The Spiral Zine

Dyvim Whitehart works with a group of his fellow knights to distribute seed packets to the crowd waiting on the edges of the Burn. Many of them are afraid to set foot on the blackened section of the forest floor. Though he walks over it now with ease, Dyvim doesn’t blame them for their hesitation. 

Its been over half a year now since the Shadow Queen’s defeat at the hands of the Wizard. In that time, the knight has learned the hard way that making a postwar “to-do list,” for lack of a better word, is practically impossible. There are no words that can summarize decades of loss and no actions that can swiftly heal the wounds of a world half razed to the ground. They’ve been aiming for a healthy mix of repair and reflection. 

That being said, replanting the Burn is something both tangible and symbolic that can be done. Slowly, as the woodland they call home heals, so will they. 

This valley, situated at the intersection of Bumbler Town, Pepper Grass Nook, and what still smells of Camp Havoc, was once highly traversed. Now that the flame legs that once roamed it have been ousted, the Burrowers have a vision of restoring it to glory in the same way they did Bastion and the Silent Market. Then, their dream of full reconciliation with the Bees may finally be realized. 

“And you’re sure it doesn’t hurt the bottoms of your feet?” One young woman asks as she tentatively takes the seeds handed to her. 

“Not in the slightest,” Dyvim smiles. He lifts a leg and turns his foot upward for good measure. Sure enough, the flesh there is soft and undisturbed. “The valley is safe. I promise you that in the good name of our king.” 

The woman looks a tad more convinced after that. Carefully, she slides a foot out from beneath her skirt and tentatively places it atop the darkened soil. Then, she turns to her family clustered beside her, nodding happily. 

It would have been much more efficient to seed the valley aerially with the help of their new dragonfly brigade, but such an endeavor would have left no room for tender moments like this. Now more than ever, Dyvim is glad he pushed for the seeding to be a community affair. 

Once all the Burrowers in attendance have a packet of their own, the knights regroup in the center of the Burn. Dyvim himself moves to the front to address them all. 

“I want to thank each and every one of you for coming out today,” he begins. “A project like this is no small feat. Just by gathering here with intention, we make our ancestors proud.” 

There’s a smattering of applause and a few distant cheers before he finishes his sentence. One of his fellow knights rubs his shoulder affectionately, and Dyvim shakes his head, humbled. 

“As far as procedure goes, the instructions are simple. Find a section of the valley to call your own and begin sprinkling the provided seeds. Allow me to demonstrate the proper technique, if you will.” 

There’s a murmur of laughter as Dyvim makes a small show of stepping forward and reaching into his pouch. He carefully gathers some of its contents in his hand, and then reaches out over the plot he stands atop, moving his arm in a fluid criss-cross motion. Once his palm is empty, he holds his arms off, flashing the crowd a grin. 

“Looks simple enough, doesn’t it? Though our gardeners have informed me that you must be careful of clumps.” 

Like a slow-crashing wave, the crowd of Burrowers moves forward across the darkness of the valley, murmuring amongst themselves as they find places to stand. Some break out into peals of laughter, overjoyed at just how easy the planting process is. Others find themselves choking back tears, the bitter smell of the Burn reminding them of the nights where the Umbra Legion roamed this very space. 

Dyvim feels a healthy tension build between his ribs as he moves to a corner near the entrance to the Moon Cliffs. Whether it will bring him to laugh or cry, he doesn’t know. He’s just glad he’s there to bear it. 

A sudden rustling in the underbrush, however, ignites the soldier’s reflex in him. Dyvim retracts the hand sprinkling seeds over the forest floor to his chest as his head angles upward. He doesn’t know quite what he’s expecting to see— maybe a stray Bumbler coming to ask of their progress— but it definitely isn’t what, or who, ends up being there. 

“Zaltanna?” His brows raise. “What are you doing here?” 

He notices something different about her the second his brain puts two and two together. She’s keeping her distance, still partially obscured by the shadow of the cliff beside her. She’s also down a scythe. Instead of her usual weapon, she’s got something cradled in her hands that he can’t yet make out. 

“I… do hope I’m not intruding.” She says. 

