This novel is loosely based on Journey to the West, the Chinese classic, though many mythologies will make appearances. There will be demons, angels, shape shifters and other magical creatures but this is ultimately a story of self-discovery. 

Talbert Erskine is a young man full of ambition and grit. Like many of us, his initial plans for his life get a little skewed. He can turn the other cheek or make his own way in the world. Though he will find friends and enemies during his quest, it will be up to him alone to make the right choices and discover who he is meant to be. His quest might turn him into a hero, or it could turn him into the villain. At his core, he is human, and humans often stray from the beaten path. His road is not an easy one but it could make him a stronger person if he stays true to himself.

I hope that my readers can relate to Erskine the same as I do, and see his flaws and his talents on an even score. We all have our demons to face. Erskine's demons are just a bit more literal.

Sunlight shone through a stained glass window, making multicolored patterns on Scholar Talbert Erskine's books. He barely noticed the kaleidoscope that danced across the pages, engrossed as he was in his research. This was how the young man could most often be found. His thirst for knowledge rivaled that of some of his teachers and superiors at the institute, so great was the need inside him to always know more. His colleagues all knew that there was no point in trying to pull him away from his books, no matter how lovely the day outside was. They'd most of them gone off to the pub to celebrate the end of the school year's session. Erskine didn't consider it an occasion worth celebrating anyway. 

To say that he was devoted to his studies was an understatement. He lived and breathed them, and as such had never considered a career outside of the institute - Courier's Institute of Higher Learning, that is - where he'd been accepted at the tender age of 11 summers. Now 24, he hardly remembered what life was like on the outside. It was mundane, he supposed, and full of nasty, messy things like tailings in fields or working in stone masonry or any of the countless forms of labor that people used to making a living. Someone had to do those things, he supposed, but it wasn't him. He had everything he needed right here in the institute 

So grand was the library of Courier's Institute of Higher Learning, a single person could never dream of reading every book it held within one lifetime. Erskine, however, had made a sizable dent in it. He'd read about the old religions and the strange cultures and customs of foreign lands and politics and science. He'd even read about love and heartbreak, of beauty beyond measure and faith and courage. However, he had experienced none of these things himself, or only to a small extent, as much as such worldly things could be experienced when you kept yourself locked away from everything. Any and all adventures Erskine ever had were all in his head. 

The leather bound tome he was invested in at present was a fanciful sort of work, not much concerned with science or facts. He had chosen it because it was on the shelf he was working his way through and he believed that all written text had value, even if the subject was mostly nonsense. Foolish as he deemed the mind that had invented them, Erskine was captivated by the legendary creatures detailed inside this particular book. 

There was the unicorn, which most everyone had heard of, as it was sometimes seen as a symbol of wisdom. Why this so, Erskine could not fathom, being as it would take an utter imbecile to believe in the existence of one. Then there was the chimera, the tall man, and the fair folk too. Most impressive, perhaps, were the seraphim - the angels. 

An illustration of one of these creatures decorated the page Erskine was on, and his fingers traced the length of the proud and golden body. It was hard to tell if the artist had meant to draw a man or a woman, as the angel shared traits from both sexes. In both masculine and feminine features, it was beautiful, if a bit unsettling. Angels, the books said, could be both beautiful and terrifying, both soft and unyielding, kind and merciless. They were the soldiers of a great and fearsome God, who so loved the world but could punish those he saw fit with but a word. Religion, Erskine had read before, was often a source of comfort for those who followed it, but he could not understand how one could find comfort in such a being, who could strike you dead or squash you like an ant and delighted in doing so.

The angel gazed heavenward with the bluest eyes, its hands and wings outstretched. Androgynous as it was, it was still more handsome than Erskine. The young man was mousy, at best, with thin and unruly hair and skin that was pale from haunting the indoors, avoiding sunlight. Erskine felt a twinge of jealousy and flipped the page. 

On the next page, the illustration showed two giants, a man and a woman, towering over a village of ant sized people. These, the book said, were the Nephilim. They were the children of humans and angels, beings of monstrous strength. They had none of the golden glory that the angel had. It was as though their human influence had stripped away the beauty of them, leaving only corrupted power. 

Next came the Titans, who seemed very similar, Erskine thought. They were despised by the deities of Ancient Greece, who trapped them underground. They too were powerful, dangerous. He skimmed over the article, more interested in the pantheon of gods that followed it. Each image of Zeus or Apollo that he encountered reminded him that he did not measure up to their representation of the pinnacle of masculinity. Indeed, even the goddesses seemed fearsome and able, with weapons at their sides. 

