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The city was thriving. Or whatever the person’s perception of thriving was.

Thriving with maggots perhaps, of people struggling with their own lives,
suppressed by the crushing ordinances of the governing state. The maggots
in the city below were groveling, struck in the stink amidst the abuses and
refuse of other humans.
Women stood in the midst of the streets, selling themselves as drunk
men shouted and laughed. Children cried out in hunger and despair as the
starving died themselves out in masses. Those fortunate enough to get off
the streets were already locked away, even in the early hour, living in dark,
damp quarters little better than the conditions on the streets.
In the midst of the chaos, atop a tall building, the silhouette of two
hooded figures could be seen. One stood in a flowing cloak that concealed
him completely. Only a silver, soft hand protruded, palm faced upwards,
gesturing out to the city before him. The other figure was in a cloak also.
“So, this is what we are fighting to save. You claim there is that upper
power that the Angels insist, but even Michael and the other holy Angels
have never seen Him. They claim to have heard His voice before.”
“It is on faith that I take it,” the second figure replied, in a soft
woman’s voice.
“You do not see the degradation, the abuse, the pains and agonies
suffered. Humanity has no capacity for love, for beauty, or nobility. You see
the works before you. Look however far before or after into history and you
shall also see that. They all say that man was created in the image of God
Himself. But tell me, where is this God?”
The second figure paused a moment before pointing a figure upward
before the first figure continued.
“Humanity is made in destruction. What was made that could be so
beautiful is there to be destroyed. The most beautiful gifts of humanity, they
take, and they twist and distort into such disgusting mockeries.”
“Yet, it gives you no right to judge. They certainly have the capacity to
destroy, but you, in essence, are playing God.”
The first figure turned, “Let’s take a look.” He took a leap onto the
building next to him as the second figure followed suit.
The two figures landed on their feet in the dark alleyway, stricken with
smells of refuse and human sewage left untreated. A rat skittered here and
there between the human waste, amongst the heaps of humans left dead or
sleeping, oblivious to the pain and suffering around them.
They continued, callous and invisible amongst the people, the wagons,
and animals, continuing past intersections in dismal alleyways.
“You might, believe, Kildred, that the world is like this, but you are only
looking at one side. The depths of human degradation are only one side of
the whole story.”
“Shh!” said the first figure. “Be quiet.” A harsh pounding from above
broke the silence like gunshots. “We were being followed.”
“Oh, God.”
From behind them, they heard footsteps and shouts of laughter. From
the front, the silhouettes of a crowd of people with the glint of weapons
showed. The two figures slid into another alley, deeper into the maze of
alleyways. The reeking smell of sewage and waste gave way to trash bins
and rats, crawling about the alley floor. High above, the smells of rot and
sewage rose like vapors in the night and smoke reflected, paling the night
air.
The head figure turned towards and then back, leading into another
crowd of raucous, laughing men. “Verona, still believe in the nobility of man?
This is what we’re fighting to save.”
The first man stepped over the rotting sewage to get close to the first
hooded figure. His hair was cropped short, but there was a glint of malicious
cruelty in his eyes. His muscles bulged from his jacket and his massive hands
held a gun and a switchblade, “Alright freak , hand over that pretty little girl
you have.”
The first hooded figure turned his head, as if to cue an attack, but the
man continued, “I wouldn’t think about it. You see, all I need to do is pull this
little trigger here, and your little boyfriend here—
Before he could finish, Verona had pulled out two blades with the tips
of her fingers and gracefully slashed the man, tearing out his inner viscera
while throwing both knives across and striking two other men. Before the
other men could react, the first hooded figure, Kildred had pulled out two
daggers and had gracefully dispatched another two men, before sweeping
the legs out from underneath a man, throwing a knife at another man, who
had moments to point the gun at him, but before he could even pull the
trigger, the knife struck him directly in the throat. His hands dropped the gun
as they went to his throat. Kildred ducked behind a dumpster as another
man fired at him. Verona dispatched him silently and gracefully, the last of
the men.
