The inn was indeed poor. The path off the Prince Road that led to it was rough and partly overgrown. They watched from the carriage window while they came through the last outstretched arms of oak and birch, the low branches scraping along the top and sides of the carriage. Only one lantern lit the courtyard, spilling a dull wash of yellow light over packed earth and rough wood.
The inn comprised three structures, one of which was a rickety stable. They were surprised to see several horses there already. The two remaining structures seemed to be the inn itself, which was not connected to a temple of any kind and was likely kept by a single family. Both were two stories and made of plain wood, cedar perhaps, old, worn, and ill-kept. A short fence, no taller than a man, encircled the whole assortment providing the vague semblance of security, though sections had begun to lean and there seemed to be no gate.
They had no umbrellas, and so used their coats to cover their heads. While the driver led the horses to the stables, the four of them hurried to the front of the inn. Animals wandered across the wide porch seeking shelter from the rain; a pair of hens came to peck at Hino Son’s ankles before he pushed them away with his foot.
“Seems they might already have a crowd,” he noted, glancing at the horses filling the stable. Min La saw that he was gripping his sword tightly.
“Even if we have to sit in the hall all night, it will be better than being out here,” Nŏl answered.
Min La and So Ga went to one of the windows which was brightly lit from within. Inside they could see several men sitting at the tables in the inn’s hall. They could see the blazing fire in the large central stove and a small, old man rushing around with trays of food and steaming carafes.
“Seems ordinary enough,” Hino Son murmured, standing behind them.
Once again Min La became aware of the sudden, strong fragrance of oranges. And, like before, it disappeared as soon as he noticed it. It was difficult to say for certain where the smell was coming from — if he wasn’t at least partially imagining it. He glanced back at the courtyard where the driver was soothing the horses inside the stable.
“What is it?” So Ga whispered.
“I don’t know. But something about this place feels strange.”
Nŏl said, “We cannot stay out here all night.” But he seemed to hesitate with his hand upon the door, as if hoping for a reason to leave this place, not that there was anywhere else to go. The rain gusted in the wind, pelting them with an icy spray, and Nŏl, prompted by this at last, threw open the door.
What greeted them first was the smell. The acrid sharpness of damp and mold filled the hall together with an animal smell and the stench of spilled wine. The hall — if it could be called that — was wide, but with a low ceiling, and air so close and warm that it was almost oppressively hot. The stove roared and lanterns burned all around, filling the place with pronounced brightness, more than seemed necessary. It took a moment for their eyes to adjust after the darkness outside.
As they did, however, they began to realize that a quiet had settled over the crowd and they were now the center of attention.
Six or eight tables had been scattered about the space, all more or less around the large, central stove which emanated heat from within a shallow pit filled with black pebbles. A dozen men or more sat around these tables, occupying all but two, those nearest the shadowed edges of the room. Plain wood made up the walls and ceiling, darkened in places by smoke. A leak had sprouted in a distant corner and, in the silence, the sound of the water drops falling into a wooden bucket was like a single pair of hands clapping in a slow, ceaseless rhythm.
The men who filled the hall seemed to be of a similar sort, comrades even. They sat in groups of three or four, taking up several of the available tables. All were large men, taller than average and with powerful builds and stern, hard faces. Some seemed to be as young as twenty, but none were older than forty. Most wore their hair neatly cut around their ears, though they all seemed dirty from the road and unkempt. All wore simple cloth, golts of wool cut short with leather or woolen trousers and an additional coat or cloak. Though most had these coats thrown open or had stripped them off altogether to drape over the backs of their chairs where they dripped rain or melting snow in little puddles on the worn, wooden floor. Many had also opened the throats of their golts in the growing heat of the hall. Underneath all the other smells was that of unwashed bodies. Out of the corner of his eye, Min La saw Nŏl put his hand reflexively to his nose and then quickly draw it away with a pained look upon his face.
He noticed, as well, with some surprise that all the men seemed to bear some kind of injury. One had a bandage on his throat, another on his neck and left shoulder. One man had his entire right hand wrapped in strips of cloth like a cocoon. This man met Min La’s gaze directly. He stared at him with a cold, vacuous expression. And then his eyes blinked slowly and one pupil turned to the left while the other remained fixed on him.
