Below the Heavens [Trad Epic High Fantasy]

If only we did not need time to understand what truly mattered.

And why is it only after those moments are gone?

I only want to be able to appreciate the now. The present my dearest companions gave their lives for.

Yet I cannot, when all I do is regret the past and worry about the future.

What is left after I, too, am gone?

Or do I have no choice but to stay in this dreaded dream we call life?

— Excerpt from Meditations, by the Red Emperor

Jyuni

Jyuni did not know how long she'd been walking, only that she was here. A City.

At first, she thought it was some part of Oasis — she recognized the drying scent of the desert wind, the warmth of the Sun seeping into her skin. But when she looked around, she realized the streets were wrong. The sand had been swept away, revealing smooth stone roads beneath her feet. The buildings she recognized, but they too were different — once crumbling from age and negligence, now standing tall and proud, their intricate murals restored to their former brilliance.

Her breath hitched.

Mur.

As it had been, before the fall of DuskWing and her forebears fleeing the dragon's Curse.

Jyuni walked forward in a daze, taking in the sights around her. Mur. Their homeland. No, her ancestors' homeland. She'd seen the ruins many times, each time they stopped for water and rest. But never like this.

It had never been a place she could see herself living in, no matter how much a piece of her heart yearned as a result of Diyah's Will. Mur had always been a dead City to Jyuni. She had never seen it look like this, vibrant and inviting.

Almost… homely?

No, something was missing. People. Jyuni spun around, observing carefully. No one manned the stalls. Cloth awnings rippled in the breeze, but there was no other movement at all. The stalls were full; fragrant spices, fresh fruit, richly woven mats, and more — but no one was here. No children laughing as they raced through the streets. No guards at each intersection providing protection.

"You seem lost, hmm?"

Jyuni spun around. A single, hooded figure in a red cloak.

"You don't seem surprised," observed the figure. "Expected me, did you?"

"Mursa Shang told me I would be added to the Dream," Jyuni said, trying to relax her shoulders. How could her body be tense in a dream, when there was no body? She did not linger on the idea, pushing ahead with, "And you are Mursa…?"

The figure lowered its hood with deliberate grace, unveiling the serene face of a woman whose presence seemed to command the very air around her. Her straight black hair, lustrous as polished onyx, was woven into a series of intricate loops, each secured by delicate jade rings that gleamed in the dim light. Dancing green eyes, sharp and discerning, locked onto Jyuni with an intensity that was neither threatening nor welcoming—simply aware, as if they saw more than they should. Framed by slender, arched eyebrows, those eyes stood out against the smooth canvas of her tan skin. Her lips, neither too full nor too thin, bore an outline of white paint, another stark contrast against the warm brown of her face. The thin nose did not protrude far from her high cheekbones, and the faintest hint of amusement flickered across her face as she studied Jyuni. Nevertheless, she remained poised, a woman who revealed nothing she did not intend to.

"Gailscha." The woman introduced herself. "I've learned much about you from Shang. Jyuni, is it not?"

"Oh, it's you!" Jyuni stared a bit overtly at the woman with renewed interest, for she had never met Mursa Shang's predecessor. "I mean, I apologize." She cleared her throat, trying to match Mursa Gailscha's grace. "I have heard much about you, Mursa Gailscha."

Not knowing what else she could do or whether there was any proper way to greet a predecessor, Jyuni opted to bow.

The elder Mursa laughed, causing Jyuni to look up in puzzlement, fearful she had made a critical mistake. "Now, now," said Mursa Gailscha, clasping her hands in front of her. Somehow, the sleeves of her cloak fell in a perfect arrangement around her wrists. "You're being a bit silly with the formalities. Or were you planning on negotiating with me, hmm?"

"I wouldn't dare," Jyuni stammered, straightening her back. Now what? Put on the passive face? Put on the respectful face? Keep wearing the confused one? "Mursa Shang always said you taught him everything he knows, and when I haven't even learned half the things he knew—"

She was silenced by the snap of a finger. "Now. Is that a way for a Mursa to speak and act?" tutted Mursa Gailscha, pacing in a half circle around Jyuni, inspecting her as one would a prized camel. "Is that what you would want to see out of your Mursa, you think?"