Dyvim glances over his shoulder. None of the other Burrowers are aware of her presence yet. 

“No, not at all. Can I help you with something?” 

Zaltanna’s mandibles click. She looks down at her folded hands before responding. 

“I heard some of the guards at the palace talking about your seeding project earlier. I wanted to… bring you something on behalf of myself and my hunter-sisters. On behalf of the Fifth Column, really.” 

He steps forward once he sees her hands beginning to open. In her palm sits a single seed, much larger than any of the ones currently being spread behind them. Briefly lost for words, he looks between her and the offering. She clears her throat and continues. 

“Though we weren’t Umbra, we are still closely associated with the Shadow Queen by species and find ourselves on your land due to her reign. I wouldn’t dream of dominating your cause, but I wanted to offer you this. A token of peace and healing. It will forever be sickening what they did to this place.” 

“Zaltanna, I…” Dyvim lightly touches the side of the seed. “Is it a tree?” 

“Yes, it is. I bought it from a gardener in the Silent Market.” 

“This is very kind of you. Thank you. You, and your hunter-sisters.” 

She gives a reserved nod and moves to place the seed in his hand. Though, without anything to keep her hands occupied, she grows uncomfortable and takes a small step backward. 

“I should head back to Bastion. I left my post at the World Door without telling anyone.” 

Zaltanna turns then, not giving him more than a mere second to think through his next words. Dyvim has barely processed them by the time they start spilling from his lips. 

“Wait, Zaltanna,” 

The Mantis does as she’s told, looking over her shoulder at him. Her antennae twitch in the air. 

“Why don’t you come and help me plant this?” 

She blinks. The implications of such a move are not lost on either of them. Had they been, she would have simply walked right out onto the Burn and asked to see him instead of slinking about in the shadows. 

To put it plainly, some Burrowers are keener than others when it comes to the presence of Mantises and Goliaths on their side of the Starfall Sea. While many were Fifth Column, like Zaltanna, and others went on to repent and serve time for their crimes, others remained loyal to the Shadow Queen beyond her defeat. That, compounded with the decades of clashing between their kind, didn’t make unification easy. Even in this newly realized Bastion, there was still an undercurrent of tension. 

But Dyvim believes in the goodness of Zaltanna’s heart. Without her help, the Wizard never would have been able to skirt their way through the Umbra ranks. Without her help, he’d still be rotting in that cage, or worse. 

“You’re sure about this?” She asks. 

“We stood united against the Shadow Queen together. Let us continue to do so now. Let us and our people do so forever, so that this never happens again.” 

After a moment of careful consideration, Zaltanna steps forward and nods. Dyvim encourages her to walk at his side. Together, under the green clouds of their new home, they re-emerge into the valley together. 

Surprise ripples through the crowd of Burrowers as they make their way to a distant corner of the Burn. Zaltanna keeps her head high, but her body relaxed as a path is made for them. She stops when Dyvim does, gaze flickering across the dozens of denizens looking her way. 

“Sir Whitehart!” A voice calls out. “What is this Mantis doing here? We stand on land destroyed by her people!” 

“Zaltanna has brought us a very generous gift.” Dyvim says. He holds the seed up then, moving it around for all to see. “Without her and her hunter-sisters of the Fifth Column, without every individual who ever stood up to the Shadow Queen, we would not be here replanting today.” 

“But she is a Mantis! This is a Burrower operation!” 

“She is my friend. And she does not come here to take our cause or our dreams. She comes here to help us rebuild. This new Khrysalis will be one of Burrowers, Mantises, Bumblers, and more. And if we further ice out those who seek to listen and aid us, we will remain relegated to the edges of this forest.” 

At that, Dyvim turns to look at her, voice resolute. “Zaltanna, if you would assist me?” 

The Deer Mouse Knight lowers himself to the ground then, digging a pocket for the seed to rest in. Zaltanna joins him a moment later, and together, with one hand each on either side of the seed, lower it into the dirt. Their free hands then move to cover it up so that it may wait for the impending rain like the rest of them. 

