The throne room was a wounded shock. The air, which moments ago had tasted of sugar-bread and victory, was now chalky with the ash of an impossible loss.
Fable stood with his arms wrapped around his sonzus, a living shield of marigold and green against a horror he didn't understand. He could feel the frantic, bird-like flutter of Tierro’s heart and he could sense Arby's confusion.
Fable forced himself to release them, his fathzurly instinct warring with the immediate demands of his crown. Jethran stood with his family. The fear in his eyes was heavy as he embraced his sons. He looked at Fable, both of them lost.
“Jethran, what did you see?” Fable asked.
Jethran trembled as he met his husband's gaze, his rainbow eyes holding a palpable sense of loss that Fable had never seen in him before.
“I saw exactly what Tierro described,” Jethran explained. “I saw a sillie named Tassel. And I knew her. I knew she was Banner's daughter. Banner and Spindle ran to stop her as she ate that horrid fruit. Then she was gone and everyone in the room behaved as if nothing happened.”
“Fable, I need to go to the temple and re-center myself," he said to his husband. "I need to understand what has happened here.”
Fable nodded to him, letting him know that he would take care of everything at thr Palace. As Jethran stepped out of the throne room, Fable turned his full attention to his sonzus.
“Tierro. Arby,” he said, his voice an urgent command. “Go to the Royal Chambers. Now. Stay together and do not open the door for anyone except for me or your Dad.”
Tierro nodded immediately, his face drawn, his eyes still fixed on the empty patch of grass where, a few moments before, he had been playing with Tassel. He clutched a colorful block he had picked up from her fallen tower. He was ready to seek shelter from a world that had become incomprehensible.
“No,” the word was sharp and defiant. “I’m not leaving you. We stay together.”
Arby pulled away from Fable, his magenta-hued face set in a stubborn mask.
“Arby, this is not a request,” Fable said, his voice taking on the hard edge of a king’s command.
“And this isn’t a debate,” Arby shot back, his chartreuse eyes blazing with a furious, terrified energy. “We are the Princes of this kingdom. We are not lings to be hidden away. If something is eating sillies that no one remembers… we have to help.”
“Help how?” Fable asked, his patience fraying.
“I don't know! But we will not be decorative,” Arby's voice cracked. “We shouldn't be hiding. What's the point of being a Prince if we're the first ones to be locked away for our own safety? It's humiliating. What if you forget us?”
He gestured wildly between himself and his brother. “You have magic to protect yourself,” the Prince cried. “What do we have? Great hair and a quiet disposition? That's not enough, Dadzu.”
Arby looked at Tierro, seeking his agreement. Tierro looked at his brother, then up at his dadzu. He stepped beside Arby with a stance that showed a united expression that broke the Silvarii's heart.
Fable saw the frustrating shame in his sonzus' eyes, the chafing humiliation of their powerlessness. He knew this defiance was a brittle shield against a terror his boys did not know how to name.
He felt a flicker of pride at Arby's courage and confidence in such a moment of true vulnerability. Even more so, in how Tierro immediately backed his brother. A pride that was immediately crushed by the overwhelming terror of his sonzus finding it acceptable to directly defy him.
“Fine,” he relented, his voice softening into a low whisper. “You will stay right by my side. You will not speak unless spoken to. You will do exactly as I say. Both of you. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Dadzu,” Tierro said.
Arby gave a reluctant nod as he reached down to scratch his wrist. For the first time, Fable understood regret over having instilled so much of himself and Jethran into them. He now found himself arguing with a perfect amalgamation of them both. The weight of his crown felt heavier than it had in twenty years.
Fable turned, his kingly authority returning like a heavy cloak. He immediately focused on the chaos in the room.
“Dresdi,” Fable’s voice cut through the confusion. “Organize the guests. Escort them to the royal guest suites. See to their needs. Double the kitchens’ staff. Bring them warm drinks, blankets, whatever they require. No one leaves the palace grounds until we know what we are facing.”
Dresdi, the former Royal Assistant, was now a member of the Royal Council as the representative of the Heartland. Hers was the voice of the Here of Evenhere. In this moment, her pragmatic and calming presence was exactly what was needed to bring order amongst the guests.
“At once, King Fable.” She began to move through the crowd, her calm, authoritative voice a steadying presence to the fearful guests.
He then watched the Head Well Keep, Rayola. He and Jethran had known Rayola since their first night in Whispering Grove when her family hosted the future kings for dinner. As the leader of the new team of healers that replaced the Big Aught Medic and his team, she was an invaluable asset to the kingdom. Her robes spoke towards her status as a healer through a cascade of gentle purples and yellows, signifying life and blood.