Jyuni shifted to the passive face, but could do little about her reddening cheeks. "It was your idea to drop the formalities," she said stiffly.

"Aha, excuses," Mursa Gailscha held up a solitary finger. "You are reverting too far the other way now, little Mursa. First find comfort in who you are before you try determining the most effective way for you to be who you need to be. Did Shang instruct you in these matters, or not?"

It's the way she always ends in a question, Jyuni realized. A tactic meant to keep the other side on the back foot. Mursa Shang said it was not worth learning, for the risk was high and even the untrained person would eventually become intolerant of an endless barrage.

"He instructed me to be wary of anyone who only asks questions when they're not in a learning environment," Jyuni replied, contemplating what she'd already answered, what information she'd given up. Nothing that seemed alarming, she decided, but perhaps she hadn't given it enough thought? But more importantly… maybe it didn't matter? …hopefully? "I take it none of this is real then," Jyuni spun around, surveying the empty City. "This is part of the Dream. Diyah's Will."

Mursa Gailscha cocked her head, looking at Jyuni. "There's a thought. What is real?" She then reached with a hand towards Jyuni's face.

Jyuni recoiled, and Mursa Gailscha's smile widened.

"If this isn't real, why did you react?"

"I… well," Jyuni answered honestly. "I didn't want my face touched."

The older Mursa brought the hand back, touching a fingertip to her own cheek. "And what makes you think that is your face?"

Jyuni almost fumed. Was it from this woman whom Mursa Shang learned to ask those annoying questions with no good answers? She touched her face — whether to check if it existed or out of reflex — then said, "Do these rhetorical questions start to come naturally when I have an apprentice of my own, or do you get them from each other when Dreaming?"

Mursa Gailscha chuckled, a light tinkle of laughter. "You have spirit." She beckoned, and Jyuni spotted a tattoo on her arm. Green streaks, angular yet somehow flowing, curved into each other in the symbol of their people. Bands of gold ran through in an eternal race. "Come with me. A dreamer awaits." She turned, and Jyuni had little choice but to follow.

They walked together, their footsteps echoing faintly against the cobbled streets, the only sound in a city that should have been alive with chatter, bartering, and laughter. Alongside them, stone gutters lined both edges of the road, their polished surfaces dry and immaculate. Where there should have been the faint trickle of water carrying away dust and refuse, there was nothing. Even the air felt unnaturally crisp—too perfect, too balanced, neither warm nor cold.

There is no air, Jyuni reminded herself. This is all just a Dream.

The streets were too pristine, too still — untouched by dust or the wear of footsteps, as if time itself had paused. Stalls stood fully stocked with vibrant produce, exotic spices piled in careful pyramids, and bolts of richly woven fabric draped invitingly over wooden beams. And yet, no merchants called out, no customers haggled over prices. The scent of freshly baked bread and seared meat lingered in the air, but the plates and bowls sat untouched, waiting for diners who would never arrive.

Jyuni's gaze flickered from side to side as they passed. Her fingers twitched, tempted to reach out and confirm whether these goods were real or mere illusions. After all, the smell certainly was real. And the glistening fat on those chunks of charbroiled meat made her inexistent mouth water. But she refrained. Mursa Gailscha moved forward without hesitation, as if the eerie silence did not warrant comment, and Jyuni followed suit, her curiosity kept in check by unease.

Certain things gave more clues. The words she could see were written in a more ancient style of crude Common. The pottery and woodwork were also far more rustic; these were made with older techniques. This Mur was a City from the past waiting for its people to return.

And if this was the Dream… that meant this was the Mur as Mursa Diyah remembered it.

As they kept walking, Jyuni eventually asked, "Are we going to see Mursa Shang?"

"No," came the reply. Mursa Gailscha did not even turn around. "He's sleeping. Let him have his rest."

If it wasn't Mursa Shang, then… what had Mursa Gailscha said? A dreamer awaits.

Steeling herself, Jyuni asked further. "Are you… a soul? Will my soul also stay in the Dream when it's my turn?"

"Pah!" laughed the woman. "Hardly. God Yven doesn't let go of souls, for they leave no story unsampled. Like me, you'll become a fragment made of a will and three memories — your own, your teacher's, and hopefully your apprentice's if you remember to get around to that. If you've seen the Sage's Mirror in action, you can think of me as a similar echo; just one with a will. Mursa Diyah studied under the Great Sage, after all." She turned a corner. "Ah, here we are."

