A Pug's Journey (Cultivation Starts with Breathing)

Aephelia stood in her room, the taste of bitter victory still fresh on her tongue.

By the light of a single flickering lantern, she washed the blood from her hands and face. The basin water swirled red, and she watched it until the last streak of crimson faded.

Only then did she turn away and don a clean dress, the prettiest one she could find in her wardrobe. It felt strange to wear something so delicate after all the carnage, but perhaps that was why she chose it. She fastened the buttons with steady fingers, willing herself to feel calm.

Finally, she retrieved a small leather suitcase and began filling it with whatever valuables she could find from the Patriarch's office: gold coins, a handful of glittering gems, papers that might be of use. It wasn't much, but it would do.

Aephelia's eyes lingered on the doorway as she prepared to depart.

"At least I gave the others a proper farewell…" she murmured under her breath, voice trembling with a mix of sorrow and rage.

She recalled the faces of those she'd left behind in the alchemy chamber—the other Gromstels.

Aephelia could still see them as she had found them: bound and mutilated on cold iron tables, their blood siphoned into vials, pointed ears cruelly clipped, one's eye gouged out, rubber tubes shoved down their throats to force-feed some vile concoction.

They had whimpered and thrashed weakly at her approach, terrified and in agony until they realized it was her. Only then had they calmed, recognizing the gentle touch of the girl.

She had tried her best to soothe them in those final moments, blinking back her tears as she stroked their blood-matted fur. "I'm here," she had whispered, voice breaking.

"It's okay. You can rest now." They had quieted at her words, and for a brief moment Aephelia saw peace in their remaining eyes. With trembling hands, she had given each a swift, merciful end, sparing them any further suffering.

It was the only kindness she could offer after all they had endured. She stayed until their chests stopped rising, until the lab fell silent save for her own choked sobs.

Now, recalling it, a fresh wave of anger surged in her chest.

Aephelia's knuckles whitened around the handle of her suitcase. She wished she could have made the Patriarch suffer far more than he did.

He deserved every torment imaginable for what he'd done to the two families she'd known, and was taken away from her. But alas, that moment had come and gone. She had already delivered justice with her own two hands.

The memory flashed before her: the Patriarch's eyes bulging in shock and then terror as she pressed him against the wall with a tendril of water coiled around his throat. Her free hand had molded a dagger of pure ice from thin air, its blade glinting with lethal cold.

And then, ever so slowly, she had driven that ice dagger into his chest, aiming unerringly for the foul heart that had orchestrated so much pain.

His screams had been choked by the water flooding his lungs, so all she heard was a wet, gurgling gasp as life slowly dripped away from him.

Aephelia had watched, with anger burning in her eyes, as the light in his eyes flickered out.

Only then did she let his corpse thud to the floor, a pool of blood spreading across the floor and freezing to a dark crust around the dagger.

It was over.

The Patriarch was dead, snuffed out by her vengeance, perhaps too swiftly for her liking, but dead all the same.

She exhaled a long breath, forcing her anger back down.

With her "spoils of war" safely packed, she kept her chin high as she walked the corridors of the mansion that had so recently been a slaughterhouse.

Bodies lay strewn about the halls, the Patriarch's faithful servants and guards now reduced to lifeless husks. Many still had their hands clawing at their own throats, eyes bulging in horror.

Water dripped from their open mouths and nostrils, pooling on the floorboards beneath them.

The expressions on their faces were grotesque masks of panic.

Aephelia felt no pity, she had flooded their lungs without hesitation, and they had drowned on dry land with their nails scratching uselessly at their necks.

She stepped around one corpse that was slumped against the wall, its fingernails broken and bloodied from desperate scrabbling.

She descended the grand staircase that led to the main entrance.

At the foot of the stairs, Aephelia stopped. Three figures stood, calmly looking at the aftermath as if it were nothing more than a messy painting.

They were strangers. Aephelia was certain she had never met any of them before.

At the front was a willowy, beautiful woman clad in travel-worn finery. Most strikingly, the woman's eyes remained closed. Beside her was a middle-aged man built like a bull, his arms thick with muscle. He had a cheerful yet exasperated expression. And to the woman's other side stood a petite girl perched atop a creature of living earth, a golem of clay and stone. The petite girl's feet dangled as she sat, and a playful smirk tugged at her lips.

