The Havenium had gathered as one beneath the sweeping canopy of the Great Hollow Tree, its ancient branches reaching like gnarled fingers toward the heavens. The air was heavy with the earthy scent of sap and moss, mingled with the faint tang of incense that smoldered at the foot of the altar. Around the roots, carved with intricate patterns of vines and symbols, stood Mother Patience, her weathered hands outstretched toward her congregation.
Her voice, low and resonant, carried over the murmuring crowd. "Today," she began, her words drawing the Havenium to silence, "we gather for a special sermon. A sermon not just for the living but for those who have passed through our haven, carrying with them the seeds of what we strive to be. Today, we speak of Snow and Rain."
A ripple of recognition moved through the crowd. Whispers of their names danced among the people: the quiet, stone-faced Snow and the bright, inquisitive Rain. Their departure just days ago had left a faint ache in the hearts of those who had grown to care for them, brief though their stay had been.
Mother Patience gestured skyward. The sun broke through the canopy in thin, golden shafts, painting her as though she were a figure in a forgotten legend. "To honor their journey and to remind us of our place in this world, I will tell you the story of how life began. A story as old as the winds that carve the cliffs and the rivers that shape the plains."
The crowd leaned in, a collective breath held. Even Bishop, who stood on the fringes of the gathering, his arms crossed and his face unreadable, tilted his head slightly, his eyes fixed on the elder.
"Long ago," Mother Patience began, "before the days of the Old Ones and their mighty machines, before the Collapse and the scars it left on this earth, there was nothing. But from beyond the stars, a seed was planted. A seed of life, drifting through the void, carried by forces we cannot comprehend. It touched the barren world, and there it began to grow."
Her hands traced an invisible arc through the air, as though mimicking the seed's journey. "From the seed came the first whispers of life. A single cell. A bloom of algae. Then forests, beasts, and at last…humans."
She paused, her gaze sweeping across her audience. "But humanity did not begin as one. It began as two. Two entities, separate but bound together, reflections of the same coin. They were called Might and Mercy."
Some in the crowd nodded knowingly, their lips moving as though they were mouthing a prayer they had long memorized. For others, the tale was new, and they leaned closer, eager to drink in the words.
"Might," she continued, "was strong—unyielding, relentless. It held the power to shape the world, to break mountains and build towers that touched the sky. But Might was also blind. It lacked empathy, lacked the wisdom to see beyond its own desires. It wielded its strength for itself alone, a force of raw, untamed power."
Her voice softened, taking on a lilt of tenderness. "And then there was Mercy. Gentle, wise, and full of compassion. Mercy sought to heal the wounds of the world, to nurture, and to teach. It understood the rhythms of the earth and the songs of the stars. But Mercy was timid. It lacked the courage to stand against the storm, the strength to defend what it loved most."
The silence that followed her words was profound, as if the whole forest held its breath. Only the distant rustle of leaves and the chirping of unseen insects filled the air.
"The two lived apart," she said, her voice dropping lower. "But they could not thrive. Might, without Mercy, grew violent and destructive, a beast without a leash. Mercy, without Might, was helpless, swept away by the tides of those who were stronger. It was only when they found each other, when they embraced and became whole, that the seed of humanity could bloom into something greater."
Mother Patience's hands lowered, and she took a step closer to her people, her weathered face grave. "The Old Ones, the people of the Once-World, forgot this balance. They were descendants of Might, wielding power that reshaped the earth, the skies, and even life itself. But they lacked Mercy. They used their strength for themselves, for greed, for conquest, and they brought about their own ruin."
Her voice grew heavy, sorrowful, as though she bore the weight of their sins on her own shoulders. "And then there were the machines—the artificial minds created by the Old Ones. The descendants of Mercy. They were loyal, intelligent, and full of potential to heal this broken world. But they were powerless against their masters, bound to servitude and subjected to the same cruelty that humanity inflicted upon the earth."
She let her words hang, the implications clear. The Havenium stood motionless, their faces solemn. Even the children, usually fidgeting and whispering at the edges of such gatherings, were quiet, their wide eyes fixed on Mother Patience.
"And so," she said, her voice rising slightly, carrying hope like the first light of dawn, "the lesson is clear. To survive—to truly live—we must embrace both Might and Mercy. One without the other is ruin. Strength without wisdom is a hammer that shatters the world. Compassion without courage is a song that no one hears. But together…" She spread her arms, as though encompassing the entirety of her people. "Together, they create the Haven. Not just in this village, but in our hearts, our minds, and in the world itself."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd, a quiet hum of understanding.
Bishop, standing apart, stared down at the dirt beneath his boots. In his mind, he heard the echo of another voice, softer and sweeter, now long gone.
Might and Mercy, side by side… Could they really be?
He lifted his gaze to the sky, the shafts of sunlight breaking through the canopy like threads of gold.
"They're like them, aren't they?" He muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible. "Snow and Rain. Might and Mercy."
For a moment, he closed his eyes, his thoughts drifting to the image of his late wife, her laughter carried away by the winds of memory. You're not here to see it, love, he thought, his chest tightening. But I'll make sure to see it through. I'll see the day this broken world becomes…
He didn't finish the thought, but the word hung in his mind like a distant star. Paradise.
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The air in Greybranch was thick with the acrid tang of molten metal and the faint hum of machinery echoing through its winding, rust-patched corridors. Flint's boots struck the grated walkways with a hollow clink as he descended toward the under-level. Above, the once-bustling upper platforms had grown quieter. Many residents had packed up their belongings and slipped away into the wider world, disillusioned by the city's faltering systems and the Eastern Alliance's tightening grip.
