I lay on the bed, exhausted.
Wasted effort.
Days of it.
Nothing to show.
"Anaita, I don't know if I want to visit the bookshop today," I said, turning toward the window. "Or anywhere, for that matter."
The sun pressed through the curtains—hot, insistent, unwelcome.
I reached up and pulled them closed.
The room dimmed.
She said nothing.
Just quietly patted my head.
Her hand was cool.
"Ah, Etsuko is gone."
I glanced at her bed—empty, neatly made. The faint scent of her perfume still lingered in the air. Something floral. Something expensive.
Outside, I could hear the occasional clatter of carriages passing by. Wheels on cobblestone. Horses snorting. Voices calling out in languages I only half understood.
The world kept moving.
I didn't.
"Ah, seems I slept off again."
The words came out flat.
I didn't leave the bed.
The sheets were damp with sweat, clinging to my skin. The heat had soaked through everything—the mattress, the pillow, my clothes.
"Anaita, how long was I asleep?"
She lifted three fingers.
"Minutes or hours?"
I sat up slowly, my body protesting.
She just rolled her eyes.
"I'm hungry," I said, scratching my head. Changing the topic. Avoiding the real question.
The sun was higher now—I could tell even through the curtains. Midmorning, maybe. The heat was building.
I made my way to the bathroom.
The floor was cool beneath my feet.
A small mercy.
"Too sticky for comfort," I muttered, turning on the shower.
The pipes groaned.
Then—
"Brrr, cold."
The water hit me like a shock.
But it was a welcome change.
I stood there for a moment, letting it wash away the sweat, the exhaustion, the weight of another wasted day.
"What should we do for brunch?" I asked as I got dressed.
The boot felt heavy on my leg—heavier than usual. I hadn't worn it in a while. My body had forgotten the weight.
I made my way down the stairs.
The dorm was quiet.
Too quiet.
A mote of dust hung in the light that came through the window, suspended, unmoving.
Like time had paused.
"Boiled eggs," I said, standing in the food pantry. "I'm in the mood for some of those."
The shelves were sparse.
Not much to work with.
"Let's eat out."
I turned to leave.
But Anaita was behind me, holding a jar of oatmeal.
"I don't know how to make that," I said.
She lifted it higher, trying to push it into my hand.
"I've tried. It turned out bad."
I paused.
"Really bad."
Her smirk widened.
My face flushed red.
She returned the jar to the shelf.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
"Let's go," I said, louder than I meant to.
She just smiled.
Wider.
"Ugh, goodness."
I stormed out the door.
---
A carriage went by as we crossed the street.
The driver didn't look at us.
Anaita walked quietly behind me, umbrella in hand. She had a bounce in her step—delighted, clearly—and she kept up with me even as I tried to increase my pace.
The sun was relentless.
The air thick.
Humid.
Every breath felt like work.
"Good morning, sir," I greeted the old man by the entrance as I made my way into the noodle shop.
He nodded, barely looking up.
"Curry laksa," I ordered, taking my seat.
The place was full—different people, different languages, different lives all overlapping in the small space. The smell of spices and broth filled the air. Lemongrass. Chili. Coconut milk.
My stomach growled.
"The price of coal has gone up ever since that incident on the coast," I overheard a man say to another at the next table.
I paused.
Incident.
Coast.
Again.
"Hmm, what incident?" I wondered.
But I didn't entertain the thought for long.
My meal arrived.
The bowl was steaming, the noodles thick, the broth rich and golden. And beside it—six boiled eggs.
"It wasn't weird to request this many boiled eggs, right?" I wondered as I ate.
No one seemed to care.
I peeled one.
Then another.
The yolk was soft, still slightly runny.
Perfect.
"That really hit the spot," I said as we stepped back onto the street.
Anaita opened the umbrella.
The shade was immediate.
Blessed.
"Where do you usually go?" I asked.
She said nothing, just looked at a cart that went by—piled high with fruit, the vendor calling out prices in a sing-song voice.
"The sun is so hot," I complained, making my way toward the bookshop.
"Wasn't really planning on coming here today," I admitted as we crossed the street.
She gave no response.
Just quietly walked behind me.
---
"Good afternoon, Mr. Gaspard," I greeted, a little annoyed but too exhausted to hide it.
He looked up from his pipe, smoke curling lazily around his face.
"You seem upset," he said.
"No, just tired."
I made my way to the back of the shop.
The shelves welcomed me like always.
Familiar.
Safe.
I pulled a book at random.
"Do not confuse the some people of Ittiḥād ash-Sharq al-Kabīr for orcs in your ignorance. Learn some manners."
I closed it.
"Maybe I should look up how to make oatmeal," I muttered, deciding to find a cookbook instead.
I pulled out a rather large book—thick, bound in faded cloth.
Hopeful.
But then—
something fell.
A yellowish paper.
Old.
Brittle.
"What is this?"
I picked it up carefully.
The edges were worn, the ink faded in places.
"What is this?" I whispered again, placing the cookbook down.
I examined the paper.