Aephelia tensed, reflexively summoning a curl of water to hover at her fingertips. She had no idea who these people were, whether they were allies of the Patriarch come to avenge him, or something else entirely.

The beautiful woman with closed eyes was the first to speak, and though her tone was light, it carried an amused undertone that put Aephelia further on edge.

"Hoho! Quite the mess she's made!" the woman said with a laugh, tilting her head as if surveying the bodies with appreciation.

"Ahhhhh, we're late again," groaned the burly man, running a hand through his black hair. Despite his complaint, his voice held more disappointment than alarm, as if this wasn't the first time they had arrived after the action was over.

"Hush now. We need to introduce ourselves properly," the petite woman who was riding atop the earth golem's shoulder looked at the other two.

Aephelia's heart pounded. Whoever they were, they didn't seem immediately hostile, but the events she had experienced very recently had left her in an awful and distasteful mood.

"Who are you?" she demanded hoarsely, her voice echoing.

The trio exchanged amused glances, and the petite woman simply smiled, tilting her head as if to say there would be time for that soon enough.

That night, unknown to Aephelia, marked the end of one chapter of her life and the beginning of another. The three interlopers would soon introduce themselves and, with little ceremony, bring Aephelia into a world far larger and more perilous than her solitary fight for survival.

In the days and weeks that followed, as the strangers made good on their promise to introduce themselves, Aephelia learned who they were. And in the process, learned much about the world that she had never known.

She discovered that at this point in history, there were no formal standards of measuring a person's strength or power. Prestige in combat was a nebulous thing, judged mostly by the size of one's mana pool and whether or not one had awakened to a special ability. Hence, the idea of war during this period was simply a numbers game.

This trio called themselves part of "the Letters," an obscure moniker that initially meant nothing to Aephelia. They explained that the Letters were a small cohort of people who, like Aephelia, were manaless and had awakened unique powers.

But unlike the rest of the world, these individuals had begun to realize that their abilities could change in fundamental ways, evolving into new forms rather than simply growing stronger in a straightforward manner.

Because of this, they didn't much like the term Awakened.

They preferred to call themselves The Evolved.

That title wasn't just for show.

As Aephelia heard their stories and traveled with them, she came to understand how fitting the name was. An Evolved's power didn't simply get stronger with training; it could transform, gain new dimensions entirely, hence, it evolved.

One of the Letters gave an example of a man they hoped to recruit someday in the far future, as he hadn't even been born yet. An Evolved whom they had already referred to as Existence. His initial gift, they said, would be the ability to turn himself transparent. It was a neat party trick. But when his power would evolve the first time, he would find himself capable of masking his presence entirely, becoming not just slightly invisible to the eye but also undetectable to the senses. And when Existence's ability evolved even further, three more times, in fact, he would eventually gain the unbelievable power to phase through solid matter and even through people.

The petite woman, whose name, Aephelia learned, was Terra, shared her own story as well.

Terra's ability started small; she could telekinetically control only fine grains of soil, nothing more. It seemed a humble power at first. But Terra had persisted and grown with the Letters' guidance, and in time her gift evolved. With her second evolution, she found she could move not just soil but pebbles now. Further refinement let her shape solid stone, then refined metals.

Now, Aephelia had seen with her own eyes how Terra rode an earthen golem like it was an extension of herself. The Evolved, it seemed, were defined by this extraordinary capacity for metamorphosis.

Aephelia herself was considered a rare case even among the Evolved. The Letters seemed intrigued by her from the start. From the onset, she had awakened an ability of devastating combat potential. She could control water and managed to shape ice immediately.

Many of the Evolved often had only subtle, supportive powers, or weak awakenings. But Aephelia's control over water was anything but subtle, showing a raw potency that normally only came after at least two or three evolutions in others.

In short, Aephelia was exactly the kind of person the Letters sought out: powerful, alone,, and, most importantly, shunned by the so-called civilized world.

In some far-flung tribes, mighty kingdoms, and secretive cults alike, people with such aberrant gifts were seen as threats to the natural order and were feared, even hunted down, before they could become something even greater.

This was an era where they, an Evolved, who survived and grew far stronger than societal norms, was an upset to all the usual rules—something many found too terrifying to allow.

In the immediate aftermath of their meeting, fear and suspicion had driven Aephelia to resist them, she wasn't about to trust anyone so soon after the Patriarch's treachery.