Min La felt a chill, and looked away. He slipped his hand into his bag and took hold of the knife. A glance at Hino Son showed him that he was thinking the same. With his free hand, Min La pushed So Ga behind him. For a moment he considered pushing all of them back outside. The horses in the stable would be safer than the company of these men. But then he caught a glimpse of So Ga’s pale face and exhausted eyes. It was likely a night outside in this weather would kill him. With a shiver, he gritted his teeth. It seemed there were never good options.
The silence was broken suddenly by a hoarse, rasping laugh. Several of the men turned to look at one of the tables where there sat a man in a straw hat. It took only a moment for Min La to recognize him. And as he did, he heard Hino Son draw in a sharp breath.
It was the same bent old man they had met earlier today. The one who had spoken of Volhathin. As they watched, he pushed his straw hat off his head to dangle on its ties down his back. His hair was dripping wet, the shoulders of his clothes dark with rain. But, as before, his eyes were bright as candles, even though he sat some distance from the fire.
“Of all the good fortune I thought I might find tonight,” he said in his coarse, ragged voice, “I would not have expected these fine young men to cross my path twice in one day. It must be fate, or the will of the Ădol. Come, join me.” And he motioned to his table, which became empty at once as the two others who had been sitting with him immediately stood up and found new seats at the tables in the far, shadowy corners of the hall.
Min La glanced at Nŏl and Hino Son. And then, gesturing to So Ga to stay behind him, he began to make his way through the crowd to the old man’s table. As they did so, the hum of conversation rose again and filled the thick air.
The man with the straw hat gestured to the proprietor of this modest inn, the small, old man they had seen through the window. The poor fellow looked frazzled and overwhelmed, a shine of sweat on his round, bald head, his large, dark eyes surveying the occupants of his hall with nervous attention. Carrying two large metal carafes, he hurried over.
“Bring these young men some hot food, will you. And also some coffee as they must be frozen through. Here, just leave us that one. And cups, too. And be quick about it, my good man. We all must sleep at some point.”
The man took one of the carafes from the the old innkeeper and set it upon the table while the small, bald fellow listened closely, as if hypnotized. Then he blinked several times, nodded once, and hurried off.
As the old man turned back to them, Min La noticed immediately that the patch of bandages that had covered his jaw earlier today was gone, and the skin in that place was unblemished. He seemed, in general, a bit different than before.
They sat at his table, greeted only by his unmoved smile. Min La was directly across from him, So Ga in the chair immediately to Min La’s left. Hino Son and Nŏl sat on either side. The old man looked at each of them in turn — his gaze lingering longest on So Ga and then Min La — with eyes that shone with unnatural light. His smile was gentle, perhaps even sincere. But every fiber of Min La’s being was quickened to attention. There was an air of danger in this room and he could not yet place the source.
The men around them were not like the mercenaries who hunted So Ga. They did not even seem interested in the four newcomers, as evidenced by the fact that all of them had returned to their previous conversations, without so much as a glance in their direction.
Perhaps they were bandits. Perhaps they were even the very bandits who had robbed and killed the Sengís. This seemed like the greatest possibility and a glance at Nŏl and Hino Son showed Min La that they thought so, too. While Nŏl seemed to be maintaining an even demeanor well enough, Hino Son looked like he had been sharpened into a razor-fine edge. He sat with one hand on his knee, the other gripping the hilt of his sword which was propped against his leg. His unblinking gaze was darting around the room with the nervous attention of a man who had just stepped off a battlefield. Min La wasn’t sure if his fatigue was the cause of his anxious state, or if he had simply suffered too many blows this day and, inexperienced as he was, had not had time enough to recover. Nŏl leaned across the table and whispered something to him, which seemed to relax him a little.
“I hope you were not caught too long in this weather?” asked the old man, his voice noticeably less terrible than before.
“Not long, no,” Nŏl answered. Then, cautiously, “You seem to have been, though.” And he gestured to his wet clothes.
“Oh, this?” the man laughed lightly, the sound much more musical and refined than what they heard only minutes before. “Yes, but only briefly. The perils of traveling by horse, I’m afraid. You have a carriage and a driver, do you not? I will be sure this old fool sees him fed. They will find you all rooms, too, don’t worry. Their stables might be small, but this place is bigger than it looks.”