Frustration at his own shortcomings got the best of him and Erskine shut the book harder than necessary, sending up a cloud of dust from its crackling pages. The loud clap made bounced off the walls at him, breaking the otherwise perfect silence that he had been enjoying. He took a moment to feel ashamed of himself for his rash behavior. No respectable scholar should lose his temper in such a manner, no matter the reason. It was the way of the scholars to maintain neutrality when at all possible. 

"Feeling sorry for yourself, Talbert?" asked a familiar voice from behind him. "I have to wonder what such a lovely volume could have done to offend you to deserve being so mistreated. It is many centuries older than yourself, my boy. Treat it with some respect, if you don't mind." 

Erskine knew without turning around that the voice belonged to one of the Institute's senior members, Scholar Melvin. He was no stranger to Scholar Melvin's admonitions. In fact, he would even go so far as to say that he was the most familiar with them out of all of his fellow students, former and present. Scholar Melvin had taken a special interest in Erskine from the first day he came to the Institute, and it was not of the positive sort. 

"My apologies, Scholar Melvin," he said, with no small amount of resentment, though he was careful not to speak too loud and kept his head bowed. "It was a momentary lapse of judgment. I will endeavor to be more careful with the Institute's collection."

The older man snorted, as though the idea was ridiculous. "I very much doubt that, Talbert. Your reputation precedes you. I have always thought it to be such a shame that a mind as brilliant as yours should be so clouded with ineptitude. Your temper will always prevent you from rising in the ranks, I fear. Perhaps it is just as well."

Cheeks burning in shame, Erskine kept his eyes glued to the cover of his mistreated volume. He traced the gold embossing on the cover with one finger, wishing he could say something to defend himself against Scholar Melvin but knowing that it would do him no good to speak in self-defense. He happened to disagree with his superior - a title he chafed at calling the other man. Sometimes he missed his mother, for she had a different word for Erskine's temper. "Passion," she called it. She had admired him for it and promised him it would take him far in life. 

"You have elected not to go out with your classmates," observed Scholar Melvin. "You didn't wish to celebrate the end of the term?"

"No, sir," replied Erskine, chafing once more at another undeserved - in his mind - title. "I would rather sharpen my mind for the trials."

The trials, always held at the end of the learning year, were the only way to raise ranks in the Institute. Erskine applied himself to them vigorously every year, but had only been raised once since his twentieth summer. He was determined this year to raise again. As it stood, he ranked three levels below the likes of Scholar Melvin. He hoped to even that score a bit. 

"I shouldn't bother," said Scholar Melvin. "Some scholars are never meant to be too highly elevated. After all, there must be some amongst us who can dust the volumes in the library, or transcribe the words of their betters. Be careful not to aim too high and disappoint yourself with unrealistic expectations."

Erskine was seething with anger by now, the casual insults of the older Scholar worming their way under his skin. He'd been advised before by friends not to allow Scholar Melvin to bother him. The man was well known as a bully but he was also one of the finest minds in the Institute and his opinions carried a lot of weight. There was no doubt in Erskine's mind that it was Melvin's interference that had kept him from raising his rank for the last few years. 

"Being as my mind is so clouded, I wonder why you bother with such advice, sir," said Erskine, raising his eyes and glancing over his shoulder at the man behind him. "Surely a Scholar of my rank is hardly worth your time."

"Do I detect a tone, Talbert?" asked Melvin, still denying Erskine his appropriate title of Scholar. It was belittling to call a Scholar by his given name if you were not his close friend. Scholar Melvin, of course, did this on purpose. "Maybe I should make note of this in your file. We could consider a transfer of you are no longer happy here. Perhaps further west would suit you better."

Erskine bit back the smart reply on the tip of his tongue. It would do him no good to anger Melvin and give the man an excuse to ship him off to a lesser institute of learning. Although Erskine was not much for gossip, he had been at the Institute long enough to know what the other scholars said about Melvin. He enjoyed a great deal of power, thanks to outside connections of the monetary sort, and had a well known habit of getting rid of anyone who he feared might be more intelligent than he was. 

"No, sir, I would not enjoy that," he said, lowering his eyes once more. "Please accept my apologies. It is a beautiful day outside and I should like to take a walk on the grounds, if you will excuse me."

Even Melvin knew Erskine well enough to know that the young man had no interest in taking a walk on the grounds, but he also seemed to believe that he had sufficiently cowed the young man. With a sniff, he turned up his nose and turned away from Erskine, as though he'd just realized in that moment that he had far more important matters to tend to, such as scowling at his own reflection or polishing his shiny, black shoes. 