With a silent kind of somber feeling, Verona pulled back her hood. Her
beautiful green eyes in her pure, golden hair and her fair face reflected an
essence of purity, and of a kind of resilient spirit, in spite of all the difficulties
she had endured. She had come through her difficulties with her share of
scars, but none of them tarnished her gentle spirit. For her, she knew the
difficulties of life, and she loved people in spite of their flaws and their
intentions. She was a lover of life, and she fought for what she envisioned to
be better for all. Her dispatching of the men was done in light of what was
necessary for her survival and nothing more. The green eyes indicated a kind
of perception of the beauty in all things, and a willingness to accept things as
they were, rather than to surrender to the difficulties of life.
The first figure stood up from behind the dumpster. His piercing grey
eyes indicated a kind of darker perception from behind. His face was worn
with the grievances of life, one who has faced too many difficulties all his life
overcoming them with a kind of persistent strength. There was a fierce red
scar above his brow, but his face was as fresh and clear as any man in his
youth. There were several wrinkles, and his brow was constantly wrinkled
with concerns and thoughts, but the placidity of his face expressed a
tempest of emotions, one of intensity and wholesome strength. It was an
honest face, and certainly one with the capacity to perceive more than it
betrayed. Yet, there was some bitterness in his grey eyes, as if they had
seen far more pain and suffering than any other man that looked his age.
Kildred nodded towards Verona as both turned away from the carnage
and picked out the knives. Taking a knife to one particular man who was
writing, and gently laying the blade of the knife on the man’s throat, he
whispered quietly, “Who sent you?”
The man’s eyes were pleading, “Please—
“You just attacked us about now, I’m in no merciful mood.”
“You don’t understand! He made me do it! He—
“Kildred!” Verona cried out.
Kildred looked up and swerved as a bullet flew past. With the hilt of his
knife, he deflected the bullet up into the air. The man who had fired the
bullet stood for a moment before falling, Verona had fired a bullet into his
back with the gun of another man.
Kildred turned to Verona, “make sure they’re dead. I don’t want any
more men suddenly shooting at us.”
Verona immediately turned to the bodies. Kildred immediately turned
back to the man. “Who sent you?!”
The man laughed, “he is too great for you, but the Palatinate shall fall!
And Cerebros will rise. And he shall reward me in death!”
“Who sent you!” But the man was already dead, choked on his own
blood.
Verona stood waiting. “I count eleven bodies.”
Kildred turned his head, “Let’s go.” He turned to go.
“Wait! Kildred, come back, look at this symbol.”
He turned back to Verona, kneeling beside her over the corpses of one
of the men, and turned over the arm of one of the men, pulling the sleeve
back a bit further. “Remember this symbol? It was on one of the swords of
the Fallen.”
Kildred turned to the symbol. It was a semicircle with an engraving of
an upside down cross and two lines that protruded from the arms of the
upside down cross. The longer end of the cross protruded halfway through
the curved line, almost like an arrow through the bow.
“Didn’t this look like that symbol on Anaphias’s sword? When he found
us looking for David and Theo?”
Kildred recalled his memories, flashing back to that particular moment.
The vivid image of the Fallen Angel raising his sword at them before dueling
Riephox came back to him. Just the moment before the strokes dealt moved
too fast for them to see, the spring in the blade left a moment where the
blade was immobile and in that moment the symbol had etched itself into his
memory.
Kildred turned to another man about him, rolled up the sleeve. The
symbol was there. He turned to another man. “They all have the symbol on
their right arms.”
“What could this mean?”
“We’ll need to find Anaphias.”

Kildred turned to Verona. There was something strange about the way
he analyzed the buildings around him, expecting some kind of imminent
threat to them. There were strange red gleams from the buildings nearby,
that appeared for instants and disappeared later. His sense of foreboding
warned him of a kind of threat.
They had traveled to a major core site in England. Stonehenge was one
of the most powerful core sites in the world, but they found themselves in an
abandoned country, with nothing but heaps or so of human waste, refuse.
Kildred was uneasy, that much Verona could tell. She had fought
alongside him for the past twenty years and it was easy to tell when
something else had his attention. “I have their scent, but something is
blocking me from tracking it.”
Verona turned, “maybe it’s not as strong in this world. Your tracking
skills are unparalleled in our world.”
Kildred glanced around, scanning. “Don’t talk so openly. Something is
watching us.”
They continued along the abandoned streets. The city was completely
abandoned, but scraps of metal here and there were scattered along the
streets. Ahead, the distant façade of cathedrals and other ancient buildings
rose above to block the sun as it set.
He bent over a scrap of metal. “This is the seal of Anaphias.”