They beheld the giant fountain at the heart of Mur, a constructed marvel that had once served as the City's centerpiece. The grand structure towered above them, its tiers of carved stone depicting the Seven Gods in all their celestial splendor. One God's statue towered above all; the Goddess who had stayed in Mur when Gods still walked Creation.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Goddess Gered's statue loomed over the fountain, carved from polished black marble veined with gold. The sculptor had captured a haughty expression, her finely chiseled features set in an eternal gaze of quiet amusement and disdain. High cheekbones and a sharp jawline gave her an imperious air, while her full lips, gilded with a thin layer of actual gold leaf, curled in a knowing smile that suggested she knew the worth of everything—and everyone—before her.

Perhaps more importantly, a solitary person knelt in front of the statue. The person wore robes of deep red, their hooded head bowed in silent prayer.

Mursa Gailscha kept walking, and Jyuni followed. When they stood a mere ten paces away from the kneeling figure, Mursa Gailscha stopped to bow, gesturing for Jyuni to do the same. "Mursa Diyah," she greeted, her voice gentle.

Jyuni straightened her back slowly, almost reverentially. Mursa Diyah. The last Mursa who ruled Mur, forced to make the difficult decision to abandon the City when DuskWing's Curse made it uninhabitable. A Titled One who had tried to fight IceMourne and lost.

"Mursa Diyah," Jyuni also greeted, her voice trembling.

They waited. The Sun shone from up above, but the hooded figure did not pay them any heed.

"Ah. Well," said Mursa Gailscha, in a tone indicating this was not out of the ordinary. "As it has been since God Ttyulong sent the first dream, unfinished dreams are left for those that come after. We'll leave him to his prayer, and no one can say we didn't observe proper manners. Come, come."

The woman led Jyuni away, towards a large building facing the City Center. Jyuni guessed by its intricate architecture, large size, and grandiose doors that it could only be where the Mursa would have lived. In the present-day, this structure had collapsed under the weight of its unmaintained roof.

But again, there were no guards here. No one else but Jyuni and a Mursa's memory.

They entered the large building. Jyuni almost gasped at the extravagant decor — she glimpsed gilded arches sweeping overhead, their golden filigree catching the light of unseen lanterns. The walls were adorned with elaborate tapestries depicting colorful scenes. Jyuni saw one with eight figures spaced up the steps of a mountain into the sky, and another tapestry showed a solitary spear-bearing figure holding up a lit torch as gnarled, shadowy figures cowered. Several depicted dragons flying through a pitch black sky: sky blue, gleaming gold, and pure white — three in total, or so Jyuni thought at first — until she saw the outline of a fourth dragon leading the group, slightly larger than the others. She'd missed it because it was the same color as the night.

The floor beneath her feet was made of smooth marble, but unlike the streets outside, it bore no signs of age or use. Instead, intricate mosaics of precious metals and crushed gemstones formed swirling patterns that shifted in the dim glow, giving an almost life-like quality to the wealth. A moment later, Jyuni recognized the swirling pattern: the rune for eternity, which each Mursa and their apprentice based their tattoos on.

The symbol of Mur.

"Stop staring, little Mursa." Mursa Gailscha tutted from the top of a flight of stairs.
"Come, come. It's not like the place will go anywhere. It looks better in reality, I promise."

Jyuni tore her eyes away from the displays of wealth, joining the elder Mursa. Upon approaching, she blinked. "Are you… smaller?" she asked, unsure of what she was seeing.

A younger-looking Mursa Gailscha looked down at herself, making a quick twirl as she lifted up the hem of her robe. Jyuni wasn't sure if she should be feeling unnerved; the woman had previously been her height, but now a younger girl stood in front of Jyuni, barely clearing her shoulder.

Mursa Gailscha inspected her hands, saying, "Hmm, I see this is how my teacher remembered me. Well, no matter." She pushed open the giant double doors. "You're here to learn one thing only."

At the far end of the audience room, a massive throne sat atop a raised platform of ebony steps. The throne was unlike anything Jyuni had ever seen; it appeared to be carved out of a single amethyst gemstone. Soft-looking cushions adorned the throne, making it look more inviting than the hard rock beneath.