Without further preamble, Erskine hurried out of the library, though he regretted having to leave his studies behind. He would return, he decided, at a later date when he was certain Scholar Melvin wouldn't be around. 

Although Erskine was not much for the outdoors, it was true that the weather out was exceedingly nice, such that he peeled off his outer robe, something he never did outside of his room, and strode the grounds in his britches and tunic. He felt rather more like a peasant in such wear than a scholar, which was one reasons he seldom took off his robe. Erskine had come from peasants, years ago, and had no desire to go back. 

His mother was the one who'd seen him sent to the Institute. She had been a wise woman, and this wisdom had aged her before her time.  Her hair was already turning gray and her face was lined with wrinkles when she sent her only child away to better his education. It was ever her way to tell Erskine how lucky he was that he'd not been born a girl instead. Women were not allowed in the Institute. If they had been, Erskine wondered if his mother wouldn't have found her way there when she was a child herself. 

On the other hand, his father was naught but an oaf of the highest degree. He dug ditches for his living, money which he now squandered on alcohol and gambling. It had been that way since Erskine's mother passed on and this news was brought to Erskine by the merchants who carried goods from Erskine's old village to the Institute. Erskine had not heard from the old man himself for several years. It was just as well. There was nothing his father might have to say that Erskine wanted to hear. 

Thinking back on the library volume he'd mistreated, Erskine imagined the figure of the angel as he had seen it on the yellowing paper. He traced the lines of its form again, this time with his mind's eye. Once upon a time, there had been a place in the world for things like angels, but that was in the old world. This was the new world, one where science reigned supreme, and anything magical was rendered mundane because there was always an explanation. 

The sun, he thought to himself, was a perfect example. The sun was a star, burning hot and bright, and the world rotated around it, not vice versa. The moon, mystical and shining from a great distance, was naught but a massive hunk of rock caught in the world's gravitational field, pulled along like a ball and chain. It borrowed all of its light from the sun. 

Yet, the moon was poetic. She haunted the sky at night, invisible by day, like a shrinking violet who couldn't brave the openness of day. The sun saw her, though, and he illuminated her, a pale and cold queen wed to a fiery kind, forever in his shadow. 

Erskine liked to think of the sun and the moon in such terms, on occasion, and he liked the illustration of the angel. It was just that such things were frivolous and didn't deserve much time spent dwelling on them. He had spent a lot of time cutting out frivolous things. They were not conducive to his studies. Erskine had goals, plans to follow through with, and he didn't have time for anything that diverted his attention. 

In the day's heat, he'd begun to swelter beneath the weight of his robes. Instead of the usual pride he felt at wearing them, he imagined for a moment that they were bonds, trapping him. His gaze turned to the edge of the grounds, where a high wall separated the Institute from the outside world, and the wall felt much the same. Melvin's words came back to him and he flinched, feeling them again as a fist in the gut. Melvin thought he was tough. He hid behind his scholar's robes and the Institute's wall, and he thought that made him important. 

A fit of rebellion took him and he seized handfuls of his robes, dragging them over his head and tossing them to the ground. They lay there, a crumpled heap of faded brown, as Erskine stood over them, his fists clenched at his sides. He thought about kicking them, but the fight was fading from him already and shame replaced it. He had worked hard to earn his current elevation, had lost innumerable hours of sleep and studied his lessons until his mind ached from it, and this was the respect he showed to his own efforts? He stooped down and began to gather his robes up again. 

That was when it happened. A flash of light lit up the sky and Erskine caught it out of the corner of his eye. He stood up straight, wondering if it had been lightning. It was such a clear and beautiful day, so surely there was no reason for lightning, but he supposed that it was not unheard of. He watched the blue sky for several moments, searching for the source of the light, but it was gone. Perhaps he had only imagined it. 

Before he could look away, the sky lit up once more. This time, the light didn't fade. It turned the blue sky into a blank white canvas, a vast stretch of nothingness that made Erskine's eyes ache but he couldn't seem to look away. In that moment, his normally racing mind was wiped as clean as the sky and there was nothing for him but the vast whiteness. 

In the next moment, it all rushed back at him, filling his mind to the brim once more. The whiteness of the sky changed into swirling blue patterns, symbols he had never seen before. They burned themselves into his retinas, forcing him to remember every detail about them. Later, he would realize that he could not forget them - that they had somehow etched themselves into his brain as well. He would long for the blissful emptiness of the white sky. 