Rayola moved with a serene purpose towards Spindle who was indignant to the claims.
“I do not have a dotra!” she cried out. “All of this fuss over a sillie that doesn't exist.”
“Your aura is weeping,” the Well Keep said. “Your spirit holds a grief that your heart cannot measure. It is not a grief we can mend, but one we must honor. You require a sacred space to hold this emptiness. Come. Let us guide you to a quiet room. Let us shield you from this place of pain.”
Spindle didn’t accept the words.
“Get your hands off of me!” Spindle shouted, as tears streamed down her face.
Fable stepped over to intervene. “Spindle, we do not yet know what has happened,” he said firmly. “I remember very well when you were told that you could not Hum new life.” He paused, looking at the young sill.
“But can I ask you one thing?” He directed Spindle towards a mirror which hung on a nearby wall. “Why are you crying?”
Spindle’s rigid shoulders softened by a fraction. She saw the look of pain and loss on her face. She couldn't explain it.
“Please, allow the Well Keep some time to examine what has happened,” the King requested. “Maybe we will have an answer soon.”
Fable then turned his focus toward Banner-Captain Banner, who was instructing his guardsmen to cordon off the tree. Banner had faced immense loss in his life. His fathru, Streamer, faded the same week as Fable's parens, and Pennant, Banner's twin, fell during the Battle of Silvarii Hollow. He had stopped all use of magic simply because he knew the Pixxels were the source of magic. He blamed them for those losses.
Despite this, in the years since the battle at Silvarii Hollow, he had proven himself a loyal and brave soldier, earning him a command position within the ranks of the Royal Color Guard. The Kings depended on him for security and for safety.
“Banner. Stop.” Fable’s voice was a low vibration as he stepped into the Captain's space.
“We have set a perimeter around the space, Your Majesty,” Banner snapped, drowning in the tragic duty of a soldier. “I don't even know what we are guarding against. I don't have a dotra.”
“Banner?” Fable cut him off, his brow furrowing as his eyes met Banner's. “Look at me.”
“Your Majesty,” Banner didn't flinch, though his breath was erratic. “I don't know what happened. But I trust King Jethran. If he says… if I had a dotra… I will personally stand guard all night. I’m needed here. If it happens again…”
Just then Spindle came back. She entered the throne room carrying clothing. The tiny dresses and shoes of a small sillie.
“I found these in our quarters,” she whispered. “There was a whole room. Toys, clothes, and these tiny shoes. Who do these shoes belong to?”
Banner turned to his wifra. He held the tiny dress. He looked at it with no memory brought to mind.
“Ban,” Spindle said as tears streaked her face. “Who is she? Where is she? Is she hungry? Is she cold? Is she alive? Do I mourn her?”
Banner shook his head. He couldn't imagine how to respond.
“How can I mourn what doesn't exist?" Banner whispered, shaking his head, the soldier finally cracking. "I have mourned my fathru... then Pennant… and now... a sillie I've never met. It's not possible.”
Fable looked at the Captain. He saw the anguish warring with the discipline, the hatred for the magic warring with the love for the Kings. He saw the rot of shame still holding him over the death of his twin.
“Listen to the Hum, Banner,” Fable said, his voice fierce, as he grabbed Banner’s shoulders. “Take Spindle home. Hold her. Hold each other. Find your memories in the same way that you built them. Together.”
“If it is true,” Banner said, trembling. “I failed her. Just like Pennant. If I had just been faster. Maybe I could have saved her.”
Fable pulled him close, sixteen years of friendship and loyalty between them, as the King embraced the broken soldier.
“We were all too slow, Banner," Fable said as he pulled back just enough to look Banner directly in the eyes. "The world was too slow. Go home. We will figure this out. Go home.”
Banner nodded in agreement as he walked out of the throne room. Finished giving his orders, Fable looked back towards his sonzus. Tierro was staring at the space where Tassel had stood. Fable tilted his head. Strangely, Arby was trembling as a rainbow from the sunlight refracted through one of the leaves of the tree was nearly touching his foot.
They both may have provided a glimpse of the heremen they would one day become, but for now, they were still the same little boys who Fable had promised to protect. He had given his orders, done the best of what he could do. Now he needed to protect his sonzus.
“Come,” he said, his voice now gentle. He placed a hand on each of their backs. “Let’s go to our rooms.”
The walk through the rainbow-lit corridors felt different. Every shadow seemed to hold a new menace, every flicker of light a potential threat. Their home, their sanctuary, had been violated.