But she never stood a chance. Only at the very first stage of her evolution, she was like an ember against a bonfire. The muscular man, who went by the alias Zenith, moved with uncanny speed for someone his size, intercepting her water attacks.

Terra's control over earth had been even more decisive: with a flick of the petite woman's fingers, the marble floor itself had liquefied into quicksand around Aephelia's feet, anchoring her in place.

Within just moments, Aephelia found herself disarmed and surrounded, a prisoner not of chains this time, but of circumstance.

She had little choice but to go with them.

In the days that followed, Aephelia came to know her captors-turned-comrades by those codenames and to understand their abilities. The woman with closed eyes was actually a supporter of The Letters, not an Evolved herself.

As for Zenith, with his imposing physique and presence, was exactly just that.

Prophecy was not present during the encounter itself. Her ability had pointed them to Aephelia's location, warning that a critical convergence was near. And while her vision was far from perfect, it had been enough. With her usual cryptic tone and closed eyes that never opened, Prophecy had simply told them, "Find her before she breaks. She'll be fire and flood both, but you must get to her before the water stills."

Aephelia would only meet Prophecy days later. Despite being one of the older members of the Letters, Prophecy's clairvoyant ability had never evolved past its second stage. She could glimpse the future's possibilities and outcomes, but only in moments.

Even so, she was revered among the Letters, for her ability had repeatedly saved their lives or guided them towards new Evolved like Aephelia.

It was a strange meeting when they finally spoke.

But that will be for another time.

Aephelia's new life with the Letters turned out to be happier than anything she'd known in a long time. The first few weeks were rocky, she was understandably seething with distrust, half-convinced she'd merely been a captor for some unknown reason.

After overpowering her, the trio had brought Aephelia to a safehouse in a distant town, effectively spiriting her away from the site of her vengeance. She had raged at them, attempted escape more than once, and responded to any friendly overtures with icy silence and glares.

But the Letters never harmed her. In fact, they showed remarkable patience.

They answered her questions, gave her space to think, and gradually revealed that they were not a cult or a mercenary band, but a fellowship of survivors much like her.

Each of them had faced persecution or loss. And each had chosen a path in the shadows in order to protect their kind.

In time, Aephelia began to understand their cause, and even to admire it. These people were trying to survive in a world that feared them, and not just survive, but quietly make that world better for all Evolved.

Against her own expectations, Aephelia found herself warming to their camaraderie. Laughter, companionship, and a sense of belonging slowly returned to her days.

For the first time since the Gromstels' death, she wasn't alone.

Yet even as the Letters quietly gathered strength, the world outside was changing in ways none of them could predict. What started as rumors soon became dire reality: the greatest empire, known simply as The Empire, had discovered the secret of black powder and was manufacturing it en masse.

In a matter of years, the invention of crude firearms and cannons spread like wildfire. Suddenly, ordinary, non-awakened soldiers held weapons that could kill an unsuspecting unawakened from afar with a single lead shot.

Aephelia and the others heard the first reports with dread.

The balance of power tipped, and terror took hold across nations.

Kingdoms turned on each other in an arms race for this new technology. Some sought to harness it against Awakened, to eliminate those they had always feared. Others simply saw an opportunity to conquer neighbors.

The Letters watched helplessly as war erupted across the continent. The nights were lit by the orange glow of burning cities, and the days were filled with the fear of sound from gunfire and the thunderous boom of primitive bombs.

Battles raged not between champion mages or knights as in old tales, but with disciplined firing lines of common men who could fell the mightiest beast or the strongest mage with cold iron pellets.

Aephelia fought in the shadows where she could, sabotaging munitions storages by flooding them, sinking supply barges under roiling waves conjured in the dead of night, but even their considerable powers could not stop the tide of violence.

In the end, the entire continent burned itself to the ground. The Empire's ambitions, and the fear they spawned, led to a cataclysmic conflict that left cities in ruins and fields piled high with the dead.

Aephelia would never forget walking through the ashen remains of what had once been a thriving capital city.

This… this was the cruelty of humanity.

Progress in this direction was a sin.

Having witnessed firsthand the devastation wrought by human greed and technology unchained, the Letters made a bold decision. They would not allow this nightmare to repeat in other lands.