A tense silence fell between them as they waited for the innkeeper to bring their food. Min La glanced to his side. So Ga had drawn his arms into the sleeves of his coat, but was still visibly shivering. His eyes were alert, however, and calm. When Min La looked at him, he returned his gaze and gave him a small nod, as if to reassure him that he was fine. His colorless lips formed a smile. Not for the first time, Min La was struck by the prince’s capacity to endure hardship, something he had not expected to find in someone who had been raised behind the highest walls in all Láokoth.
When the innkeeper finally brought their food — a tray of four large clay bowls filled with steaming stew, which he nearly dropped setting it upon their table — Min La pulled So Ga’s bowl away from him while he took several quick bites of his own. It was, like the last meal they had eaten, a plain pork and potato stew, though more flavorful and with more meat. After he had swallowed what he’d eaten, he waited a moment, then switched bowls with So Ga.
Min La had performed this action deftly, so that even Nŏl and Hino Son, busy with their own meals, had not seen it. But the old man watched with some interest.
So Ga, too, watched Min La with stunned surprise. He even seemed a little angry. It occurred to Min La only then that the prince might not like the idea of eating food from which someone else had taken bites. But with the company they were forced to keep this evening, he was certainly not going to take any more risks than he had to.
As they ate, Min La continued to survey the crowd. It seemed that they had come in just as the group of men here had been finishing their meals. They were sipping coffee or wine — a heavily spiced, warmed wine that left an unpleasant, sour smell in the air — and speaking to each other in quiet voices. They seemed fatigued, even melancholy. They did not have the same bearing that Min La had seen in other bandits.
Nŏl, meanwhile, had been watching closely the men who had left their table when the old man had invited them to sit. They were sitting, each alone, at two of the tables on the edges of the hall. One of the tables bore the bucket into which the leaking roof was steadily dripping. The man sitting there seemed not to notice, or care. He sipped wine from a small clay cup and remained shrouded by shadows.
The other was tall, taller than anyone else here. His straight back suggested an elegant bearing, though, like his comrade, he was shrouded in shadow. Both wore their hair short, around their shoulders, both wore cloth of simple quality — one in red, the other in blue and gray — not unlike the rest of the men in the hall. Though they seemed, somehow, different in every possible way.
“Where do you travel on such an evening as this?” the old man asked in a pleasant, conversational tone.
It was Nŏl, again, who answered, though the question seemed to have been directed at Min La. “We are traveling east, to my cousin’s wedding,” he said.
“Ah, then a happy occasion. I’ve not been to a wedding in what feels like centuries. Perhaps I’ll tag along.”
At Nŏl’s expression of panicked confusion, the old man laughed. “Oh, my boy. I am not serious, of course. You poor fellow. Here, have some coffee. I think your mind has been affected by this cold.”
He poured them all coffee, making a point to hand a cup to Min La himself. Then, fixing his gaze on Min La, and with a small smile, he took a long sip from his own cup and then raised his eyebrows. Min La felt a violent shiver course through his body.
The old man turned then and called again for the innkeeper. He inquired how many rooms were still available.
“Two, my lord, just two.”
“And in the stables? Have you seen to these fine fellows’ good driver?”
“It’s already been taken care of, my lord. My sons have been tending to the horses all evening. You needn’t worry.” He seemed to have understood that the four of them were companions of the old man, or that he was responsible for them.
He dismissed the innkeeper and smiled at them. “There, you see?”
Nŏl bowed slightly and thanked him. Hino Son, who seemed to have relaxed, focused on his bowl. His face was white with fatigue and the shadows around his eyes were darkening. Whatever else happened, they would need to rest. Min La wanted to pull Nŏl aside and see if the two of them could arrange watches for the night, as he was sure Nŏl didn’t trust the company they were keeping any more than he did.
As they finished their meals, Min La was alarmed to see that two or three of the men in the hall seemed to have developed an interest in So Ga, and were casting long, empty gazes in his direction. He shifted in his chair to block their view. Presently, many of the hall’s other occupants retired to their rooms — much to the relief of the innkeeper — and only the old man, the two in the shadows, and one other remained in the hall, one of the ones who had been watching So Ga with especial attention.
The old man stood, and Min La was surprised by how tall he was and how he no longer seemed bent and haggard. They moved to stand as well, but he gestured for them to remain sitting.