Verona bent over with him. She scanned the symbol. A semicirle was
intersected by the long point of an upside down cross that served as the
center of the fork of the Devil.
“I’m starting to think this is something beyond Anaphias.”
“Are you saying that Anaphias was an agent?” Verona turned away,
scanning the darkness.
“Yes. Of what, I am more uncertain.”
Verona turned to him. “There’s only one force powerful enough to
control Anaphias. Anaphias would not even serve the Devil himself.
Cerebros.”
The name struck both of them as a shock.
“Is it possible?” He fell before Creation. He is the reason why there was
a Second Creation. To say that he is rising is tantamount to saying that there
will be another struggle so massive that it will destroy the world.”
“The Norse spoke of Ragnarock. It was a war when the gods and giants
would die, and Yggdrasill would collapse. The Greeks spoke of how the
immortal gods would one day die when their worshippers forgot them or died
out. They can’t really die, but they can cease to exist. That’s why they were
so aggressive and jealous of each other. To be forgotten was a threat to their
existence.
“Kildred,” Verona’s calm voice was shaking with dread. “I think we
walked right into a trap.”
Kildred spun around. Behind them, two hooded figures stood in wait a
couple dozen paces back.

Gan looked around. He was no longer sitting tied in a chair in some


dungeon. Rather, he was sitting about on the forest floor, on some leaf litter
against the trunk of a massive tree. The forest gave an air reminiscent of airy
pillars, like an uncovered cathedral with massive pillars reaching far into the
open sky. The birds above sang or cried out as the lively sounds of
everything about him gave a sense of natural peace.
Within his hands, he held a kind of bound book, one of leather binding,
but of old pages, worn with writing and ideas.
“Ah, Gan, I see you up and about,” said a gentle, silky voice.
“Sackriel!” Gan reached for his knives, to realize they weren’t there.
Trying to draw on his power, he realized that there was that vast emptiness
within him that he had never felt before. His power was gone.
“Pleasant day, isn’t it?” Sackriel turned away, gazing off into the
setting sun.
“What do you want from me?” Gan felt his throat. It was harsh, and
rough.
“I just want to chat, you can do that can’t you?” Sackriel turned to face
him, “Even though you haven’t been one to talk lately.” He stroked his
fingers, bending and touching them lightly before smoothing his long white
hair down.
Gan turned away, “what do you mean?”
“You haven’t been one to talk to me. We used to be friends, don’t you
remember?”
Gan gazed longingly at the setting sun, all hostility gone. “I remember.
But why are you here?” He struggled to remember what had happened
earlier, how they got to this point, but his mind could not.
“Just to chat.”
The last of the birds cried out as a cricket chirped. “Come on, before
the wolves come.”
He offered a hand to Gan, who turned it away. He stood up by himself.
“I don’t know why you want to come to chat, but it’s not worth my time.”
“I think you will, if you want to escape the wolves.”
Gan turned, “I command the wolves.”
Sackriel turned back to him, dark brown eyes with a deep perception of
everything. “No you can’t.”
In the distance, a lone howl echoed and reverberated across the forest.
Gan shook with fear. “How do you know what’s going on?”
“It’s all a perception of reality,” and in the fading light, he could see a
smile coming to Sackriel’s lips. “Your life is determined by the perception of
things. If I told you that this was not real, how would you feel?”
Gan turned his head about, pinching himself. Pain stung him as the
cool night air blew against his skin. He inhaled the smell of pine needles and
maple and the fresh smell of compost and dirt on the ground. The moon’s
gentle light and the sun’s last rays illuminated in a kind of mosaic of pinks
and blues across the horizon. A gentle glow illuminated the forest clearing.
“What are you talking about?”
“Is this real? Or is it in your mind?”
“That’s a ridiculous question! Of course this is real!” his frustration
seemed to be channeled into the fact that he was clueless as to what was
going on.
Sackriel turned to Gan again, “What’s that in your hand?”
“A book.”
“What kind of book is it?”
“I—
“What’s it about?”
Gan struggled to remember, but he could not remember a single word.
How did it make its way into his lap? Didn’t he spend the past several hours
reading it in the forest clearing? How could he remember nothing at all?
“Give me the book.”
Gan turned over the book to Sackriel. “It’s blank.” He turned to show
Gan as he flipped through the pages.