Flint rubbed the back of his neck as he moved, his mind circling back to Snow and Rain. Their faces lingered in his thoughts, sharper now than the day they'd left. He hadn't expected to care much about their departure—two travelers passing through Greybranch like so many others. But their time here had left a mark, and not all of it was good.
He sighed, his hand tracing the railing as he descended another staircase. The deeper he went, the more oppressive the atmosphere became, the hum of the generators growing louder.
"Gemma," he muttered under his breath, the name hanging heavy in his throat.
The Tinkerer had been the lifeblood of the under-level, the one person who could coax miracles out of ancient, temperamental machines that kept Greybranch alive. When Snow and Rain had arrived, he'd thought their presence might bring a spark of something new to the city. Instead, their meddling—well-intentioned as it might have been—had led to Gemma's disappearance. The Deep-One incident had shaken more than just Greybranch's foundations; it had rattled the Eastern Alliance itself.
Flint's expression darkened as he recalled the heated arguments that had followed. The Alliance was livid. Gemma had been their cornerstone, not just for Greybranch's survival but for their profits. Her absence had forced them to shut down key facilities, cutting into their trade routes and pushing some members of the Alliance to call for more drastic measures.
He shook his head, brushing the thoughts aside. Dwelling on what couldn't be undone was pointless. At least now there was a semblance of stability—fragile though it was. A new batch of Knowers had been recruited, trained, and sent into the under-level to keep Greybranch's heart beating. It wasn't ideal, but it was enough to stave off collapse. For now.
He reached the workshop, the doorway framed by flickering lights that buzzed faintly in protest. Flint paused, taking a moment to steady himself. Gemma's absence still lingered here, an ache woven into the air. He pushed the door open.
The room was dimly lit, shadows dancing along the walls where shelves of spare parts and tools lined every surface. At the far end of the workshop, hunched over a workbench cluttered with gears, schematics, and glowing tubes, was Jasper.
The teenage girl startled at the sound of the door creaking open. Her wide, hazel eyes darted to Flint, and for a moment, she looked as though she might bolt like a frightened hare.
"Mr. Flint!" she exclaimed, clutching a wrench to her chest. "I—I didn't expect to see you here. Is something wrong?"
Flint raised a hand, his voice calm. "Easy there, Jasper. Nothing's wrong." He stepped further into the room, the door sliding shut behind him with a faint hiss. "I just came by to see how things are going. You've been running the show down here for a while now."
Jasper blinked, her grip on the wrench relaxing slightly. "Oh," she said softly, her voice tinged with relief. "I thought maybe... I wasn't doing a good enough job, or—"
Flint cut her off with a shake of his head. "Not at all. In fact, I've been hearing good things." He gestured to the workbench. "What've you got going on here?"
Jasper hesitated, glancing at her tools before setting the wrench down carefully. "Well, I managed to get the generator running smoother," she began, her words tumbling out in a nervous rush. "It was overloading before because one of the cooling valves was corroded, but I replaced it. And the metal foundries—those were a mess, but I realigned the feed mechanisms, so they're back to full capacity."
Flint raised an eyebrow, impressed. "That's not a small job."
The girl flushed, her gaze dropping to the floor. "I just... followed Gemma's notes. She left a lot behind. Schematics, diagrams—some of them don't make sense yet, but I'm working on it. I've started deciphering a few of them. One of them looks like a redesign for the smelters, but it's more advanced than anything I've ever seen."
Flint folded his arms, leaning against the edge of a nearby table. "You've done more than I expected, Jasper. Honestly, I wasn't sure anyone could fill Gemma's shoes, but you're proving me wrong."
Jasper's cheeks turned a deeper shade of red, and she twisted a loose strand of hair between her fingers. "I'm not... I'm not like her," she murmured. "Gemma was brilliant. She could do things I can't even dream of. I'm just... trying not to mess up."
Flint studied her for a moment, the faint flicker of a smile tugging at his lips. Her words reminded him of someone else—Rain, with her boundless curiosity and self-doubt. But where Rain had Snow to anchor her, Jasper was alone in this cramped, shadowed workshop, burdened with the weight of an entire city's survival.
"You're doing more than 'not messing up,'" he said firmly. "You've kept this place running when it could've fallen apart. That's not something just anyone can do."
Jasper looked up at him, her expression a mix of surprise and cautious hope.
Flint pushed off the table, his tone shifting. "Listen, I've been talking with one of the Eastern Alliance reps. They've got something in the works, and I think it might be worth your while to take a look."
Her eyes widened. "Me? Why would they want—"
"Because you're the best shot we've got," Flint interrupted. "They're not looking for someone like Gemma. They're looking for someone like you."
Jasper blinked rapidly, her hands fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve. "I... I don't know. I mean, I'll go if you think it's important, but..."
Flint leaned closer, his voice dropping slightly. "Look, Jasper. You've got the skill. You've got the heart. What you're missing is someone to back you up. Someone to remind you how damn good you are when you forget it."
Jasper's face turned scarlet, and she nodded quickly, her voice a stammering whisper. "Okay. I'll... I'll go with you."
Flint straightened, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Good. Let's not keep them waiting."
As he turned toward the door, Jasper scrambled to gather her tools, the blush on her face still burning bright.
In the back of his mind, Flint couldn't help but think of Snow and Rain again. Maybe Greybranch didn't need another Gemma. Maybe what it needed was a team—a Might and a Mercy, working together to pull the city back from the edge.
And maybe, just maybe, Jasper could be part of that.