One second sooner, he would think to himself, and he could have gone back to the way things were before. If he had averted his eyes from that magnificent sky, he would have been able to stay in the Institute. Perhaps he would never have been satisfied with his lot in life, but his world would still have been small and safe. That second he wasted was all it took to tear down every wall he had built around himself and after that, there was no going back. Things were changed forever. 

The symbols faded, but the white sky didn't return. Instead, Erskine found himself watching images, as though he were standing behind a window and looking out at the scenes unfolding before him. A glorious, golden figure as falling from the sky and crashing, as brightly feathered wings crumpled beneath it. A man climbed a mountain, snow capped and treacherous, shivering with cold and weariness, despite the woolen cloak draped over his shoulders. Erskine saw the murky depths of the sea, storm darkened and deep, and sharp, pale teeth that seemed to glow with their own light shone from out of the shadows. A village burned to the ground. A moth fluttered beneath a full, yellow moon. 

Then the voice came, and it drowned out everything else. The images stopped and Erskine saw nothing else but he could hear that voice calling to him. It spoke his name, his whole name, over and over again. It sounded familiar, and yet alien at the same time. The tone was kind but urgent. Erskine embraced it with all of his being. It felt like a part of him that had always been missing had finally come home. The voice flowed around him like warm, soothing water, bathing him in a promise of truth, at long last. He could have stayed in that warmth forever. 

Hands gripped his shoulders and shook him from his stupor. It was then that Erskine realized his eyes were closed. He opened them with some effort, for his eyelids felt heavy. The world came back into focus and he saw the concerned faces of several of his peers gazing down at him. He smiled at them. 

"It's okay," he promised them. "Everything is okay now."

His fellow scholars shared looks with one another. They helped him to his feet, they fussed over him and asked him what had happened, but Erskine paid them no mind, just let them lead him back to the dormitories. He could still hear the voice, fainter now, in the back of his mind. It was more important than any of his peers. It was more important than ranks or books or the respect of his seniors. He wondered now how he could have ever considered everything else in his life as anything more than trivial. This was a revelation. 

"I'm coming," he spoke out loud, not to his friends who were supporting him, but to the voice that begged him. The voice needed him. It spoke his name and called to him, told him the way and told him to come soon, to find the other half of his soul. "I will find you. Everything is alright now. I am coming for you, I will find you." 

"He speaks nonsense," said one of the men holding him up. "We should take him to the physicians."

Erskine waved one hand in dismissal. "Be quiet," he ordered. "I am listening."

Despite his command, his colleagues continued their mindless chatter as the carried him along. Erskine caught bit and pieces of their conversation, but was too distracted by the memories of his vision to bother trying to make sense of them. What a vision it had been. It was so real. He had felt the cold of the snow, the soft earth beneath bare feet and the cool water all around him. If given the opportunity, he wanted to see more. Perhaps if he let his mind drift, he would see the vision again. He was so tired, after all. It couldn't hurt to try. The voice in his head was still beckoning to him and he longed to see that snowy mountain, to climb to the very top like the man in the vision and to see what was there in the small space between mountaintop and sky. 

It seemed only moments had passed when he opened his eyes again but everything was different. He was no longer being carried by his colleagues. He was lying down and he could feel that he was in bed, lying on a feather mattress. His eyes wanted to stay shut but he forced them open again to take in his surroundings. 

The room was foreign to him but obviously was not someone's personal quarters, as there was nothing Erskine could see to indicate that someone lived here. The walls were painted white and the furniture was sparse and utilitarian in design. The bed was narrow and the frame was metal, rather than the large, wooden bed Erskine had in his own quarters. There was a small, wooden table at the bedside with an oil lamp and a glass of water perched on it. A single metal chair stood a few feet away. 

Perhaps this was a room in the medical ward, where the physicians worked. Erskine has been to the medical ward a handful of times, but never for any serious injury or illness, and he had never seen inside one of the private rooms before. 

The voice in his head had quieted a great deal in however long it had been since he allowed himself to doze off. He remembered hoping to return to the vision, but he had not dreamed. That was disappointing, as was the fact that now he was having difficulty making out what the voice was saying to him, though no doubt it was the same repeated litany as before. 

He could hear footsteps in the hall and this roused him a little more. He pushed himself up to a sitting position and listened as the footsteps drew nearer before they paused, just outside his door. Two voices, muffled, began conversing, and it took Erskine only moments to realize that they were speaking of him.

"If it was a mental break, Doctor, as you are suggesting, why is the boy showed no symptoms of psychosis before now?" asked one voice. Erskine recognized it. It was that bastard Melvin. What was Melvin doing here? He was the last person that Erskine wanted to see right now. Erskine could only hope that the man wouldn't come into the room. 