“That’s ridiculous. I was just reading it before you came along.”
“It makes sense that you were reading a blank book for hours?”
Sackriel turned towards the moon again. “It does? But how did you get here
in the forest in the first place?”
“I—
“You can’t remember can you?”
Gan struggled. He couldn’t remember anything at all, least of all,
Sackriel’s torture. It seemed his perceptions were flawed.
“Imagine that just a second ago, the world came into being, and that
every single thought, emotion, person you’ve ever come across is a
construction of memory. Imagine what that would mean. Would that mean
that everything that your mind ever encoded was real? Or would it mean
that your thoughts were a mere forgery?”
Gan recalled his past, his feelings, emotions, painful memories. “This is
all a dream isn’t it?” He hit his head against the tree trunk. “Wake! Wake!”
he shouted to himself.
Sackriel shook his head quietly, “No, in a dream, reality is a forgery,
but such a perfect forgery of reality that anything is possible.”
As if to emphasize his point, it suddenly snowed. The trees were bare
of any leaves, except the evergreens, but the two figures stood standing.
“Reality is but a perception of what is going on.”
“But reality is reality. Denial of the facts of reality entail and
acceptance of death as the alternative. We need to accept the facts as they
are, else we are embracing death as our choice.”
“But your reality is how you perceive certain things. If I killed you right
now, would you wake? Or would you die?”
Gan turned his eyes on him. “Either way, you’d be committing a
merciful act.”
Sackriel smiled, but it was a tragic sympathetic smile. His face was
worn with more wrinkles and hurt and pain. His dark brown eyes cast down
in sympathy as he gazed upon the Gan in his despair. “The loss of Reia
plagues you still.”
They were silent for a moment before the steps of another sounded,
crunching on the snow. “Gan?!” the hoarse voice of a woman echoed across
the silent wilderness. “Gan? Where are you?”
Gan didn’t answer, but turned his head in that direction.
“She still calls for you in your mind,” said Sackriel, a silent tear flowing
down his fair face.
The crunching of snow and the shouting grew louder, and Sackriel
stood silently and Gan quietly sat against the tree, his face in his hands.
A woman burst through the forest cover into the clearing. Sackriel
watched on silently. She was absolutely stunning. Her eyes were fair hazel,
but her flaxen hair fell in elegant rich waves. There was clear cognition and a
love for life in the gleam of her eyes, and a kind of modest sorrow from
having faced too many hardships. Yet, there was also beacon of hope in that
face, one with the determination to fight on in spite of the difficulties of life.
There was the seeming frailty and softness in her voice, but a deeper
strength within her, one that kept her strong in spite of the pain of life.
“Gan! What are you doing out here all alone in this cold?” she rushed
over to Gan, Sackriel remained unnoticed.
When Gan looked up, he saw nothing. He had heard the woman rush
up to him, “Reia?”
She was already gone. Instead, a morose Sackriel stood silently in the
forest clearing. “Was she ever real?”
Gan looked up at him, “What do you mean? Of course she was real!”
“Did anyone else ever see her?”
“Of course!” his mind rushed, trying to recall.
“The mind manufactures things to protect its memories. Your thoughts,
safeguards, are all your mind’s rational attempts to prove something real
that isn’t. When I revealed to you that she did not exist, in your eyes, I killed
her. You then sought to abandon all society and spend the rest of your days
alone, in the mountains, because no one remembered her, and you wanted
to preserve her memory.
“You spent too much time manufacturing that reality. It seemed real at
the moment, but it was an affliction born out of something else. Your mind
created her in an attempt to cope with that perception of reality, and her, a
creature that none of us could ever see, but you alone saw her. You saw her
in your dreams, and somehow, this subconscious portion of your mind linked
to the conscious portion and simulated stimuli to forge her into a reality. This
was your attempt to cope as your family was killed long ago by Anaphias.
“You turned against me when I sought to make you see that light. Ever
since, your mind has been turning against me, your perceptions distorting
the reality of things. When I came into your room to talk to you, you were
dying of your affliction. I had to slap you, but then you screamed. You
shouted that I was torturing you, that I hated you, that I wanted information
from you.” Sackriel sat down beside Gan.
“You’re sick. I so wanted to help,” but your mind would not let me.
Everything I did, your mind turned as a distortion. “How long have you been
dying?”