Once the carved doors of the royal chambers closed behind them, the boys finally shattered.
Tierro sank onto a chaise and curled into a ball, his pink hair a disheveled cloud around his head. He went silent, retreating into a place so deep Fable wasn’t sure his voice could reach.
He still clutched the colorful block from Tassel’s fallen tower. He placed it carefully on the table beside him. Then with painstaking gentleness, began to search the room for other blocks, gathering them one by one. He arranged them in a neat, silent row, a small, futile act of imposing order on a world that had just proven to have none.
While Tierro had fallen silent, Arby did not.
“It’s a joke,” he spat, as he scratched his wrist furiously. “How do we know he didn't imagine it?”
“Imagine what, Arby?” Tierro finally spoke. “There was nothing to imagine. It's not my fault you all have forgotten. But I didn't imagine it and I'm not forgetting. Dad saw it, too! His lullaby showed him.”
As Tierro sat down on the chaise, he raised his left hand and moved his hair out of his eyes in a way that was identical to Jethran.
“We don't have magic and it isn't fair. But Dad and Dadzu do,” Tierro reasoned. “We both heard the stories of how they have saved this kingdom. They will do it again. They will not allow this to happen again. Right, Dadzu?”
“We will do everything in our power to protect the kingdom and both of you. I can promise you that,” Fable answered. He knew this answer wasn't sufficient, but it was the only answer he could give.
"That's not what he…" Arby began to counter, but was interrupted when Jethran entered the room, moving with a hollowed out stillness.
Jethran looked from Tierro’s obsessive ordering of blocks to Arby’s furious defiance, and the look of divine failure on his face deepened into one of paternal anguish.
“Are you two okay?” he asked, his voice rough as he pulled them both into a fierce embrace.
“We're fine, Dad,” Tierro answered.
His voice was a dry rasp. It was a gruff sound, devoid of his usual softness. For a chilling second, Jethran didn’t hear his son. He heard a cynical voice from a dark past he thought he had buried.
“Your Majesties,” Dresdi stood at the doorway, calm but purposeful. “An emergency meeting has been convened in council chambers. And a delegation of Coloristas from the Whispering Grove has arrived with Eldress Stanza. They say they have something to share that is... urgent.”
“I have to go,” Fable nodded toward the door. He turned to his sonzus.
“I’m coming with you,” Arby said instantly. Tierro looked up as his eyes widened with fear.
“No,” Fable said, his voice firm. “You will both stay here. That is an order.”
“An order to do what? Sit and wait for news?” Arby challenged. He gestured angrily toward the doors. “I will not. I am a Prince of Evenhere and should be present while its fate is decided. What are they even doing? I have a right to know what’s happening!”
“You have a right to be safe,” Fable said, his voice tired.
“Safe?” Arby’s voice squeaked as he let out a humorless laugh. He scratched his wrist. “What does safe even mean anymore? It means being ignorant. It means being treated like a ling.”
“I am not a hereling," he faced his dadzu, his eyes appearing sunken. "And I will not be protected by being kept in the dark.”
“Arby...” Jethran began, his voice a low warning.
Fable merely raised his hand signaling Jethran to stop. He then approached his sonzu, using every inch of his height to tower over the young prince.
“Yes, you are a Prince of Evenhere,” Fable said, his voice quiet but leaving no room for argument. “And good hair or not, King outranks Prince every time. You are not a hereling. You are a sillie. My sillie. Your first and only duty as a Prince is to your broven. He needs you here and you need him. You will stay with him. You will protect each other and you will wait for us to return. And yes, my magic does protect me. Last I checked, it also protects you. It always has and it's not about to stop now. This door will be magically sealed. Nothing magical or otherwise will get in. Or out. This conversation is over. Malanzat!”
He didn’t wait for a response. Fable turned and strode from the room. Unsure of what had happened in his absence, Jethran followed his husband out of the room a half step behind, the sound of the doors closing behind them marking the final judgment.
“Umm, Fable?” Jethran attempted.
“Your sons are exactly like us at that age,” Fable's eyebrow arched. "Except they already know they are royalty." His eyes held an exhausted, but amused sparkle.
“Oh,” Jethran sighed. “Is it too late to take them back?”
The Council Chamber was sick with tension that was almost a physical presence. Fable and Jethran took their seats at the head of a giant round table carved from the wood of the Tree of Hope. Awaiting them was the Evenhere Council, a body of respected leaders from every major faction of the united kingdom.
Dresdi sat with her ledger open, her face pale. Beside her sat the Head Well Keep. Across the table, the three members of the TriBrancy: the Curator of Feeling, the Chronicler of Songs, and the Architect of Purpose, their expressions grave.