It feels like the crowd holds their breath for the duration of their planting. When they rise, some clap. Others look on in awe, worry, or a mix of emotions. Eventually, though, the majority of them return to their cause, criss-crossing seeds across the untouched portions of the valley. 

Dyvim and Zaltanna step to the outskirts to watch their efforts continue. For a moment, they’re silent. 

“Thank you.” Zaltanna murmurs. “You didn’t have to say that.” 

“I did. I want you to know that I consider you a friend. This New Khrysalis will wear our faces, among others, don’t you think?” 

She clacks her mandibles. “That is a hope of mine, yes.” A beat. “Never before did I think I would consider a mouse a friend.” 

That in itself is all the confirmation Dyvim needs to break into a small smile. The pouch in his palm is empty, so he tucks it into his armor and folds his hands behind his back, content with his efforts. 

“What will you do if it doesn’t rain?” Zaltanna asks. 

“What we’ve done for centuries,” he replies. “Wait. And in the meantime, we’ll heal in other ways. All of us.” 

His harshness not a matter of distaste, nor to dissuade those truly willing to learn, but rather to ensure that those who endure are truly able to excel. The method is not often appreciated, nor taken to heart, but when the alternative is learning in the later years of teaching that the student cannot bend the will of the creatures they are summoning—

—suffice to say he would have bigger problems than Nolan Stormgate needing to be extricated from the stomach of his own Humongofrog. So he maintains a harshness that endures until the students have proved they are unwilling to back down. That their will is unbreakable and unyielding as the very roots Bartleby has spread beneath their feet.

First years often crumble under the weight of his gaze. Shrink away from impossible tasks and wild snipe hunts.

But some return to him with annoyance and a willingness to demand answers.

Second years are prone to losing their footing under the shaking stone of a Cyclops summons, to their voices wavering with fear at creatures who tower above them. To cowering behind trees as though that will save them from the stomach acid hurled forth by a frog as large as their classroom.

But some stand their ground, and allow an edge of steel to back their words.

By the third year it is rare he loses a student. Though there are some who do not heed his warnings when faced with the eyes of a gorgon for the first time. Those for whom he keeps a well stocked apothecary of remedies.

But even so, they learn.

There is a steady pace to it. A push and pull. Criticism is razor sharp. Praise is always grudging.

He can always see it the moment another student realizes they are over the hump, that they have, however scarcely, earned his respect. There are few prouder moments he gets to experience as a professor.

To that end, the problem standing before him is a very particular student, one with whom he has been trying harder than any before to dissuade from their continued study of both Myth—and beyond that magic in general. Not for lack of skill, he had watched this child at 12 speak in such a commanding tone that even the summoned creatures of their classmates had looked over for orders. No, it was rather for the use to which that skill would soon need to go.

This afternoon they had come to him with a request that very nearly had him sending another note to the Headmaster.

Orthrus.

Brother to Cerberus, keeper of the gate to Hades.

A task for which they were neither ready nor prepared.

The collars required to summon Orthrus as an entreatment were difficult to acquire. And though there are a pair of them resting on a hook in his office—that is not knowledge he is willing to volunteer. The only other set of which he is currently aware of are resting in a tower in Dragonspyre, unused and at this point in time—very possibly destroyed.

There is little to be done for that. There is no key for Dragonspyre that he has access to, and his family home has long since been in ruin, the portals and tapestries within no longer functional, and even were they to be, certainly not safe enough to send a student through.

Even this student.

Especially this student.

It has been a fair few months since last this particular student had set foot in his classroom.

Their time spent on the spirit ridden battlefields of Mooshu.

Cyrus Drake looks down at the young wizard and pulls his lips back into a sneer.

“Do you realize the ridiculous nature of what you are asking?” He demands, “A child of thirteen, proposing to control Orthrus. I would sooner suggest you attempt to cleave the Grandfather Tree in two.”

“I need him.” The young wizard insists, eyes wide and painfully honest. “Please. I have to learn. I have to be strong enough for—”

“—for what?” Cyrus cuts across their words, “To show off to your adoring little friends? To win a duel on sheer overdrawn strength rather than intellect and skill? Or perhaps worse because you think a dog will be easy to tame?”