In secret, the surviving members of the Letters banded together to guide the world onto a safer path. They founded an organization that would operate in plain sight: the Adventurer's Guild.

This guild, ostensibly a neutral party dedicated to cataloging and managing those who had awakened or achieved notable combat prowess, introduced a standardized system of power rankings they called Grades.

By encouraging all nations to adopt these Grades for measuring strength, the guild made itself indispensable; it could monitor emerging threats and talents more openly, ensuring no Awakened would be caught unaware by something like black powder again.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

They also had a convenient reason to branch out around the world; the management of dungeons. With their rising accolades of conquering dungeons at a rate none had seen before, even publishing guides to support the people, they soon gained merit and the trust from the public.

At the same time, the Letters worked from the shadows to erase the very memory of The Empire's downfall. They spread carefully crafted rumors and legends to explain the wasteland the wars left behind.

Working together, they destroyed every schematic, every prototype weapon.

Laboratories were burned, research notes vanished, and engineers who had worked on the project often met mysterious ends or were bribed into silence. Over years, the knowledge of black powder was systematically purged from libraries and minds. To the wider world, The Empire's history became a cautionary fable or was altogether forgotten, its name fading into obscurity.

If one asked a common scholar a century later what had happened to that once-great empire, they would only answer the false narratives the Letters had sown and never suspect the truth.

But the Letters were not content to stop at merely preventing another catastrophe; they wanted to build something better from the ashes.

It was Age, ever pragmatic, ever hopeful, who proposed their next grand undertaking. He believed that the chaos had shown how desperately people needed something to believe in, something that would steer them toward compassion and unity rather than fear and destruction.

Age envisioned a new kind of nation, one founded not on conquest or wealth, but on faith.

Faith in the sanctity of life itself.

Of course, humans were not so easily swayed by abstract ideals; they often needed a symbol, a living beacon of hope or divinity to rally behind. And so, Age set out to provide one.

With the backing of his fellow Letters, Age assumed a new identity in the world: Bishop Eydor. As Eydor, he quietly inserted himself into the religious councils of a nascent kingdom that would later be known as Sunmire. From the shadows, he helped shape Sunmire's doctrines and guide its leaders. But they still needed a real figurehead for the faith to believe in.

The Letters scoured far and wide, following every rumor of mythical creatures and ancient beasts. Eventually, their search bore fruit deep in uncharted wilderness. There, beneath the light of a full moon, they encountered a creature of pure majesty: an enormous wolf with fur that shimmered like moonlight and eyes old with understanding.

This creature was no mindless beast; it possessed intelligence, and something almost like wisdom, in its solemn gaze.

It was exactly what they needed.

How they convinced the great wolf to join them is a story unto itself, one of delicate diplomacy and heartfelt promises. But in time, the creature agreed to stand with Sunmire's people. The Church proclaimed it a sacred guardian, a blessing from the Light itself.

Thus was born the first Godbeast, a living symbol of Sunmire's faith. Under the Godbeast's watch and Eydor's guidance, Sunmire grew into a beacon of hope on a war-torn continent.

Ordinary folk looked upon the giant silver-furred wolf and saw a divine protector. They listened to Bishop Eydor's sermons about cherishing life and shunning the mistakes of the past, and they began to believe.

The scars of the old wars slowly started to heal as a new era dawned, one where humans could stand together…

Or so it seemed.

* * * * *

Centuries passed. The world changed in many ways, but Aephelia remained a constant, a silent witness moving through the decades under the guidance of the Letters. One day, Prophecy came to her with a cryptic promise.

The older woman's eyes were as inscrutable as ever when she spoke. If Aephelia would agree to spend some time in Sunmire, working an unassuming job as a train communicator, Prophecy guaranteed that Aephelia would one day thank her for it.

Was what she said post-translation. Her cryptic way of relaying her prophecies was a pain…

It was an odd request, to say the least.

Aephelia was a seasoned member of the Letters, used to taking on high-stakes missions across the continents. But at that moment, there were no pressing assignments for her. Peace, or rather, the carefully managed balance enforced by the Guild and the Letters, had reigned for some time.

Aephelia had been idle, even bored, passing her days in quiet anonymity and occasionally indulging in a bit of gambling in seedier countries and towns just to feel a spark of excitement.

