed on Jethran. "They don't provide refuge to sprittles."
Jethran simply laughed. Her conviction was betrayed by the mischievous glint in her eye and the arch of her eyebrow.
"Saga, enough!" Fable boomed. "You will escort him whether you like it or not. I'm not asking as your king, I'm not asking as your mayor. I am asking as your broven. But if you force me, I will order you as King."
Saga looked at her broven, at the visible tremor in his hands and the desperate hope in his eyes, and her resolve wavered.
“The idea of this quest is an insult to all that is sacred. He is an unworthy sprot who would profane the trials themselves. And his style of dress is beyond reason,” Saga said as she rose to her feet.
Fable placed his hand back on Jethran's chest, stopping him once more, allowing his sistra to speak.
“Yet, the entire Hollow is dying,” she continued. “If I must accompany this Sprittle King to his death in order to save our people then his life is a sacrifice I am willing to make.”
“Thank you,” Fable said. “We will all leave in the early morning.”
“Whatever we face can't be nearly as tough as everything she just said,” Jethran sighed.