Another voice answered Melvin. Erskine supposed it was the physician. "It is rare, but sometimes these attacks come on suddenly. Perhaps it was the stress from his studies. From what I understand, he is an exceptionally driven student, but prone to overcompensation. I believe my diagnosis to be accurate, all things considered, but I will not know for certain until I have spoken with him. That must wait until the boy wakes, of course."

"He's been unconscious for over two days now," Melvin said. "Are you certain that he will wake up at all?"

"There is no reason to think otherwise. He is simply in a deep sleep. Perhaps he needed it. This institute demands a great deal from its students. Some young men are not suited for it. I have seen them crack like this before."

"I knew the boy wasn't made of the right stuff." Melvin sounded smug. Erskine hated him more than he ever had before. The elder was just waiting for the right moment to kick him out. "In your professional opinion, should he be kept on at the institute?"

The physician cleared his throat and fell silent for a few long moments. "In my opinion, he would do well to find someplace that more adequately fits his mental state, which is fragile at best. Even if he appears lucid upon waking, there is no guarantee that he won't have another spell of madness. I think we can both agree that the students here must have a sound mind if they are to achieve true enlightenment. Something with an easier routine would no doubt benefit him."

"We will draw him up an excellent letter of recommendation and send him off," said Melvin. "He is young and able. Perhaps he could get on as a hand at one of the local farms. People of his own societal class will treat him well enough. I have said before that we should stop admitting lower class students, regardless of how bright they appear when they apply."

Erskine knew he should object. By all rights, he should be yelling at both men. He should throw the door open and tell them exactly what he thought of both of them. They were wrong. He hadn't had a mental breakdown and he was suited just fine to studying at the institute. He loved his studies, in fact, and didn't mind devoting most of his time to higher education. So his parents had been poor, so what? It didn't make him somehow inferior to Melvin or anyone else in this place. He worked hard. He deserved his title as Scholar. 

Somehow, he just didn't have the energy to get up and fight back. Since the day he first stepped foot on the grounds of the institute, he had been doubted and second guessed. Melvin had tormented him, pushing him to the very brink and distracting him from his goals. For what? All because he didn't come from a wealthy family whose parents could pay his way in? This wasn't an institute of science and learning. This was a farce, a country club for rich cowards. How had he stomached it for so long?

He kicked off the thin blanket that had been covering him and forced himself to get out of bed. He looked down at the white cotton robe someone had dressed him in, his lips twisting into a disgusted snarl. A quick scan of the room revealed his own clothing on the metal chair, folded and neatly stacked. 

By the time the door to his room opened, he was just finishing up the buttons on his waistcoat. Melvin and the physician stood in the doorway, both wearing expressions of shock. 

Erskine smiled at them and smoothed down his waistcoat. "Scholar Melvin, so nice to see you! I was just leaving, however. I'm afraid I've no time to chat."

The physician was the first to regain his wits. "Ah, Scholar Erskine, you are looking much better! I see that extended nap did you some good. Do you remember the spell you had outside?"

"Oh, yes, I do," Erskine agreed. He smirked at Melvin, whose face still resembled that of a dying fish. "Quite the experience. I'm fine now."

"Ah, so the hallucinations have faded?" asked the physician. "And you were hearing voices, it seems. Have they left you be?"

"Not at all." Erskine picked up his folded Scholar robes but made no move to put them on. "It was only one voice and he, or she, is still talking to me. We seem to get along well enough. Now, if you will excuse us, I am afraid I've decided to leave the institute in favor of other pursuits. Oh, and I won't be needing these anymore. See that they are returned to storage and reused, won't you, Scholar Melvin?"

When Melvin didn't respond, Erskine dropped his folded robes into the older man's arms. Melvin sputtered with indignation, thrusting the robes to the physician and making to follow Erskine out of the room.

"Now see hear, Erskine, you can't just leave like this!" he insisted, his face starting to turn a deep purple. "You haven't even been discharged yet."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll see to my discharge from the medical wing, as well as from the institute itself, if you don't mind." Erskine set out at a brisk walk down the hallway. Never had he stood up to his superior in such a way, and his heart was pounding in his chest, but he had never before felt so liberated. "I'm afraid I have urgent matters to attend to and I haven't the time for technicalities. Don't worry about drawing up that letter of recommendation, by the way. I doubt that I will want anything to remind me of this place. It's a new day, Melvin. We've all got to stop wasting time."