Prophecy's suggestion intrigued her, if only because it promised a change of pace. And Prophecy's visions, however limited, were rarely pointless. So Aephelia, who these days went by the simple alias Wer, short for Water, took the offer.

Inwardly, though, she wanted to be Aqua, but the letter "A" in the Letters was already taken. This had always soured her mood.

With Bishop Eydor's very subtle help, it wasn't hard for Aephelia to secure a position on Sunmire's grand railway line. After all, a quiet recommendation from a bishop in a nation ruled by the church could open any door.

Soon, she found herself donning the uniform of a train communicator, an became an operator of the mana-powered communication devices that kept Sunmire's extensive train network coordinated.

The job was routine and, frankly, dull. Day after day, she manned the crystal communicator aboard rumbling trains, relaying messages about schedules, cargo, and weather. Sunmire itself, while beautiful in its own right as a land of fervent faithful, struck Aephelia as unbearably tame.

There were sermons and songs, pilgrims and festivals, but no real intrigue that she could see.

News of the fabled Godbeasts, the divine beasts that ruled Sunmire's holy narrative, was everywhere: their images in stained glass, their names being the topic of conversation amongst everyone. And yet, even that grew tiresome.

Aephelia had also occasionally heard worrying rumors among the citizenry, particularly about the youngest of the current Godbeast heirs, Pophet.

But gossip alone wasn't enough to hold her interest for long.

One evening, Aephelia met with Bishop Eydor in a quiet corner of a tavern on the outskirts of Sunmire's capital. It was one of the few places they could speak freely without prying ears, far from the grand cathedrals and church officials.

Over a simple but hearty meal, Aephelia finally voiced what had been on her mind.

"Hey, Age," she began in a low tone, using his codename since she couldn't really care much if anyone heard her. She poked at her plate and shot him a sidelong look. "What's the deal with those Godbeasts?"

Across from her, Bishop Eydor paused, the edge of his knife resting against a slice of roast. Even in this dim tavern, his movements were precise and gentlee, cutting his steak with the manners of a nobleman.

He finished the slice and brought it to his lips before answering. "What have you heard?" he asked softly.

Aephelia shrugged. "That one of the Godbeast heirs is dangerous, unpredictable even. Some say that he barely even listens to the High Presbyters. I've heard pilgrims in the station calling him a bad omen. They call him…" she lowered her voice in mock, "the 'Gentle Faith that Echoes,' whatever that means. Doesn't sound like a compliment the way they spat the words out."

Eydor's lips twitched in a faint smile at her irreverence, but his eyes remained downcast, fixed on his plate. "Gentle Faith that Echoes," he repeated quietly. "It is, in fact, meant to be a title of reverence. But you're right, on the tongues of the disillusioned, it's become a sneer." He set his utensils down, the faint clink punctuating his words. "Sunmire… may not last much longer, Wer."

Aephelia raised an eyebrow. It was unlike Age to show open pessimism. "You really think the nation is in danger? After all this time, everything you built—"

"Everything we built," Eydor corrected gently. He interlaced his fingers and leaned forward, keeping his voice low. "When I first helped create Sunmire, I wanted it to be a sanctuary. A place where people cherished life and learned from the mistakes of the past. And for a while, it was. But…" He sighed, a heavy, tired sound. "The rot of human nature spares no paradise. Greedy merchants found ways to profit from faith. Corrupt priests twist the church's teachings to grasp for personal power. Even among the devout, schisms have formed—different interpretations of the Light's will, each faction convinced it alone holds the truth. The ideals we planted have been… compromised."

Aephelia felt a twinge of sadness. She had seen it too: the politics lurking behind pious smiles, the way Eydor's sermons were sometimes ignored by younger, more ambitious clergymen. "But what about the Godbeasts?" she pressed. "Surely they still inspire unity. That was the point of having them, wasn't it?"

Eydor drummed his fingers on the table thoughtfully. "A Godbeast," he said, "is not an automatic guarantee of virtue. They are living beings, not simply unfeeling idols. In an ideal situation, each Godbeast is raised and taught by their predecessor for several years, at least five, learning wisdom, control, and compassion from their parent." His gaze grew distant, as if recalling that day. "Lady Aurelith tried to guid her offspring for as long as she could. But she passed on far too early, and her children, the current generation of heirs, were left to be raised by humans." He smiled ruefully. "They imbued them with their own flaws and colors. Tainted them with human ambitions, fears, and misunderstandings."