“No, you drink your coffee. I’m sure you young fellows would much prefer each other’s company than that of an old man.” With another laugh, he turned from the table. Then, as if realizing he’d forgotten something, he turned back. “You may rest tonight, my young friends. It might not seem it, but this place is quite safe.” After a pause, he added, “from the storm.”
Then turning, he was gone. The other two from the shadows left shortly after. And they found themselves, at last, alone, save for one remaining man at his table a little behind theirs. He stared at them still, making no effort to conceal it. His large, bright eyes were unblinking.
Nŏl glanced at Min La. Just as he was turning to the innkeeper to inquire about their rooms, the man stood and came over to sit at the table next to theirs, pulling his chair closer. He stared at them all, still without blinking. His large eyes rimmed in red, the rest of his face ashen, but otherwise handsome. He was, in a way, a very fine young man. His head was shaved and a bandage covered the back of his neck. As he leaned closer, Min La could smell an overwhelming aroma of raw meat and medicinal herbs.
“Do you know that man?” he asked abruptly. His high, bright voice startled them. Even Hino Son looked up from his bowl.
Min La answered cautiously, “We met him earlier on the road.”
“Oh, I see. It’s all chance, then.”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“On the walls of Héothenin, as it were.”
“You could say that.”
“I despise the walls of Héothenin.” At this he bared his teeth and snarled. A strange, animal sound from such a fine young man was jarring. Min La carefully brought his bag around to his chest and slipped his hand inside. Nŏl watched out of the corner of his eye.
The young man continued, teeth still bared, “He thinks he can put us all inside his mountain like decoration. The old fool.”
Nŏl said soothingly, “I’m not sure what you mean, my—”
“All the Ădol are this way, don’t you find?”
They didn’t answer him. Min La looked for a way to leave the conversation and the hall, but they had not yet learned where their rooms were.
“No, no, you’re right, it isn’t so,” the young man said, as if answering something only he had heard. His large eyes narrowed. “Some Ădol are more powerful than others. Some, indeed, are more tyrannical than others.”
“The Ădol are not powerful,” Hino Son said. Min La looked at him, surprised to find that he had been listening. His face was grim and full of anger.
The young man turned his head and directed the full power of his intense gaze upon him. “Is it not power to make the world?”
“Perhaps. But that is not power in the sense that you mean.”
“Oh? How do I mean it, then?”
“You speak of might, as of an army or a weapon.” Hino Son’s eyes grew wider. “You speak of domination.”
Nŏl reached across the table and touched Hino Son’s wrist.
The young man said, “Do the Ădol not have dominion over man?”
“They do not. The Ădol keep the world. Order is not the doing of the Ădol, they merely keep it. It is order that confines men just as a riverbank confines the flow of the water. It even confines the Ădol.”
The man leaned closer, his eyes so wide Min La could see the red veins like spider webs through the shining whites. With a large grin, he said, “What if there was no riverbank?”
“There would be chaos. The world would be flooded, crops and homes would be lost—”
“The water would be free, would it not?”
Hino Son said nothing. His face was troubled, but he merely poured himself more coffee. Despite Nŏl’s obvious concern, he seemed to be maintaining his calm. But it was clear that the nature of the young man’s questions troubled him immensely.
The young man whispered then, as if imparting a valuable secret, “There are some among the Ădol who do not wish to confine the water, but wish for it be free, as it was intended to be. Is this not a beautiful thought?”
Nŏl turned and stared at him with flashing eyes. “Among the Ădol? Do you mean— are you talking about Volhathin?”
The man’s eyes shone but he did not reply.
“Volhathin is not one of the Ădol.”
“Is he not?”
“He is not,” Min La agreed, eager to assuage the growing distress of his friends. Hino Son had become more and more ashen and grim. When he glanced to his left, he saw that So Ga was as disturbed as he was by this strange conversation. But Min La was making an effort to keep him out of the young man’s view.
Hino San added, “Moreover, Héothenin banished him to the north after what he did to Ávoth.”
The young man’s face and body erupted in violent, raucous laughter. They all flinched. “That is a story, my friend. You do not really believe that, do you?”
Min La said, “He did not banish him for what he did to Ávoth, though he would have punished him for that if he had been permitted to remain in his mother’s House. He banished him because he hungered for the Deep Light.”
