The Sacred Shape of Xuralys
By C.W. Spalding
In the age of eight aspects—fifth age of goddess Xuralys, tenth eon after shape disfigured chaos—Ruvoque took up a dirk. Chaos was held a bay, but not overcome. For all creatures must lose the shape of Xuralys; and return to the sableblood sky as nothing more than rot. Thus Ruvoque went to the Tetrahedron for sacred geogrification.
“Even the shapeless takes on shape,” he intoned.
The tip of the incense snarled and spit smoke; its dying stank of ginger and limes.
“And even the shaped must one day dissolve,” Gala said to finish his prayer.
He glanced at her: silver robes and silver eyes. She met his gaze and jerked her chin toward the table. Hurry up, you’re falling behind again you dolt. He fought down a smile as he turned to the altar and the starlight trapped in its runepyre.
“But in this we make the exchange,” they said together.
“In this we shrug further into our shape-” Gala began.
Ruvoque finished: “And bind up the chaos.”
The starlight burned from red to white, contracting on itself like a scream. And its light turned to liquid fire; as tangible as water but as sharp as a thousand dirks and three times as deadly. Ruvoque took a steadying breath, catching Gala’s eye again as he shrugged his own silver robes up his arm. Gala had already done the same and clutched her own dirk in her hands so tight her knuckles turned white.
“We make our bones bright,” Gala whispered.
“We make our bones bright,” Ruvoque echoed.
They drew the dirks across their arms and thrust the open wound beneath the dripping ball of starmelt.
When Ruvoque woke up, he had been carried up and left on the mountain. He pulled up his sleeve, looking for the cut. But his skin had no mark. Had he then failed? No. As the daystar crested the peaks around him, he saw the shape of his skin had changed and run over with fire of its own.
“The sacred geometry,” he breathed.
Now to find Gala and the starmelt and perfect their shapes.