He picked up his goblet of wine and swirled it, watching the dark liquid catch the light. "Pophet, Eline, and the others… they are extraordinary creatures, each one. But without their mother to guide them, they were pulled in different directions by those around them. Some in the Church see the Godbeasts as tools, others as threats, others as nothing more than symbols to be controlled. It's no wonder the poor things are…" He searched for the word, then chuckled without humor, "What was it the station gossip called Pophet? Dangerous."

Aephelia nodded slowly. It made sense.

A divine beast raised by scheming humans might end up more like a person, complete with all a person's issues, rather than like the pure-hearted guardian Eydor had hoped for.

Eydor set down his wine and met her eyes at last. "I have tried to mitigate it where I can. I took one of them under my wing years ago, Eline. She's a very bright soul, curious and a bit rebellious, but with a good heart. I've tried to teach her quietly, to instill in her the values Sunmire was meant to uphold. If I can save even one of them…" His voice caught, just for a moment. "Well, perhaps the dream of Sunmire won't be entirely lost."

Aephelia reached out and gave his wrist a gentle squeeze. She understood why he could only directly help Eline.

In name, he was but one of several bishops, each with limited authority over different aspects of the church's operations. He couldn't simply snatch up all the Godbeast heirs for personal tutoring, that would raise too many suspicions among the other bishops and power-brokers.

* * * * *

A week later, Aephelia's life took the turn Prophecy had foretold. She was on duty aboard a northbound train, stationed near a major transit hub known as the Aquifer Vault. The morning had started like any other, with Aephelia sipping hot tea from a tin mug as she went through departure checklists. The cargo was secured, and the train's engine thrummed steadily as it prepared to disembark from the military station.

Then came the commotion. At first, it was just muffled shouting from outside the train, voices of the platform guards. But juast as Aephelia peered through the small window of the crew cabin, she saw nothing unusual in the dim lights of the platform.

The train had started moving, moving slowly out of Aquifer Vault, when a tremendous clang reverberated through the cars. The whole train jolted as if something heavy had struck or latched onto it.

"What in Light's name was that?" one of her fellow crew members yelped. An uneasy silence fell as the train continued to gain speed. Then pounding footsteps approached; a junior conductor flung open the compartment door, eyes wild.

"Something's on the train!" he hissed, barely catching his breath. "It… It jumped onto Car 4 from outside."

Another crewman cursed under his breath. "Was it a person? An animal? Bandits?"

The young conductor shook his head frantically. "I-I didn't see clearly…It just came out of nowhere. I saw it board Car 4 and I ran here..."

The word spread quickly among the small train staff. Protocol in such situations was clear: isolate the threat. With trembling hands, the conductors engaged the emergency levers to lock down the connecting doors around Car 4, sealing whatever it was inside that car.

Aephelia clutched the communicator receiver as fragmented reports crackled over the device.

Snippets of panicked dialogue from the platform guards: "–thing's definitely in there… enormous…" / "Lock Car 4!" / "What was that?!"

Moments later, an urgent transmission came in from the Aquifer Vault station behind them. Aephelia pressed the receiver to her ear and heard the dispatcher's strained voice: "All units be advised, we have confirmation, something boarded your train as it departed. We're trying to identify it now. Stand by."

Then, silence.

Eventually, after a few more moments, the transmission came again. "We're cross-referencing a manifest code …"

The next words made Aephelia bolt upright. "The entity on board is confirmed as the Sixth Heir, Pophet. Repeat: the Sixth Godbeast Heir, Pophet, is on your train."

Aephelia's colleague, the head conductor, blanched white as a sheet. He turned to the rest of the crew gathered in the narrow hallway. "The Sixth Heir… here? On this train?"

Exclamations of disbelief and nervous prayers to the Light went up.

It took nearly an hour for the crew to work up the courage to approach Car 4. The train had long since left the tunnel and was chugging across open country, the morning sun breaking through scattered clouds. At last, the chief conductor gathered a small team: himself, two other crewmen, and Aephelia.

Together, they carefully unlocked the door leading into Car 4.

Sliding it open a crack, the chief conductor peeked in, lantern held high. Aephelia crowded behind, peering over the older man's shoulder. Her first glimpse was a hulking form crouched between stacks of cargo.

