Scarlett saw visions.
Or was that what they were?
She wasn’t sure. It was hard to tell. They ca in fleeting flashes, yet each seed to stretch on far longer than made sense.
She was a child beneath an endless red sky, playing with toys that shifted and shuddered whenever she looked away. Then she was soone else — standing in a ruined hall, surrounded by voices murmuring a language she almost understood. The world wavered, and suddenly she drifted through a city of glass, the buildings folding in on themselves as if they’d forgotten how to stand.
Each scene carried a strange, deceptive familiarity. Sotis the faces were known; sotis she was herself, watching the original Scarlett harass servants or mingle with nobles. At other tis she glimpsed the companions, caught in monts from the ga. She walked through places she rembered clearly, only to see them unravel at the edges, colours bleeding away as she tried to act or speak.
Ti bled between past, future, dream, and mory that faded too quickly. So scenes were beautiful, others unbearable. She felt like both observer and participant, swept along in lives that belonged to her and not. But whenever she reached for any sort of true awareness, the visions shattered. The thought crossed her mind that this might have been what Rosa experienced.
Part of her also understood that this was the end of sothing. The final throes of Fate’s fracture after her Anomalous power had consud it. Whatever held these visions together was breaking down.
Another part noted how familiar they felt in another way. Less structured, but almost like the mories she had experienced in the Hall of Echoes. She felt there was so connection there, though she wasn’t exactly sure what it was.
As the scenes grew more fragnted and her own awareness sharpened, she braced for the end.
Then, a new vision blood, different from the others. A dimly lit room, washed in pale blue. It was familiar in a new way. One that made her hold her breath.
A half-made bed rested in one corner. A closet stood slightly ajar. Clothes spilled over the top of a sturdy wooden door. A chair sat before shifting screens, a figure outlined in its seat — indistinct, softened as if glimpsed through fogged glass.
Scarlett stared. The mont intensified with a quiet, underlying curiosity that wasn’t her own, floating in the air. But as she stepped forward, the scene shattered like the rest, colours scattering, and she was swallowed by a formless void.
For a ti, there was only silence. Then, a sound—almost a voice—threaded through it. The words themselves were unintelligible, simply brushing against her senses, but they felt nearly ancient, calling to her.
Drawn by it, Scarlett drifted through the emptiness, directionless yet compelled. A single light appeared. A small, trembling orb of silver and gold entwined, shrinking with each second.
Almost without thought, her system reacted. A text window stuttered into existence.
[****** (******)]
It vanished — only to reappear in a new form.
[Spark of Divinity (Divine)]
[Spark of Divinity (Divine)]
[Spark of Divinity (Divine)]
[Spark of Divinity (Divine)]
[…]
The windows multiplied—hundreds, thousands—until they consud her vision. Then, abruptly, they disappeared, leaving a single one behind.
[Sarisa]
Scarlett’s gaze fixed on the word. A flicker pulled her attention back. The light was no longer just a light.
There, in its place, lingered the ghost of a presence — sothing almost human, but not truly. Its form was hidden in glow, but where eyes should have been, bright gold shimred. They locked with hers. Peering into Scarlett. And she found herself lost in them.
Scarlett saw the birth of a world.
A world. But not any she had ever known.
In the beginning, there were only the basic elents. The earth had not yet taken form. The first winds had not yet been born. No stars watched silently. Within this world, two beings lingered — beings without na, without shape, but with each other. They were siblings and strangers, companions and partners, rivals and friends: the whole of a universe twined together.
This was their world. The first. It would not be the last.
Perhaps they were born with it, spirits of its first tremor. Perhaps they had always been, drifting through nothingness in uncertain states until the spark of this world woke them. The truth was lost even to themselves.