In the back of his mind, the voice grew a little clearer, whispering its approval. Erskine relaxed and his heart steadied. The institute had never wanted him. Though it seemed insane, Erskine was going to listen to the voice in his head. At long last, he knew that someone, somewhere, needed him. This was the opportunity of a lifetime and he wasn't going to waste another second. 

It had been many years since the shifter took up residence in the forest. The small village of Maze had come to know her as their patron goddess, and since she had come to them, it seemed that the essence of her had creeped into everything nearby. Even the children born in Maze were different. There was a wildness to them, a look in their eyes that sent chills down the spine of any traveller who might seek refuge in Maze for the night. People seldom visited Maze for this reason, but this suited the villagers just fine. They had become a private people and wanted for very little now that their guardian saw to their needs and protection. 

The shifter had many names but the villagers called her Neve, and that name grew dear to her. Before she settled in the forest outside of Maze, she had been a wanderer. Now, she had adopted the people of Maze as her own, and daily they grew more like her in manner and appearance. Even a little of her magic had crept into them, though none of them could change their shape as Neve could. 

She did not often show herself to anyone, though the villagers caught an occasional glimpse of her. Sometimes they saw her in a different form and didn't recognize her, but they came to know her favored shapes. In time, the fox and the moon moth were revered by the villagers and none would harm any such creature that they came across, for fear of angering their patron.

For her part, Neve was not quick to anger. She was loyal to her followers and forgave them any transgressions against her, within reason. She was kind and just, in her own way, though the nature of a shifter was known to be fickle and she was no exception to the rule. Once roused, her anger was a force to be reckoned with, for she was powerful and her strength came from the old magic, governed by nature. 

As of late, however, Neve could feel herself losing strength. The powers she once held were dwindling. It troubled her, though she kept the knowledge to herself. There were plenty of evil beings who still walked the earth and Neve feared what would happen to her little village if any dark force should learn that she no longer posed a serious threat to them. Every day, she could feel a little more of the old magic slipping away from her. Her powers, at length, became so diminished that she possessed only the power to shift her body or practice minor spells. For whatever reason, her connection to the earth was being severed.

She stayed closer to the village now, feeling more vulnerable with her limited abilities. An old ache woke in her to go back to her old, wild ways, before she had settled down here in this village. Unwilling to leave her followers unprotected, she pushed the desire to the back of her mind. It had been nearly a hundred years since she had last gone wandering. Though the longing was within her, she felt some fear for the prospect as well. No, the village, she decided, was safe and constant. She had a purpose here, something she had never known in all her days as a stray soul. And she was proud of what her presence had created in this place. The shining red hair of the villagers, which matched her own, and their bright and clever eyes reminded her that they had something of her very being inside of each of them. 

In the guise of a moon moth, she rested one night on a rooftop in Maze and surveyed her people as they celebrated a seasonal festival. They were in the days of harvest, collecting what their small gardens had yielded, and taking also from the wild plants and game as Neve had shown them long ago. They had a love of music and dancing, and so their festivals often produced a great deal of merrymaking, such as was hard to find elsewhere in these dark days. 

Birds had brought back word to her that magic was fading elsewhere in the world. They were ill tidings and worried Neve, but the information was vague and did not warrant alarm just yet. Still, she suspected in the back of her mind and sinister things were afoot. There were beings older than Neve, much older, who had lain dormant in the deepest parts of the earth for many years. Once, when the world was young, such beings had reigned supreme, but they were greedy. They demanded too much of the old magic, the magic of the earth, and it was their downfall. However, they were not dead. No, they only slept, and if they were rousing from their long slumber, perhaps they were again draining the Mother, earth, of the old magic. It would explain why lesser spirits such as Neve were losing their own magic.

Neve tried not to dwell on such things. Even with all of her magics available to her, Neve knew herself to be powerless against the old ones. It was said that before, a great hero rose up against them and forced them into their sleep. These were ancient tales, no more than superstitions by now, and who knew if another hero would be found? That hero was not Neve, of that she was certain. 

One of the dancers, a girl child with blue eyes, twirled closer to the house that served as Neve's perch. She seemed to look straight up at Neve, and Neve imagined that their eyes met. She felt an especially close kinship to this girl. Sereth was her name, a girl of nine summers, and one of the wildest of the village children. Neve had often observed the child climbing high trees or wandering far from home. She saw to it, of course, that the girl always found her way back home, safe and sound but for a few scrapes and bruises accrued during her escapades. 

The music was hypnotic and Neve found herself drawn in by it, her eyes transfixed on dancing Sereth, whose festive robes bloomed out around her like waves of color as she through herself round and round to the rhythm. 