The Godbeast was brought into view and Aephelia's breath caught in her throat.

It can't be…

He was massive, easily the size of a large bear. His body was covered in thick, dark-yellowish fur and thick layers of protruding fat on the back of its neck. The creature's face was broad and flat, with a blunt snout and a heavily wrinkled face. For an irrational moment, Aephelia thought she was looking at a ghost from her own past.

A Gromstel?! her mind cried out in disbelief.

He looked so much like the Gromstels back at the Infernal Clan, the same kind eyes set in a squarish face, and the same body. But there were differences too: her Gromstels had prominent tusks curving upward from their lower jaws, whereas this being didn't have any.

And of course, her Gromstels had never worn a gentle, if wary, expression quite like this.

Shock rooted Aephelia to the spot. She had to remind herself to breathe.

'They're all gone… the Gromstels are gone… '

Yet here stood a living echo of them. Even after centuries, the family she carried in her heart had never truly left her mind, and now those memories surged forward, threatening to overwhelm her composure.

One of the crewmen, a young male, started to speak up, "Um… "Hello? Sir…? Venerable?

Inside the car, the creature shifted. He rolled onto his belly, head lifting.

The young man gasped and stumbled back a step. Another crew member eased in behind him, the chief conductor.

"Is that really him?" someone asked from the doorway.

The chief conductor didn't look away. "Has to be. No one else made it on."

We all entered, and the others pretended to check the crates.

The chief conductor cleared his throat and tried to be formal. "Venerable, we… apologize. We were not informed of your appearance with us today." He scratched the back of his neck. "When you boarded, we thought you were a rogue morph. We locked the doors. Protocol."

He winced. "We're, uh… really sorry."

It was bordering on pathetic, really. Aephelia figured that she should step up here. "We didn't know you were the Sixth. We've heard of you, but there's no pictures. We only got a manifest from the guards on the platform."

"You really didn't recognize me?" the Godbeast asked with a curious tone.

The chief conductor shook his head. "Nobody but nobles and the main church see you. Not even a sketch in the city. There were rumors four years ago about Lady Aurelith's procession, but…" He hesitated. "Honestly, we thought maybe the Sixth was just a title."

A tense silence followed.

The Godbeast, Pophet…

Aephelia had to constantly remind herself, that this Godbeast only looked like a Gromstel.

She realized someone had to break this awkward stalemate. These men were terrified of offending their holy passenger. And Pophet, from the twitch of his tail, seemed uneasy as well, likely tired of being gawked at.

Aephelia took a steadying breath, stepping forward with an easy, professional air. This was, after all, her train and her job. "Look," she said briskly, cutting through the tension, "we've unlocked the forward car. Heat's running better up there. There's a staff cot if you want it. Not up to the regulations you churchfolk usually have, but it's quiet."

All eyes turned to her in mild astonishment, Pophet's included. The other crew members seemed startled that she'd spoken to a Godbeast so casually.

Pophet exhaled, then gave a small nod. Without a word, the Godbeast padded toward the door Aephelia indicated. The crew hastily moved aside to let him pass, pressing themselves against the walls of the corridor as the massive heir ducked through the doorway. The train, fortunately, was one of the older models built back in the days when Godbeasts sometimes traveled, so the passages were wide and tall enough to accommodate his size.

They led him to the front staff cabin, a compartment normally used by off-duty workers to rest during long trips. Aephelia quickly kicked aside a pile of folded uniforms as the others dragged out the fold-up cot and laid it open on the floor. It wasn't much: a bit worn, one leg slightly shorter than the others, so it wobbled, but it was better than the hard floor of a cargo car.

Warm air hummed from heating runes beneath the floorboards, filling the cabin with a comfortable drowsy heat.

Pophet sniffed once, then, apparently finding it acceptable, circled twice and sank onto the cot. The metal frame groaned under his weight, but managed to miraculously hold. He lay his massive head on his forepaws, a low huff escaping his throat, a sound that somehow conveyed both relief and fatigue.

Aephelia watched the crew relax. The chief conductor whispered that he'd be up front in the engine car if she needed anything, clearly eager to give the Godbeast as much space as possible. One by one her colleagues left the cabin, casting a few lingering, astonished glances at the slumbering Godbeast before gently pulling the compartment door closed, leaving only Aephelia inside with Pophet.