A young girl's hand grabbed Jyuni's. She flinched but the grip was harsh and strict. The tattoo on her arm flared, dropping to her knees at the pain. Then just before she could cry out, the pain disappeared.

"What was that?!" Jyuni demanded, almost reeling over from the sudden vertigo.

"Your invitation," the young girl that was Mursa Gailscha looked up at Jyuni solemnly. She lifted Jyuni's arm, running a finger over her tattoo. "Don't lose yourself, little Mursa. The desire will feel overwhelming at first but you will manage it. Shang believed in you."

Her arm pulsed. Jyuni wobbled, almost keeling to her side if she had not braced against the ground. Almost unbidden, she looked towards the empty throne again. Something akin to hunger drove her; a thirst she had always felt before, but never to this degree. A heavy weight settled in her chest, pressing into her consciousness like a hangover. The gleam of gold and shimmer of gemstones blurred at the edges of her vision. The audience room seemed to narrow, shrinking until only the gleaming throne remained.

Glorious. Waiting.

Meant for her.

The sensation surged inside of her chest, almost down to her navel.

No longer a want. She needed.

She could sit there.

She should sit there.

Jyuni rose, slowly, drawn to it, every step promised to quench that unbearable thirst gnawing at her insides. But as she leaned forward, foot barely lifting from the ground, two hands caught her sharply on either side of her head.

She blinked, stunned—then a face swam into focus. Young. Painted. Eyes dark and urgent. The girl leaned close until their brows touched, and her voice was barely a whisper, yet steady as stone. "Relax, little Mursa. Don't lose yourself to Diyah's Will. This sensation will guide you and drive you, but you should never let it consume you. You must remember who you are. Do you understand?"

Jyuni didn't answer, couldn't. Not at first. Breaking eye contact with the throne was like severing a tether she hadn't realized was binding her. The weight of its presence lingered in her chest, a phantom pressure that did not quite fade. Her breath hitched, and then—

Jyuni gasped awake.

The cool air of the tent rushed into her lungs, grounding her in reality. Gone was the gleaming grandeur of the chamber. In its place, the dim flicker of the lantern near the entrance cast wavering shadows across the fabric walls. The scent of warmed sand and old parchment replaced the rich, heavy perfume of her dream.

Jyuni sat up abruptly, her pulse pounding against her ribs. The faint sheen of sweat on her skin made the cool air feel sharper, almost biting. She flexed her fingers. They trembled slightly, as though they still longed to curl around the arms of an amethyst throne that lay far, far away.

The tattoo on her arm pulsed, and so did this new sensation of need. Jyuni rubbed at it absently, fingers tracing its pattern. She was no longer in the Dream. She was no longer in the—

A jumble of thoughts poured through her as whispers flew through her mind, rushing in like wind through a cracked window. Each voice felt distinct—some sharp with urgency, others gentle, coaxing, curious. They echoed in overlapping fragments, forming no clear message, yet pulsing with meaning she couldn't quite grasp.

Jyuni swayed under the weight of this formless pressure. One whisper in particular curled around her thoughts like smoke, warm and familiar, tinged with memory. She could have sworn it was her Mursa's voice, calm and resolute, just as it had been the last time he'd spoken to her. It made her chest tighten, her fingers twitch with the instinct to reach for something—anything—that could anchor her.

Then, before she could grasp anything of substance, she fell deeper into the darkness of her room—though it no longer felt like a room at all. The air thickened around her, pressing close, and she tumbled headlong into the swell of voices. They weren't just speaking anymore; they were remembering, and through them, so was she. Entire lives blinked behind her eyes: memories not her own, yet unbearably vivid. She saw hands she'd never possessed, touched stones she'd never known, mourned names she'd never spoken. The flood of shared knowledge surged forward, tangled and insistent, threatening to drown the fragile thread of her own self.

Relax, little Mursa. The whisper seemed to speak to Jyuni directly. It seemed foreign, yet familiar. Then, the voice became far more insistent — Don't lose yourself to Diyah's Will. You must remember who you are.

The brief reprieve from the endless onslaught of thoughts gave Jyuni time to breathe. Shallow and quick at first, then deeper, steadier, as if each inhale pulled a piece of herself back into place. For a moment, the cacophony receded, like the tide pulling back from a battered shore. In that silence, she clutched at the frayed ends of her mind, working to sort through the chaos left in the wake of the storm.