Together they wove their world. One—curious, gentle, who Scarlett instinctively wanted to call ‘Fate’—lifted patterns from silent chaos, guiding matter with a careful hand, laying stone on stone, coaxing rivers from the hollow bones of the earth. The other—enduring, restless, whom she felt drawn to call ‘Ti’—shaped the flow beneath, turning possibility into certainty, procession into history, weaving every instant into a chain that would not break.
Where one dread, the other shaped.
For an age they laboured, delighting in the strangeness of becoming. The world beca their garden, their mystery, their endless song.
Yet it would not remain solely theirs.
One day, Fate, whose laughter seeded the beginnings of forests, turned her attention to what was small and new. Life arose in secret corners, coiling and dividing, breathing its own tiny song. She did not tell her partner at first, for she wanted a surprise. She watched quietly as what had sprung from their creation danced with little guidance, finding shape in their world.
Ti, when shown these creatures, was bewildered. He circled them, peered into the hollow of their beginnings, and—compelled by wonder and doubt—turned the river of their lives backwards. Ti unwound every birth, every song, every sorrow, until all that remained was silence and confusion.
Fate, stricken, pleaded with him to stop. And so Ti, with regret, wound the river forward again, restoring all that had been undone. But the horror lingered, like a stain that would not fade.
Fate extracted a promise and a wish: never again damn a world, nor rob it of its endings, she asked of Ti, for the undoing of existence was the darkest blight. And Ti, out of sha and sorrow, obeyed.
So the world spun on. They played, tested, shaped. They watched the sun grow old, watched the rivers lose their way, watched mountains sink back into the sleep from which they had risen.
Everything has an end, Fate said quietly, when the world began to dim. She did not grieve. She had seen its ending from the first breath.
Ti mourned, pacing the ashes, wishing he could relive it all again. But the promise held. Ti would only wind forward.
In the void that followed the world’s demise, emptiness pressed in on them — cold, formless, insistent. Neither had known it before, and it horrified them both. They could not bear it long.
So they began again. Ard with all they had learnt, all they had lived.
Another world arose. Another canvas. Another dawn.
They worked together, as before. Sotis they let wildness rule, with only the lightest touch; sotis they asured every blade of grass. Gods sprang up where they lingered. Stories took root. Civilisations grew. The world would flourish, then fade, and they would begin again.
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Endless creation. Endless endings.
Then, one day, sothing else arrived. Sothing unmade, unbeckoned, unbound by their law.
They called it ‘The Other’.
It stepped into their world without warning or wound. Not of their weaving, it bore no thread, no mark, no echo of their touch. It simply was — alien, bright, and strange.
For the first ti in untold ages, Fate and Ti were truly surprised. They watched it, circled it, offered wonders and riddles. The Other smiled, interacted, learnt, taught, sotis leaving, sotis returning.
Ti, in particular, grew close. He and The Other wandered together, shared thoughts, ideas, and endings.
Countless worlds unfolded. Fate and Ti grew quieter, subtler in their workings, letting the stories of others fill the silence between beginnings and endings.
But all things change.
After ages lost to mory, Fate grew tired. One world ended, and as they shaped the next, she slipped into sleep. Briefly at first. Ti watched with confusion and restlessness, but soon she awoke, soothing him, and they resud their work.
Yet with each new world, the sleep returned. Longer. Deeper. Always, Fate would awaken—gentle, reassuring—but less present. Ti grew anxious. Worlds ended, new worlds began, but the pattern would not break.
At last, when the weariness could no longer be denied, when nearly an entire world’s lifespan passed before Fate’s eyes opened, she spoke:
Everything cos to an end — even I.
She revealed her end should have co long ago. She had seen it from the beginning. But she had not wished to leave her partner, for they were one.
Compared to Fate, Ti’s essence was near endless.
Ti refused to accept this. He denied the truth. As their latest world reached its end and emptiness embraced them, he refused to follow the pattern. He would not create another world. Would not let go.
But Fate begged, softly, a voice fraying at the edges. They could not linger without a world. They could not linger without existence. Fate pleaded with Ti not to linger in the silence, not to close himself away.