“Please excuse our tardiness,” Fable started. “We were securing our sonzus. Before I forget, Rayola, can you stop by the Royal Chambers after here and check on Prince Arby? He seems to have an annoying itch on his arm and I would like to make sure it's nothing crucially calamitous.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Rayola said.
“Good,” Fable nodded. “Thank you. Now. Do we have a report?”
“Not for nothing,” Commander Block, head of the Royal Color Guard, said. “I have known Banner since he was a sixteen-year-old sparkle. If he had a ling, I would know. Your Highnesses. There is no threat here.”
“King Jethran saw it himself, Commander,” Dresdi shook her head. “Treating it as if a threat isn't real could cause a panic we can’t afford. We must be practical.”
“But what is the true source of this imbalance?” Rayola, the Head Well Keep, the chief healer, looked at the space between the Kings, as if reading the room’s aura. “Are we sure this isn't just a physical manifestation of a spiritual misalignment in the Kingdom?”
The three ministers of the TriBrancy, who reported directly to the Kings, offered their own counsel.
“It is okay for us all to feel afraid right now,” the Curator of Feeling, a gentle Silvarii, spoke first. “All of our feelings are important visitors. Now, what can we learn from this fear?”
“The threads of the past,” the Chronicler of Songs, a wise Colorista, added. “A story so vast, it shows a shadow that’s coming too fast. If we heed this old vision, we can make a decision.”
“This is not a threat,” the Architect of Purpose slammed a fist on the table. “It is a challenge! It is a call to action! It is time to stop asking for permission to be safe and start building the vibrant defense this kingdom was born to mount! Unleash the power within!”
Eldress Stanza, having grown into her perfection, made a stand to report. She was a trusted confidant to the Kings. Jethran had even grown to think of her as his sister having been raised by the rista who guided him. Her word carried great weight in the kingdom. As the Tender of the Tapestries, Stanza held knowledge of all the histories lived and all the histories yet to be. Tonight, she wished that she didn't.
Stanza sat directly across from the Kings. Saga, who was seated beside her fiancée, placed a hand on Stanza's arm to center them both. That's when she realized Stanza's teal skin was drenched in a cold sweat. The Colorista looked at Saga, her face unusually worn from worry, then she looked back at the Kings.
“Majesties, the Weavers have had a vision,” she said, as her voice trembled. “They have seen the young sillie whose life was taken. But they have also seen the one who took it. His true face. They believe he is not gone. They believe he is using the very magic you used to imprison him within the Tree of Hope as a gateway. They have seen the return of the Uncrowned One.”
Mayor Saga involuntarily gasped, her hand flying to her pregnant belly as if to shield their unborn babru from the chilling prophecy.
Fable looked at Jethran, it simply didn't make sense. He was expecting to see Jethran recoiling in disbelief, but instead something else was happening. The aureolin of his blush and eyes glowed, signifying a deep anger.
“Eldress Stanza, with all due respect to your Weavers,” Fable spoke up, his voice cutting through the shock. “What you're describing is... a ghost story. It’s a magical impossibility. A colorman cannot un-become a tree. This is a magical necrosis, a sickness in the wood, not the vengeful spirit of a tyrant we already defeated.”
"She's right, Fable,” Jethran's voice was quiet, but it landed with a force. “I can feel it. The silence where that sillie’s Pulse used to be... it has his signature on it. The taste of that fruit... it was the taste of his Order, of absolute gray. The erasure... it’s the ultimate expression of his entire philosophy. He’s found a new way to make the world gray.”
“Jethran, think,” Fable pleaded, stepping closer to him. “You are the one who transformed him. You know the magic. How is what Eldress Stanza is describing even possible?”
“I don’t know how,” Jethran snapped, his voice like cold iron, his eyes finally locking onto Fable’s. “I just know it’s him. I was a fool to think turning him into something beautiful would change the hate at his core. He’s not a memory, Fable. He’s a seed, and we planted him in the heart of our kingdom. We should have burnt that tree to its roots and salted the ground where it stood. But instead we built our home around it.”
Fable stared at his husband, his heart sinking. Jethran was no longer a grieving god, but a soldier consumed by the ghost of his past. Fable was facing a new threat; he was a husband watching his partner being dragged back into his deepest nightmare. As unbelievable as it was, he conceded that it must be the only answer. The war they thought they had won was not over.
The evil they thought they had transformed was not gone. It had simply been sleeping, festering in the roots of their victory. The trespasser had returned and had brought with him a poison more absolute and more horrifying than anything they had faced yet.