The young man looked half-crazed when he heard this, he lifted himself out of his chair and came close enough to Min La to almost touch his nose with his own. With that smile still fixed on his fair face, he drew in a long breath as if smelling him. Min La’s grip on his knife tightened. Nŏl and Hino Son stared with open mouths, uncertain what to do. But he put up a hand to reassure them.
“Do you know it?” the man whispered, his face still very close to Min La’s. “The Deep Light?”
“I know the stories, like everyone else.”
When he spoke again, it was in a whisper that sounded like the edge of blade being drawn across stone.
He said, “I have seen it.”
A voice called suddenly from the other side of the hall, “Íojin1!”
The young man drew back suddenly as if struck. He looked over his shoulder at the source of the voice, a tall, older man with a short, shaggy beard and a bandage over his left eye. His smile disappeared.
Looking again at Min La, eyes still wide and unblinking, he whispered, “That is my father. Fathers are cursed things, don’t you find?”
Min La said nothing.
“He has touched it, you know. But it cannot save him.” He giggled a high whistling giggle and pointed to his own left eye. “I am not allowed to tell you what would save him. He would kill me.”
The man called again, “Íojin, come now.”
He touched Min La’s shoulder, and the tip of his finger was hot as burning coal. He said, “I will tell you, but you must tell no one. It is a secret.”
And then he put his lips to Min La’s ear. He could feel his hot, fetid breath on his cheek. As he began to whisper, his voice as terrible as burning oil pouring into his ear, he was suddenly jerked away.
The older man had strode across the hall, taken him roughly by the arm, and was now dragging him away.
The young man struggled weakly, but his father seemed to possess immense strength. With some violence, he yanked him upright and then shoved him into a walk. The two left the hall together, neither looking back.
Min La realized then that he was trembling and that he had been holding his breath. It seemed they all had, and when the young man was finally gone, they all began to breathe again.
“Are you alright?” So Ga asked.
Min La nodded and waved his hand to reassure them, though his heart hammered in his chest. “This is not the first time I have encountered madness.”
Nŏl touched his chest and breathed shakily. “I’m not entirely sure that was madness.”
At last they were able to ascertain from the innkeeper where they would find their rooms. As quickly as they could, they left the hall and hurried through the corridor and up the stairs to the inn’s second floor. Min La didn’t take his hand off his knife.
The two rooms in question turned out to be one larger room with two beds and a battered screen hanging between them. A small stove the size of a lantern warmed the space well enough, though neither bed had curtains or screens. It was immediately arranged that Hino Son and So Ga would sleep first, while Nŏl and Min La kept watch. Neither gave this arrangement much resistance. Though Min La would have liked to have taken the time to prepare medicine for So Ga.
Both of them fell asleep almost immediately, Hino Son snoring lightly from beneath a mound of thin blankets, while So Ga’s breathing was ragged and labored.
Nŏl noted Min La’s concern and said, “A good night’s sleep will do him good. And it’s warm enough in here, I expect he’ll be improved in the morning.”
Min La nodded.
They sat between the beds at a low table near the stove and shared a small pot of warm water, which might have been very weak tea. For a time, neither said anything. The events of the day were still too great a weight for either to speak on.
“Those men in the hall,” Nŏl began in a low whisper. “Do you suppose they’re—?”
“I thought the same thing,” Min La answered.
“If they are, maybe we could—”
“I am sorry, my friend,” Min La said, stopping him. “I know you have your obligations to your father and your House. But my obligation is there.” He motioned to the bed where So Ga slept. “Whatever you choose to do, I cannot help you. I cannot put him danger.”
Nŏl regarded him for some time. At last he nodded and said, “I understand.”
Min La placed his bag on his lap and pulled out his knife, setting it upon the table
“There is something I’ve been meaning to ask you.” Nŏl motioned to the knife. “Where did you get that?”
“Why? Do you know it?”
“I’ve seen one like it before.”
Min La touched the long, shining edge of the blade and answered, “Some weeks ago we were attacked on the road. I was able to take this away from him in the end. I thought I ought to keep it, just in case, as I have no blade of my own.”
“They were mercenaries? The ones who attacked you on the road?”
“Mercenaries?” he said, feigning ignorance. “He didn’t seem like a mercenary.”
“No. These are different from the others.”
“In what way? You know them?”
