"In an eternal conflict, who keeps score?"

  -The balance

  To err is divine

  A month had passed since Moronatbeluthe's timid knocking. It was like a blink of an eye for a centuries old sorcerer. During the meeting his PA had been so worried about, Lyeasrakardsul had found soothing the council easier than he remembered, but perhaps it was just because the worry of a few missing sorcerers couldn't compare to his nightmares.

  It's not like it was ever a real priority, his inner sorcerer thought, fewer sorcerers means less competition for everyone.

  Not sleeping and isolating himself in the penthouse was giving him tension-aches. Considering he was skin and bones, the absence of muscle shouldn't ache this much. His self-medicating gave the purple draped penthouse a familiar musk of sweet smoke and liniment.

  Why do we bother with all this metaphorical weight of knowledge? his misery pulled him into its company. We still can't prove what's causing your nightmares.

  Even now, all he had was hunches and the unfamiliar weight of taking responsibility, made him tired to the bone. He sat up on the bed and slipped on his soft bunny slippers, before limping to his rocking-chair, lighting his pipe, and hoping for an end. Any end. If he couldn't find someone else to blame for his troubles, he really saw no point in going on.

  If only we could divine the future, his magick thought, then we would prove them all wrong!

  No Dalmicir sorcerer had ever been strong enough to see the inverse shadows of what was to come. So all he had was the recurring daydreams about being right, and rubbing in the council's face, while being just smug enough to be inappropriate. Because seeing the future required a p-wyrd.

  "A prophecy," he spat out the word, like he had bitten into something foul. "The so-called gods think it such a privilege to have them talk at you."

  In the Darkness of his nightmares he imagined he could sense the vague multi-edged future. But hopefully that was just his paranoia. Otherwise, the divine were involved, cackling maniacally, as they pulled the strings soaked in the blood of mortals.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  "Well, they do say to err is divine," he yawned out the sorcerer saying and stretched like a sleepy cat.

  Like everyone who thought their success was self-made, gods and sorcerers both worshipped at the altar of themselves. That was why magick's attitude towards to the divine was one of reverse-agnosticism. Of all the peoples of Sojurut, only the sorcerers knew for sure that gods existed. But they actively refused to believe, especially not putting faith in the nameless god of reverse-agnosticism. Because whether it was knowledge or power, they weren't good at sharing. Just like gods.

  Like so many other things Empris outlawed prayer, so he could only hope his nightmares were some kind of new magick. A little hope was still allowed, as long as you kept it to yourself. Discovering new magick could be draining.

  But this can't go on, his despair thought. How long has it been since we slept? He forced his eyes open, afraid to blink in case he fell asleep, and a tear ran down his wrinkled cheek.

  All of a sudden, he found himself standing in front the Pedran tower. The tall, windowless structure looked nothing like Pentakl's other towers. Also, there was a round patch in the delicate stonework, a childlike Troll-face, and it was laughing at him. At first it seemed natural, and he was about to give the Troll a slap for its cheek.

  "Wait, are stone-walls supposed to laugh?" He pulled his hand back as the Darkness hit him like a crashing wave.

  He jerked awake in a state of panic, his heart pounding, the sudden motion wrenched his back again. The stabbing pain was agony, but nothing compared to the nightmare. The Darkness was worse than ever. It had the cold weight he imagined was at the bottom of an ocean, as deep as the universe was wide.

  The pressure wasn't even the worst part. That was the overwhelming sense of isolation. Lyeasrakardsul could go months without interacting with another living being. A casual nod from a distance was more than enough to keep him socially fulfilled. Living in a city, he was forced to interact, and resented every minute. In the Darkness, it was different. The anxiety of being lonely wasn't something he had ever known, but this was nothing less than the pain of being the last living thing in creation.

  The jerking motion had slid him right out of his rocking chair and onto the cold stone floor. He took a deep breath, trying to shoo his anxiety away, and a memory flashed into his conscious mind. This time there had been little points of flickering light. One by one, they were being snuffed out.

  "Stars," he groaned, like a knee had hit him in the nether region.

  Rolling over on his side, he curled up in a foetal position, before crawling over to the balcony doors and pushing them open with a bang. Hunched forward, with one hand on his aching back, he strained to look up at the sky. As far as he could tell, it looked the same as always.

  "Someone is going to have to do something about this, but why does it have to be me?" he whined into the night.

  During his time as the head of Dalmicir magick, he had always been a strong supporter of their official ideology: observe, chronicle, and preserve. Which in a more practical sense meant, 'If there's a problem, ignore it until it goes away. Someone else can fix it!'

  Or...could we do the unthinkable? The toes of his desperation were touching rock bottom. Could we ask the Knomes for help?