“We’ve all begun dying once we’ve been born. What’s that as a
question?” Gan turned away.
“I’ve known that you were stricken for years. I knew these were your
last days, and I had to come to make you see the truth.”
“We’ve both lived a hundred and seventeen winters. Yet, I have aged
so much, and you are still so young.” Gan turned to his friend.
“You’ve spent too much time aging in those haunted dreams of yours.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve spent too much time living in different realities, trying to figure
out which one was real and which one was not. My heart sobbed for you. I
could not do anything about it until now.
“The mind is the most powerful thing for a man. Its perceptions people
interpret to be real, and thus, they live with the adjustment to favor that
perception. In your dreams, you mold realities out of your own mind, but
because they are within your own mind, while you are in that dream the
physics and laws in that dream are written by your mind, and thus they
become rational. So when the reality of the dream coincides with the
physical reality of the senses, you delude yourself.”
“Then what am I supposed to follow?” Gan turned inward, his face was
placid, but a tempest of emotion was raging throughout him. Sudden
revelations were imploding within his mind, and realizations came crashing
down upon him. “Do I not trust my senses?”
“You can trust me.”
“I’m about to die.”
Sackriel put an arm around his friend. Within him, something like a
simulacrum of hope stirred. It was so faint, like an illusion of light in utter
darkness. Yet, he knew it must be there. But then again, he remembered his
first most challenging thought. “Nothing is real,” his mind thought.
And then, his mind flashed back to an early memory. He was sick in
bed, intense pain was striking his knees as he found himself unable to move.
Sunlight showed through the fine curtains, and the sheets upon which he lay
were some of the finest, but his sweat and need to endure in pain was
clouding his mind.
He unleashed a scream. Yet, a firm hand grasped his shaking one. It
was no larger than his hand, and he looked towards the trusting face, and a
child Gan sat beside him, reading out of a bound book. “Imagine that the
world around you is not real. Imagine that every single feeling that you feel
right now, including your mind, is forged by a simulation. Every single thing
that you knew was forged by this simulation, and that you know nothing.
Ever since you were born, an alchemist took your mind and attached wires to
each end of your brain, letting it grow, but grow in another reality. Every
single feeling that you are feeling, the feeling of the book in your hands, your
cold feet, the cool air you are breathing, are all perfect imitations, to the
point where you feel like it is real.” The whole time, Sackriel was trying to
comprehend it, denying it while also considering how it would feel. The pain
was forgotten.
“I know this is real.”
Gan shut the book and laughed. They both laughed. It was what Gan
did to pass the time before Sackriel could recover. With a jolt, Sackriel came
back to the present. They had both fallen asleep. Sitting underneath the
giant oak, the snow was gone, and Gan was sitting there. But stranger yet
was that they were both young children again, reading from the same
leather-bound book.
“Gan, I think it’s time to wake up.”
With a sensation of falling, Gan awoke. His eyes fluttered to that
curious shape in the ceiling.
Sackriel’s face swam sickeningly in his vision before finally clearing.
His voice was not as silky anymore, but it was a voice of concern. “Gan, you
alright?”
He shook his head before vomiting. “Gan, you need to come back to
me.”
Gan felt himself lying on a soft feather bed. The room was quiet and
there was a soft glow of a solitary candle in the distance. Sackriel turned to
him, “Prophecy is dangerous. You can easily lose your perception of reality
and of what can pass versus what is happening right now.”
Gan turned to Sackriel, “Was that dream real?”
They had been the best of friends since almost birth. Gan looked to be
starting in on his wrinkles, but Sackriel looked to be just beginning youth. “I
was so worried for you!”
“Is this real?”
“Whether it is real or not is up to you to decide.”
Gan smiled. They had talked of this before. The years of these kinds of
discourses brought back a kind of reminiscence to him. Sackriel laughed, and
it was one filled with mirth and joy. “I see you are well, but now is not the
time to question reality,” his face turned grave. “I’ve lost sight of Will.”

Mika turned to Michael. “You ever have those moments when you feel
like your entire life is revolving around something, or someone? Like that
inexplicable feeling when you’re walking, and you suddenly have that sense
of obligation to something or someone?”
Michael turned his head towards Mika. “I feel that every moment of my
life. My whole existence is that which revolves around my Father, to commit
to His will as much as we can.”