Those blue eyes remained fixed on Neve, and they seemed to grow larger until all that Neve could see was two glowing orbs amidst a haze of color. She was so captivated by them that it was several moments before she noticed that those dancing around the great fire in the center of the village were starting to swoon. One by one, the dancers were dropping to the ground, while their companions continued to dance as though they didn't notice the fallen ones. The smoke of the fire was billowing into a great tower of black smoke. 

Whatever spell Neve had found herself under broke. Her wings fluttered in alarm. There was something wrong with this celebration. Her followers were wild, that was true, but she had never seen them dance themselves to exhaustion before, and the smoke was not natural. There was magic here, deep and dark, and she could feel it in her core. 

Sereth faltered in her dancing and one misstep sent the girl tumbling to the ground. Neve rose then, and in a flurry of wings and magic, she rose from the rooftop and landed on the ground in her true form, her green eyes alight with anger. Her mess of red hair flew around her face, settling around her shoulders and she reached out pale hands and pulled the child from the ground. 

The girl looked up at Neve with unseeing eyes and Neve felt Sereth's last breath leave her body. It was then that she realized that she was too late. She held nothing but a corpse in her arms.

Neve's anger rose like a wildfire, and her scream of anguish filled the air. When she turned back to the great fire, she saw the last of the dancers fall. She knew without touching them that they were all the same as Sereth. She could feel part of herself dying with them. So great was her influence on these humans that they had become tied to her. Now there was an empty void within her that had once been occupied by her followers, and this heightened her anger. 

"Evil is done here!" she howled to the sky. "Who would do this? Who would dare?"

The black smoke rolled out from the fire, a wall of pitch that assaulted Neve, burning her eyes and nose and mouth. She hid her face in the folds of her robes, crying out from the pain. Evil magic, magic corrupted, she thought to herself. Only evil could cause this horror, but worse than that, she could feel in her bones that it was strong magic.

"I would dare," boomed a voice from the clouds of smoke. The sound of it filled Neve with fear. "Who would dare stand against the old gods?"

The smoke began to clear and Neve raised her eyes. She saw a figure standing before her, dark as the smoke but brighter than the flames of the fire. She fought the urge to hide her face and stood her ground. Her instincts were telling her to run but her anger was greater. She would face this being who claimed to be one of the old ones. The loss of her people was too great. Her blood boiled with the need for revenge.

"This is sacred ground," came her reply, even as she clutched the dead child to her breast. "I protect these people. You have intruded where you are not wanted and killed those who are my own. I would dare stand against you, no matter if you are as you say."

Sereth's body stirred in her arms and the child's head lifted. Looking down, Neve saw Sereth's eyes locked on her own once more. Now they were nothing but blue, crackling with strong magic, and that magic did not belong to Neve or any of her kind. The corpse smiled at her, twisting the childlike features into something sinister.

"Then you will die," said Sereth's sweet voice, but it was not Sereth who spoke. "We did not come here for these pathetic humans, shifter."

It was then that Neve felt true fear. She dropped Sereth's body with a wail and the human girl fell to the ground in a lifeless heap. Despair and terror warred with each other inside of her. Her heart felt as though it would burst under the strain. It had been so long since she had known this feeling, long before she ever came to the village of Maze and took it under her protection. She had thought she could hide from the darkness here, that the purity of the people would keep her safe, but she had been wrong. The darkness had sought her out.

She looked up at the figure, genderless and almost abstract - a being of pure energy, though that energy was tainted. The smoke still rolled off of it and the taste of it lingered on Neve's tongue. It was putrid. It blew into her eyes and burned them. It seeped into her skin, as though the very essence of this monster wanted to crawl inside her and possess her. She felt trapped by it, crippled by her fear and sorrow. This being was going to kill her, of that she was certain. 

"I could give you a choice, shifter." Its voice thundered, deep and gravelly, a manifestation of the being's power. "We could make this a little more fun. What do you say?"

"Who are you?" Neve asked, her voice small. She was reduced to cowering before the monster. "Why have you done this?"

"Why wouldn't I?" came the moster's cryptic response. "With this newfound freedom, I can destroy anything and reshape it to my liking, including you. As for my name, that I will not give to you. In names there are power. I know yours, but I think I will call you by the one you have assumed, Neve of Never."

She growled, the sound of a trapped beast. There was no doubt in her mind that the being new her name. Such a threat was not idly made by anyone. Not that it needed her name to destroy her. The power it possessed was many times greater than her own. It had creeped into her village without her noticing it, revealing itself only when it chose to do so. She was just waiting for the killing blow. Her life was forfeit. But it said that it wanted to make a deal. Perhaps she had a way out.