Some thoughts were hers. Jyuni found vague familiarity in memories laced with the weight of her own emotions. Her mother's stern voice, teaching her how to read. Her father's laughter, shared in the small confines of their tent. The bitter taste of discipline when her Mursa personally drilled her in numbers and the art of negotiation. Warm, flushed pride whenever he gave her rare praise for meeting his expectations.

But the other thoughts… no. These didn't belong to her. They came like fragments of foreign lives: echoes of arguments in environments she didn't know, memories of walking halls and roads she had never seen.

Jyuni tried to press them out. She sifted through them like grains of sand in dogged search for what was hers. But the whispers were returning, one by one—no longer a howling mass, but a chorus of low voices, murmuring at the edges of her mind. Some sounded like Mursa Shang, steady and solemn. Others were high, fractured, or distant, like echoes bouncing down an endless corridor. They carried knowledge, memories, warnings, longings. They pressed in gently, insistently; each wanting to be heard.

The more she tried to separate them, the more tangled they became, weaving into one another like threads of the same tapestry. It was too much—too many truths, too many lives, too many voices all claiming space in her skull.

So she focused on one thought, a single beacon in the dark.

Who am I?

She held to it like a lifeline. Repeated it like a prayer.

Who am I?

Each time the question echoed through her, the other voices quieted, just slightly. The murmurs retreated into soft undertones, whispering from the corners rather than screaming into the center.

Who am I?

The question wasn't an anchor but her blade, carving a space where she could stand in the confines of her own mind.

Then, as naturally as it could have come, as soft as the gentlest reminder of her Mursa's greatest lesson — what comes after this? — the question changed in Jyuni's mind.

Who do I want to be?

And in that space, for the first time, Jyuni felt herself begin to return.

A breath. Then another.

The question echoed—Who do I want to be?—until the words stopped being a question and became a statement. A vague idea, waiting to be filled in.

Jyuni blinked, and the haze in her mind lifted just enough for her to feel the soft fabric clenched in her palms. Her body trembled as she checked each of her other senses. The dimly lit tent. The lingering scent of a smothered lamp. A faint desert breeze picked at the flap of her tent, then things became still. She could feel her limbs again, and upon bringing a shaky hand to her chest, could trace the beat of her own heart. The whispers didn't vanish, but they stepped back, quieting like children who had seen their mother return to the room.

She started, dragging a hand across her face, half-expecting something unfamiliar. But it was hers. The same pointed nose. The same full lips. She opened her mouth, feeling for the familiar chipped tooth. Yes, that too.

"I-" she croaked, then stopped. She'd wanted to hear her own voice, just to be sure. Jyuni swallowed, feeling her throat dry, then reached for her waterskin and took a deep draught before trying again. The water, though lukewarm and tainted with the scent of leather, still soothed her throat.

She did not even wait to stopper her waterskin. "I am Jyuni."

The words were hers.

The voice too.

Who do I want to be?

"Mursa Jyuni," she whispered to herself. An answer, a plea.

A promise.

Yes, a promise. That realization gave Jyuni a burning strength, and she felt more awake than ever. Mursa Jyuni. That was the answer. She couldn't just be Jyuni anymore. She'd been trusted with the lives of her people. Jyuni had to be more now.

Mursa Shang's last words surfaced in her memories. You are Mursa now.

Jyuni flinched as the tattoo on her arm pulsed, distracting her from her newfound sense of purpose. The pulse traveled throughout her body and Jyuni found herself half standing before she caught herself in the act, wondering what she was even doing.

The tattoo pulsed again. Jyuni grit her teeth. Her Mursa had told her about this, but it was one thing to hear about it. Another to experience the distracting sense of desire.

Mur called.

More importantly, the throne called. And Jyuni wanted it.

She longed for it.

Her hands drifted to the bundle of clothing stuffed into a leather bag beside her, meant to serve as a pillow. The fabric still carried the faintest scent of Mursa Shang: of dust and sage, of ink and oiled leather. A presence lingering where the man himself was gone.

And for the first time since his death, Jyuni felt the weight of loneliness fully settle upon her.