---
Codex Incompertus: The Sovereign Triptych
A Meditation on the End and the Indistinction of Horrors
Ascribed to Brother Alaric of the Order of the Sanded Seal
"This looks kinda… forbidden," I whispered.
My hands trembled.
Just slightly.
---
We often find ourselves trembling before the shadow of the Great Conclusion. In our frailty, we seek to categorize the terrors that dwell in the Pre-World, assigning them names like "Holy," "Profane," or "Abyssal" as though naming were understanding.
It is not.
As we peer through the thin veil of our Red Clay existence, we must recognize that we have committed a grave error: we have mistaken structure for comprehension.
---
"Huh, what—"
I gasped.
My eyes darted around.
Panic.
The shop was still.
No one was watching.
But I felt watched.
---
The End is not a single note, but a chord struck by distinct, incomprehensible hands. All precede the Sanded World; all are terminal. The difference between them is not one of nature, but of orientation toward the Law.
---
I exhaled.
Tried to calm myself.
But I didn't stop reading.
---
I. The Eldritch: The Silence of the Void (Non-Alignment)
There exists a madness that does not speak. It is the Eldritch, the entity of the External Void. These beings do not hate us, for hate requires the recognition of an object. They are the "Scream" that carries no message; they are the active manifestation of Nihilism.
The Eldritch do not reject Law, nor do they obey or misinterpret it. They simply do not meet it.
To perceive them is not to witness something complex—it is to witness something for which "complexity" is an invalid category. They are the "Hard-to-look-at" mathematics where the variables have simply ceased to participate in the sum.
If the universe were a grand cathedral, the Eldritch being is the sound of the foundation dissolving into nothingness.
---
II. The Angel and The Demon: The Madness of the Word (Extreme Alignment)
Conversely, we have those who "Respect" the Natural Laws because they helped forge the very blueprints. The Angel and the Demon are not indifferent; they are obsessed. They are the Madness that Explains. They are merely extremes of alignment. They touch Law—and in touching it, they become unbearable.
The Angel (The Source): The Angel seeks an End of absolute, blinding Order—a "Too Right" reality where the Sanded soul is bleached of its flaws until nothing remains but the Blueprint. This is precision so absolute it destroys meaning. A wheel turning, eyes upon eyes, burning without heat; it is the blinding white of the page.
Tell me what part of such a being is understood?
The Demon (The Landlord): The Demon seeks an End of stagnant Chaos—a "Throne" built upon the misuse of the Law. It does not break the Law; it uses it too well. It loops it, binds it, and folds it inward until cause and consequence suffocate one another. A contract that cannot be escaped; a truth that functions as a prison.
---
III. The Static: The Madness of the Echo (Fragmentation)
There exists a fourth cessation, often mistaken for the Eldritch but far more tragic. It is the Static—the state of the Law when it is broken into too many pieces to ever be reassembled. It is the Madness of Inconsequence.
The Static is the "White Noise" of a million dead civilizations, broken myths, and failed timelines all trying to play at once. It is the "Hard-to-Read" page where the ink has been overwritten ten thousand times until the message is a solid, vibrating block of black.
It is the End by Entropy, where every "Fact" is true and every "Fact" is a lie simultaneously. It is the sensation of being a character in a story that has lost its plot and is now just repeating the same syllable forever.
---
IV. On Their Unity: The Great Convergence
Do not be deceived by the symmetry of names. The Angel does not save, the Demon does not merely corrupt, the Eldritch does not merely erase, and the Static does not merely confuse.
All are incompatible with the Sanded. All, if fully realized, end the world. Absolutely.
Whether reality is dissolved by the Eldritch Void, incinerated by Angelic Purity, suffocated by Demonic Debt, or shattered into Static Noise, the vessel of humanity is equally undone.
We are caught in a cosmic trial where the Judge, the Executioner, and the Void outside the courtroom are all older than life itself.
---
V. The Arcana: That Which Was Never Present
And beneath them all—not below, beyond, or before—dwell the Major Arcana.
---
I sat up.
My chest tight.
Mixed emotions.
Fear.
Curiosity.
Recognition.
---
They are the Pre-Conceptual Null. They are not like the others; they are not horrors, nor beings, nor even absence. They are the indifferent paper upon which these powers write their terminal sentences.
The Arcana are that which allows us to fail to describe everything else. They do not precede the other horrors, nor do they relate to them. They are simply that for which Non-participation is the only valid term.
They are the silence that was there before the first word, and they will be the silence that remains after the argument is finished.
And even the name ascribed to them says nothing of knowledge as they are secrets and mysteries.
---
"The Angel burns you in truth. The Demon binds you in truth. The Eldritch removes the need for truth. The Static makes the truth indistinguishable from the lie. And the Arcana… were never within reach of the word 'truth' at all.
Find the Law within the Sand, for outside of it, there is only the Incomprehensible."
---
I exhaled.
Slowly.
"The horrors that explain," I murmured. "And those that do not."
I returned the parchment to the book.
Carefully.
Like it might burn me.
I looked for recipes after that.
But I wasn't hungry anymore.
I had learned something.
Even though I hadn't found what I sought.
I had found more about the world.
And myself.