In the end, Ti relented.
One last world was born.
Fate slept. Ti kept watch, alone beneath a sky they had painted together. Even as this world neared its end, Fate did not wake.
When that world ended, in accordance with a promise made to Fate, Ti drew upon his partner’s lingering essence and wove the dawn of yet another world. But still there was no waking — only the shell of Fate, sleeping and silent, through world after world. Ti pressed on, ever more hollow, his other half present but gone. Emptiness gnawed at what remained.
Until he could endure no longer.
And so he broke his first and greatest vow.
With all his powers and strength, Ti rewound existence itself—every mory, every story, every world—back to the mont before Fate first began to fade. Together, they created again, and Ti was happy. Whole.
For a while, it lasted.
But sothing worse than separation awaited.
Fate died.
In that world, gods and monsters, offspring of Fate’s own dreamings, grew too powerful. They conspired, fearing these tiless beings, and together, sohow, they destroyed Fate. Ti, in horror, beca unmoored. There was a silence deeper than the void between worlds, a fury colder than night. For the first ti, Ti knew rage.
He hunted the conspirators, unwound their power and mory, unravelled them to their weakest monts and destroyed them one by one. Then he rewound the world itself, again and again, desperate to bring Fate back.
It worked, for a ti. Fate returned, unaware of her death. Ti rejoiced, and together they forged a new world, empty of gods, empty of power.
But she died again. This ti, it was no grand betrayal. Only a creature, strange and malford, rising anomalously where none had expected. It destroyed Fate, and Ti could neither foresee nor strike it down alone. But Ti could still rewind. Again, Fate returned. Again, they began anew.
Ti’s worlds grew narrower, more controlled, more desperate. But in every cycle, Fate’s death ca sooner — by monster, by sickness, by chance, by the world itself turning against its architect. Worlds shrank to shadows of what they had once been, ruled by fear and caution, but nothing could stave off the end. And Fate began to resist Ti’s forceful hand.
And so, Ti retreated. For the second ti, he refused creation. Refused to build another world, even as Fate pleaded with him not to abandon everything. But Ti held on, shut himself in the silence, and waited.
In that emptiness, Fate withered. Unfed by dream or possibility, she faded utterly, leaving scarcely a trace. Ti did not realise until it was too late. And this ti, there was no world, no story, no thread for him to rewind. Within emptiness, nothing could be undone.
Ti knew terror.
Ti despaired.
It was then that an old friend found him adrift — The Other, whose visits spanned worlds, whose nature neither Fate nor Ti had ever grasped. The Other listened as Ti told his tale; listened as Ti begged for a way to bring Fate back. And The Other offered a bargain.
A wager.
The terms were simple, or so they seed. Create an ending not foreseen by Fate. The Other claid to have the ans to revive her, wholly and utterly, if—and only if—Ti could win.
Ti did not hesitate. Ti agreed.
The Other gathered what remained of Fate, her pale remnant, and with Ti’s help, fashioned a new world. A world bound by a destiny The Other provided, written on the bones of what had been Fate, with her very self as the foundation.
The world was small. It would last no longer than a few thousand years. Within that span, if Ti could fulfil the wager, Fate would be restored.
Ti set to his task. The wager’s rules gave him licence to wield any power. When the world ended as Fate’s frawork predicted, and the wager lost, Ti did not mourn. He rewound the days, the years, the lifetis. Began again.
The world was reborn. The wager lost.
Ti rewound the world.
And again.
And again.
Countless cycles.
Ti played every role — hero, villain, god, devil, wanderer, destroyer, guardian. He raised mountains and sundered them. Won followers, lost kingdoms. Watched loves bloom and wither, friendships flower and fade. He chased every path, broke every chain, sought every turning, reshaped every event, corrected every mistake. ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ novel(ꜰ)ire
Yet always, he failed.