“Because he can keep me safe—if I have him, his strength, his help—I could—” there is very nearly a waver to their voice this time. A weakness that he has not yet heard. Unwillingness? Or perhaps acceptance of the fact that they are ill-equipped to learn a spell of this caliber.

“—enough of this.”

“Professor, please—”

They are shaking now.

Whether with scarce concealed anger or fear he cannot be sure. This student’s expressions have always been somewhat hard to read, on occasion seeming to drift into a cloudy vacancy that makes him wonder if they are listening at all.

He has had enough of this.

“—if you wish so badly to control a pup that can be matched to your lack of discipline, might I suggest paying Professor Falmea a visit to discuss the properties of the Heckhound?” He asks them, “Or if that won’t do, you could start smaller with a firecat.”

He cannot dissuade them forever.

No matter how many times he has tried over the years, how heavy the workload he has piled on their shoulders, how high the tower of homework becomes, nor how much of it remains untouched and unreturned. No matter how often he has spoken to Headmaster Ambrose, offered, suggested, demanded to see this through, to bring Malistaire to his senses alone.

Cyrus is, rather notably, not a fool.

And he knows how this must likely end.

Has known where it will end for quite some time.

But it does not solidify, does not quite feel real, until the young wizard digs one hand into the pocket of their robes—not robes he realizes now, but the padded cloth armor of one of the Mooshu villages—and thrusts it out to them, a key dangling off the cord now clutched in their fist.

A key that he recognizes.

For a moment, a single bare trace of time.

Cyrus Drake is at a loss for words.

Staring at that little golden key.

No more than three inches of cast metal.

But he can feel the weight of it, even now, even at a distance.

He can almost hear his brother and Sylvia laughing.

Echoes from what feels like another lifetime.

Another existence.

Words are sacred to the magic of Myth.

No one knows this better.

From the chanting used to summon and entreat creatures outside of combat, to the complicated collection of syllables that made up a being’s true name. Words, for a conjurer, can bend even the most unruly beast, or the strongest mind, to their will. Can soothe an enemy or empower an ally. Can trick the mind into belief where there should be doubt.

Perhaps.

Even in this case, the answer still lies in words.

Perhaps, if both he and this student are unimaginably lucky.

“Aha! I cast ‘stormzilla’ on you! Seven hundred-and-thirty damage! You are now conquered, my friend!” Hawkules exclaimed as he slammed a card down onto the table, shaking their nearby bottles with his vigor.

“You cannot keep claiming maximum damage on all of your spells!” came El Toro’s miffed reply. “You have not even fizzled once ! That one only had seventy percent accuracy!” 

“Have you forgotten? I am the son of Zeus! God of thunder! I have the power of storms on my side! Say, what is this ‘fizzling’ , anyway?” 

“I don’t think you’re playing that correctly,” Gracie regarded their game with a strange look from across the table. “And there’s something odd about that deck, don’t you think?”

“‘Aye, ‘dere be a special magic coming from ‘dem cards,” Scratch corroborated, waving a bony hand in their direction. “It is to be properly used by sorcerers.” 

“How’d you two numbskulls get your hands on those, anyway?” Bonnie asked. 

“Some guy sold them to me for an…overabundant amount of gold,” El Toro replied, now realizing how odd that exchange seemed. “He said they come from another world. I just liked the pretty pictures on them.” 

“The unicorn is lovely!” Hawkules agreed. 

Bonnie leaned forward and swiped the deck holder from their side of the table. She turned it around and blinked in surprise at the colorful letters she read, which almost appeared to glow in her hand. 

“It says ‘Wizard City’ on the deck here. That must be where they came from. Someplace to go, you reckon?”

“ Pshaw !” Ratbeard scoffed, speaking up after downing his glass of yum. “That doesn’t even SOUND real. That’d be like naming this place ‘Pirate Island’..!”

“A city for wizards to congregate?” Old Scratch mused to himself. “I an’ I bet someplace like ‘dat does exist. We should ask ‘de Captain.” 

“Waste o’ time, if ye’ ask me,” the rat shrugged, reaching over to pour himself some more yum juice. The others held up their glasses expectantly, and he topped them off for his mates.