Then suddenly, a thought spurred to Mika. She turned to the golden
angel, and gazed into his golden eyes with her brown ones. “Have you ever
actually met him?”
Michael turned back to Mika. “No. I’m far too insignificant to be in His
presence. The Seraphim delegate the will down to me, and I obey.”
“But have you ever questioned Him? His will? Have you ever wondered
any of the possibilities?”
“No, because to do so is a desecration of my faith.”
Mika’s eyes glowed with a sudden thought, which, at its inception
fueled her and gave her strength as she spoke with the angel. “They take
God to be a separate entity, with His own will, but what if we misinterpreted
God? God is a light within our own hearts, a shining light within us, giving us
the awareness of our surroundings, changing them, empowering us. We all
have our separate interpretations of God, and every single side that has ever
fought a war in history claims to have had ‘God’ on their side.”
Michael turned away, shocked. His deep voice reverberated with power
and intimidation, but beneath that quaking rage, Mika could sense some
speculation forming as a seed, “You can’t simplify it like that. God must
exist, something beyond our hearts. Besides, Jesus Christ died on the Cross.
And he was God too.”
“I’m saying about something deeper. I’m saying that when Lucifer
turned to me, he spoke to me, and he said something like ‘I caused no evil
when I tempted Eve to eat the fruit. I brought God into the hearts of men, so
that they could achieve far more. That is why man is so noble. Each and
every man now has the ability to become a god, because a piece of God lives
on within him.’”
Michael was outraged, “You’d take the word of the Devil seriously? His
voice is beautiful for a reason! To tempt you to fall to his beliefs.”
“What if this is all an orchestration? What if you and Lucifer have spent
all this time battling each other, when, in reality, there is a greater evil that
is rising, but in the façade of Lucifer? Lucifer claims he was framed for his
crimes over the past few millennia, and that his Fall was actually
orchestrated far before his creation?”
“What are you speaking of?” Michael’s anxious golden eyes turned to
her.
“Over the past thousands of years, men have died for their beliefs. The
Reformation in Europe and the Great Schism were products of what? Men
thought their interpretations of God were right, so they fought for them. No
one considered the possibility they were wrong. I’m proposing that maybe, in
a sense, all of us are wrong, that God exists in each of us to unify all of us,
not, as most Christians say, as a single unified entity condemning humanity.”
Michael gazed at this human girl. She amazed him. Of all the people in
the world, throughout the millennia, she was proposing a new idea, one so
radical it could not be possible, but the conviction with which she voiced it
convinced even him.
Yet, in such theologian disputes, nothing could really be proved except
by taking leaps of faith and then justifying them afterwards. That’s what
Christians, Muslims, Judaists, and almost all the practitioners of religion had
been doing for millennia. Up to a certain point, one could build trajectories of
logic so convincing, but up to that point, the trajectory left empirical and
solid knowledge and stretched across the gap of speculation into vast foreign
territories.
He gazed at the girl with longing, yet he knew far better. He should’ve
understood the Edict of Angels. The first rule of which was that Angels must
reject all emotion and passion. Passion ruled reason, and was the primary
cause of sin. Yet, to have emotion was to be human. That logic followed that
to sin was to be human, because humans had the capacity of emotion. Thus,
in order to escape sin, one had to forsake emotion. That was why Angels
were so envious of humanity. The need to control one’s emotions was often
overwhelming. The ones who did not control their emotions fell to
condemnation. “That was why Lucifer fell,” he thought. The love the Angels
had for God was not out of emotion, but out of reasoned love. It was in their
perfunctory nature to love God, even though they would never meet Him.
Yet, deep within him, that façade of neutrality had begun to crack. The
dam holding back the flood of emotion, the losses of his brother angels had
taken his toll. He had held back all, tears, but rather, performed the rite of
blessings for the angels. Throughout the years, he had followed orders, one
of the mightiest angels, content to obey because he had no other purpose to
his existence. Now he had a reason, and the inception of that idea led to the
cracking of his wall of emotion. A single tear ran across the incandescent
skin of his fair face.
Mika held Michael’s face in her hand. The tear lingered on his chin for a
moment, before dropping onto the back of her withdrawn hand. Mika looked
at the pearl of water for the longest time, before putting it to her mouth. The
droplet of water was salty but sweet, like vinegar.
“Let’s go to Atlantis.”

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