For a long moment, the only sound was the steady clack-clack of the train's wheels on the tracks and the muffled whoosh of wind outside. Pophet's eyes had drifted shut; it seemed the heir was truly exhausted.

Maybe he hadn't slept at all the previous night, sneaking away from the Church and whatever troubles plagued him there. As his breathing evened into a slow, deep rhythm, Aephelia felt a tug in her chest.

He looked so much like—

She found herself lowering, almost sitting on the floor beside the cot. Without realizing it, she studied every detail of Pophet's face: the texture of his short fur, the pattern of darker patches, the curve of his jowls.

In sleep, the tension had left his expression, making him appear younger, softer. Aephelia's throat tightened. He even sleeps like them.

Before she knew it, her hand was moving. Slowly, gently, she reached out and brushed her fingers along the side of Pophet's face, right in that spot below the ear where one of her Gromstels used to love scritches. Her fingertips sank into fur and found the skin beneath, warm and surprisingly plush. The texture was so achingly familiar… soft, fatty folds of skin that yielded under the light pressure.

Aephelia's eyes stung. 'Ah… it even feels the same…'

For an instant, she was no longer on a train in Sunmire. She was a child again, curled up between two slumbering little Gromstels on a warm afternoon.

How many times had she snuggled against them just like this, her small fingers tracing lazy patterns in coarse fur until she drifted to sleep, feeling utterly safe?

Those afternoons had been bright, filled with innocent laughter and unconditional love.

Until the world had shown its cruelty.

Her breath hitched. An involuntary shudder ran through her. The memories and the reality blurred until a tear nearly escaped her eye.

A sudden growl snapped her back to the present. Pophet's eyes flew open and he jerked his head back from her touch, a flash of sharp teeth visible as his lip curled. "What do you think you're doing?" he snarled.

Aephelia didn't flinch or scuttle away as a more timid person might.

She kept her composure. "Calm down," she said evenly, her voice as unbothered. "I've just never been this close to a Godbeast before. Figured I'd take the chance." Technically, it wasn't even a lie. She had never been this close to a Godbeast. To a Gromstel, yes, countless times. But Pophet didn't need to know that.

He stared at her, eyes narrowed with suspicion. For a second, her boldness hung in the air between them. Aephelia let her hand hover a moment longer, then calmly lowered it to her knee.

She could feel her heart pounding, worried that he might hear it, but outwardly she remained as cool as a mountain lake.

Pophet gave a short huff. "You… wanted to touch my fur?" he said flatly, evidently trying to wrap his mind around the idea.

Aephelia offered a one-shouldered shrug. "Looked soft," she replied matter-of-factly.

Pophet's ears flicked back and he snorted. "It's not," he retorted.

A hint of a grin tugged at Aephelia's lips. Even his composure was just like the big Gromstel when it was being stubborn. "It is," she countered lightly.

The Godbeast's eyes widened at her audacity. He actually squinted at her, as if unsure whether to be offended or impressed. The expression he wore, mild annoyance with a touch of confusion, was so endearingly nostalgic that Aephelia's chest ached.

She couldn't help it; she broke into a genuine smile. "Don't be so stingy," she teased.

Pophet was clearly not accustomed to being spoken to in such a way. Aephelia could see the conflict in his face—half indignant, half baffled.

In the silence that fell, she wondered fleetingly if this was how it would have been if her Gromstels could have spoken back to her in words.

Would they have bantered like this? Chided her for being cheeky, even as they secretly enjoyed the attention?

The thought sent another pang through her. Her heart kept hurting with longing and tenderness.

She had to look away for a moment, swallowing the lump in her throat. Those gentle creatures who had given her life, were gone. Even after she had avenged them, she could never bring them back.

How she wished they could see this moment. One of their kind grown so mighty that humans called him a Godbeast, and here she was, chatting with him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Aephelia blinked away the moisture gathering in her eyes.

She would not cry, at least not here.

She had shed her tears for them and countless times since.

Instead, she smiled a bit wider at Pophet's bemused frown, determined to savor this strange, precious moment of familiarity fate had granted her.

Inside, quietly, she thanked Prophecy with all her heart.

And so it was that Pophet, the Gentle Faith that Echoes, and Aephelia, the Flame that Drowns, met for the very first time.