Nŏl looked thoughtful. He sipped his water and answered, “I know of their master. Many do. His reputation has been growing in the south. Some years ago my father sent my brother and some other swords to learn what they could about him. He is called Táno Gín. They say that whoever his parents were they never claimed him and abandoned him on the streets of Gŏhíth2 somewhere. He has a younger brother and has been caring for him since they were very small. When Táno Gín was ten years old a local Housemaster offered to take them in and he refused.”
“Why?”
“It is said that he hates Houses, that he distrusts them implicitly. And though he hates Houses, he abhors barbarism even more. He and his brother became known for slaying whole packs of mountain bandits before he was even sixteen. It is said that he didn’t seem to have the intention of saving their victims, but rather killing the bandits. He hated them. Most southern Houses tend to let him be because he is effective. If it is known that Táno Gín is in the area, travel is safer, fewer are slain on the road. But Houseswords never approach him. They can never be sure that he won’t kill them, too, as he has done this before. No one’s sure why. They say he does respect temples, at least, and often visits them to read. My brother spoke to men who had met him and they said that he was wiser than most Housemasters. He and his brother gradually accumulated more Houseless men and a company was formed. You can hire them for a price, but he refuses contracts as often as he accepts. No one really understands his rules, except, they say, his brother.”
“What is his brother called?”
“Sono Gín3.” He looked at Min La, his face warm but unreadable. “Was it these men who attacked you?”
“Perhaps.” Then he offered a smile in an effort to conceal the way the topic of the mercenaries had made him uneasy. He added, “Our travel has never been without difficulty.”
“I wonder why Táno Gín would have any interest in you and So Nan.”
“Perhaps he mistook us for bandits,” Min La offered with a wry smile.
“Perhaps.”
So Ga coughed weakly and stirred, but did not wake. Min La glanced at him as he rubbed his fingers.
Nŏl watched him for a moment. Then he said quietly, stretching his hands out to the tiny flame in their stove, “My wife’s father was not born Ŏklo. In fact, he was Houseless until he was fifteen and an old Ŏklo couple adopted him. Of course he does not bear the Ŏklo Housename, but I’ve never known anyone who considers him anything less than an Ŏklo.”
He paused and sipped his water. “A few days after I married my wife I asked him if he felt himself more Ŏklo or more Houseless.” Nŏl smiled and added, embarrassed, “I was a little drunk at the time and so spoke of things one shouldn’t. But he was understanding and answered honestly. He told me that his heart belonged less to a House than it did to his family, to his adoptive parents and to wife and daughter. This, he said, was the brickwork of a strong House, the bond of family. ‘If one has his family in his heart,’ he said to me, ‘one has a House.’”
Min La said nothing. Though he found it strange how Nŏl’s words seemed to carry a similar idea to that of the old man who had saved him all those years ago. As long as you are living, so too is your House.
If Min La bore his family in his heart, he could never be truly Houseless. Such a thought should have been a consolation, but there was little relief from sorrow in solitude. He touched his brother’s seal through his golt.
Once again, Min La was aware of the strong smell of oranges. It was much stronger this time, as if ripe oranges were there on the table before him.
“Do you smell that?” he asked Nŏl.
“Smell what?” he answered, with a confused smile.
“I thought I smelled oranges.”
Nŏl laughed quietly. “I think you might be more tired than you realize, my friend. You should sleep. I will keep watch.”
Min La nodded. He did feel tired. And, as So Ga had observed at the White Inn, they wouldn’t make it very far if he was too exhausted to move.
“Just for a moment,” he answered. “Wake me in two hours so you can sleep.” And, leaning against the cold, wooden wall, he closed his eyes and fell asleep, the smell of oranges still lingering in his nose.
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What an excellent stylistic choice. Both before Min La killed the fellows attacking Sen Rin and before he entered the inn, you sent an ambiguous supernatural sensation to alert us that the seemingly mundane choice Min La is going to make (to stay put, to enter the inn) will have great and unforeseeable significance and perhaps also consequences. This really draws our attention to Min La’s choices and narratively reinforces your focus on choice as a theme or topic of this work.
One of the strengths of your writing in general is your ability to create and sustain ambiguities, then resolve them just on the edge of the reader’s ability to tolerate it. This creates a very pleasing and engaging rhythm, as you like to put it.
The AI tells the story of Minute-la and SO G.A. lol.
Anyway I can’t say enough how much I like this story… and the sudden appearance of Demi-gods? Heroes? Avatars?? Something magical is afoot🤗