"You are one of the old ones?" She tried to hold its gaze but the smoke forced her to avert her eyes. "They are all gone."

"No, we slept. Now we are awake again. You have known of our coming for some time. You have hidden here in fear of us, even before we opened our eyes to this new world. All of your kind tremble before us. As we speak, you cower before me, you who are made of the ancient light. A little spark still trying to burn in a world that has lost much of its magic. It is only a matter of time before you burn out. Perhaps I will help you on your way."

"You offered a deal," said Neve, turning desperate. It was true that she had been hiding. She wanted to live and this place had been one of the last refuges for her kind. She had not dared to seek out others like her, for they were all much like her, unpredictable and fearful. They had killed one another before, scrabbling for the last magic the world had to offer and not eager for competition. Neve was not a killer, whatever else might be said of her. So she had avoided confrontation, until now. "I am listening to you, old one. I know you can kill me whenever you choose, but if that was your goal, you would already have done so."

A sharp toothed smile spread across the being's face. The white of the fangs shone from the darkness and Neve could not bear to look at them. 

"I could be toying with you," it said. "Perhaps I am taking my time for my own amusement."

Neve's anger rekindled. This creature was playing with her like a cat with an injured mouse. "We both know I want to live. How can I amuse you, then, to ensure my own survival?"

"You cannot. But perhaps you can put off the inevitable for a little longer. Isn't that what you have been doing here? Hiding from your fate?"

She kept her head bowed and said nothing. It wasn't as though she could object, for it was the truth. 

"Very well," said the old one. "You might entertain me. I enjoy a good hunt. This forest has been your home. A good way to start a chase is to smoke the wild beast out of its den. Then you can try to escape. If you escape my flames this time, you live past this night. Not much longer than that, mind you, but as you said, you want to live." 

Neve closed her eyes in resignation. If she escaped tonight, it would not be without great losses. Yet, she'd already lost the village. if she had to flee the forest as well, it might be safer without her. 

"Very well," she agreed. "I agree to your terms."

"I'll give you a head start," the being said. "If I were you, I would take it and run."

Neve did not hesitate. A head start, eh? That was more than she could have hoped for. Now, she needed speed and a form she knew well. One wrong move and it would be over. She shifted, taking on the shape of a red fox. The moment all four of her paws touched the ground, she turned to the treeline and fled.

The moments spent waiting for the being to take action were suffocating. Her furred body heaved in deep breaths of air, her tongue falling out of her mouth as she panted and gasped. Her eyes darted from side to side, ready for an attack, but the old one stayed true to its word and minutes passed without danger. She knew it was toying with her, like it had said. Still, she was grateful for what little advantage it was allowing her. 

As if sensing her growing complacency, a tree ahead of her burst into flames. Wild eyed, she careened around it, barely avoiding the fire. The heat of it licked at her fur, singing hair, but she escaped with no injuries. Her head start was over, she realized, as more trees caught fire. Behind her, she could hear the crackling of a forest fire and she cursed the old one in her mind but kept running. The forest was not safe after all, no matter what she did. The old one had always meant to burn it down.

She howled as she ran, her grief pouring out of her, and the sound was lost to the roar of the fire. It was hot on her heels and soon became a maze of heat and pain that she dodged and darted through, feeling her end growing ever closer even as she ran the fox's body to its limits. Around her, she heard the screams and yelps of the animals that had lived in the forest. She had lived in harmony with these beasts and now they would all perish, of that she was certain. The old one would leave nothing of her sanctuary unblemished. It would destroy everything.

Ahead, there was a clearing and the fire had not yet reached it. She drove herself towards it. If she could make it that far, she might change her shape once more and escape to the sky. She morphed the moment she left the trees, taking wing in her moth form and rising as high as she might, then shot away from the burning forest.

Neve did not look back as she fled. The forest and its inhabitants burned but she kept going. In truth, she was a coward. She might have stayed and let the old one kill her. Maybe then it would have been satisfied, or bored, and would have left the forest. It had been too late for Maze, but now the blood of the beasts was on her hands as well.

There would never be a way to atone for this, she knew. Still, she would mourn them all until her last breath. She would seek revenge on the old one, but first she would have to search out a way to match its power. Was it possible to gain the strength to fight an old god? She was not akin to the hero of ages gone by who had put them all into their deep sleep. However, if the old gods had risen, then Neve would search the world over for one who could take the hero's place. 

In this wide world, there had to be at least one who could take on the burden.