There were more attempts than worlds Ti had ever made; more failures than the years spent with his other half; more losses than dreams he had dared to hold. The Other’s wager, once seeming so simple, proved insurmountable for Ti. The world itself was consigned to one of several fates, inescapable from its own design.
Ti began to unravel. mories blurred. Purpose frayed. His self fragnted.
And then, at last, after innurable attempts, Ti began to accept his fate. His mistakes, his failures, his losses. He regretted so much, and no longer had the strength to continue.
On the brink of oblivion—about to resign himself to the vast silence of emptiness—Ti suddenly found sothing new amid the endless cycles: a fracture, a remnant of Fate, hidden and untouched through all his attempts.
For the first ti in a span beyond imagining, Ti rembered. He recalled once more his promise to Fate — a promise long broken and forsaken: not to damn any world, not to rob them of their endings, their chance to simply be.
In his endless pursuit, Ti had beco sothing unrecognisable to his other half. Even with his imnse power, he could not undo all the endings he had undone. But he ca to accept that this could no longer go on.
And so, at last, Ti let go.
He reached one final resolve. There would be one last world. One last story. However fragile, however brief, it deserved to unfold—unrewound, unbroken—as a rembrance for all the other worlds that had been denied their endings.
In that, Ti realised sothing: for the world to live out its natural life, sothing had to be different. It must have a chance to beco more than what he or The Other intended.
And so, Ti gathered his remaining strength for one last act, one last defiance. He had never been able to win against the complete guidings of Fate, but now he rembered a beast who once had.
He looked beyond his hate, his rage, and his grief for the one who had once robbed his partner. He reached into the tapestry of non-existent worlds and forgotten possibilities, sacrificing much of himself. He sought out that beast—the anomaly that had once destroyed Fate—corralled it, recreated a version of its strange existence, and set it loose in a new place, supplanted into a suitable role within the world’s new order.
At the sa ti, he took the fracture of Fate and wove it into the heart of the world — a hidden spark, dangerous and unstable, yet all that remained of his other half. To tilt the scales. To nudge the balance.
These were Ti’s last, desperate gambits to leave behind sothing, be it a worse or better existence.
Weakened, diminished, Ti watched.
He saw realms rise, the Idols awaken, gods and Viles draw breath, mortals wage war and forge peace as he had seen so many tis before. He watched gods fall, stories fade, tiny new wonders take root.
And through it all, The Other, watching with a faint smile, made its own moves—for the first ti—shaping destinies Ti could not predict.
The world spun on. Ti’s final changes echoed through it, but more faintly than he had hoped. Yet he dared not interfere further, for The Other appeared to respond in kind to changes to the set course.
So Ti waited. The centuries passed. The days dwindled. The wager, set long ago, lingered unresolved.
In the end, even beings such as he would cease to be—
The visions dissolved. The world of mory and myth untangled, and Scarlett was left in stillness, the echo of ancient grief and hope humming through her very being.
She drew in a breath, the thoughts still swirling as reality settled in around her. And she found herself staring into a pair of golden eyes.
Now those eyes belonged to a woman with dark hair and a face achingly familiar.
The face of one Amy Bernal.
Seconds passed in silence as Scarlett watched the figure, taking in an appearance she had not seen for so long. It was a disorienting, almost surreal experience.
“…You are Fate, then?” she asked eventually. “Or is it Sarisa?”
The being didn’t answer. Scarlett wasn’t sure it could. This was only a fracture of the entity she had seen in those visions. A lingering mory, acting on instinct. In Beld Thylelion, it had attacked her. Perhaps in self-defence. Now, though, she couldn’t sense anything other than…curiosity. A quiet, searching curiosity directed at her.
Scarlett held its gaze, searching those golden eyes. Then, finally, she sighed and turned, taking a careful step forward into the surrounding emptiness.
“Co,” she said, inviting the presence to follow. “It is ti to put you to rest properly. But before we do, I believe I understand what it is you wish to see.”
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