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It is strange to see how, so often, the smallest artifice can conceal the obvious. It may be nothing more than a change of clothes, a wig, a pair of glasses—and the trick is done.

But what am I even doing, exactly? At what point did I decide this was a good idea? I’m clinging for dear life to my bird’s mineral plumage while a massive shadow passes overhead.

Green light. The moment the little light switches color, I launch myself without hesitation from the rear ramp. The void doesn’t matter. The stakes don’t matter. Neither does the opposition.

I look at the child and the giant fish accompanying him with a certain tenderness. The two beings seem to exist in perfect osmosis. When the boy looks left, the Chimera does the same.

‘You again?’ I scratch my head, wrinkle my nose, and glance off to the side—anything to avoid his reproachful stare. Okay, maybe I did interrupt his meditation, or his sky-gazing, or the part where he composes haiku or whatever.

My fingers clamp around the glass, so tight I know I could shatter it if I squeezed just a little harder. Just a bit more pressure. That’s all it would take. Instead, I watch the amber liquid slide down the dull inner walls as I grind my teeth.

She clenches her teeth and leans her full weight against the crowbar. The access shaft’s security grille groans in protest before the hydraulic pistons finally give way. At last, the airlock opens with a plaintive screech.

A new Basilissa has been chosen! Discover who was chosen as the new leader of Asgartha during a vote that happened at the Altered World Championships 2025.

On the main deck of the Mandjet, the contingents wait in silent discipline beneath a dappled blue sky. The moment is solemn. Grave, even.

They look grumpy. I stand still in a corner of the observatory, while around me the other Initiates seem to be fussing. Some pore over the latest reports, frowning. Others pace in silence, their faces grim. You could hear a pin drop.

I stare into the darkness, and it stares back at me. A hand with long, clawed fingers suddenly bursts from the unfathomable black, slicing through the night, before plunging into the formless mass of Sap.

Excerpt from the journal of recruit Alfie Phillips, service number 2187 of the Aegis, communications officer of Section 57 of the Expeditionary Corps.

No, there is nothing natural here. This architecture is not that of the World Before. I had studied the Sanctum archives long enough, wandered Arkaster’s museums often enough, to know this with absolute certainty.

‘It's fine! Memory lapses happen to everyone, or so they say!’, she trumpets at full volume. Nevenka scoops me into her arms like a rag doll and exaggeratingly strokes my hair, like a mother would to her child. All that's missing are a few cloying “there, there”s.

Professor Tang Lang casts a glance at the stands towering above him. The place is packed to the brim. Not a single seat is empty — people are even sitting in the aisles.

At this depth, it’s hard to get any sense of time passing — or to know what time it actually is, for that matter. Down here, in the unfathomable darkness of the City, time seems to stretch and dilate; or on rare occasions, compress.

The strings of lanterns sway in the wind like tiny bells missing their clappers. They give off a dim, flickering light, as if little will-o’-the-wisps had snuck inside — weary little hikers settling in for the night inside their tent

I walk past the excavators’ stalls without stopping, though I still glance from side to side — just in case. Piled directly on the ground, on spread-out blankets or wooden planks set up as makeshift tables, all the junk brought up from the depths of the City of Scholars sits in a jumbled mess.

He’s being followed, and he knows it. Atsadi keeps moving through the tunnels of the City of Scholars. He’s going deeper and deeper underground. How far is he from the surface? It's impossible to tell precisely, but he’s been walking for hours.

I can't help but shiver as I stare into the abyss. Some have compared it to an eye, but to me, it’s more like an open maw, pretending it wants to devour us.

Welcome back, Admiral. Major Dimuri snaps to attention as Admiral Singh descends the ramp of the transport barge. Temera briskly returns the salute after stepping onto the landing platform. She raises a hand to shield herself from the wind—a biting gust carrying cold air from the Storhvit—or rather, from Caer Nilam, as she should now say.

His white scales creak against each other as his head slowly lowers toward me, like a wispy cloud descending from the heavens. His gigantic eye settles before my face—a pearly sphere that stares at me unblinking.

Its shell is opalescent, veined with iridescent waves and bluish striations, undulating with countless facets that rise skyward—toward clouds and storm. They distort its reflection, multiplying its image into a thousand furious echoes.

It was more than an unpleasant feeling. It was the insidious sensation of having lost a pair of glasses, or of staring at a painting in a museum where the subject was only suggested in negative space—without being able to make out its shape.

Set it down there, would you? At my signal, the handler lowers the mechanical arm toward the platform, while Rossum guides the tangle of cables and chains securing the relic into position.

Wrinkling her brow, Rin wonders where the persistent, rhythmic noise is coming from—until she realizes it's the sound of her own teeth chattering from the cold.

As the doors open, a welcoming warmth greets her, almost stifling after the biting cold outside. She removes her heavy, ice-encrusted coat, opens a portal—just a small window—and tosses it through, along with her hat, straight into her quarters.

The water has a silky texture, as if milk had been poured into the hot spring. I rub it on my arms and shoulders, hoping to make my skin softer, while to my left, Nevenka lets out a loud sigh.

I insert the hefty cartridge into the flare gun and snap it shut with a flick of my wrist. Raising my arm, I fire toward the sky as the scent of gunpowder spreads through the air.

The harshness of the local climate may pose a challenge for us, beings accustomed to gentler and more forgiving biotopes, but many forms of life or sentient entities have, on the contrary, thrived under this relentless rigor.

My steps glide delicately over the snow. I take every precaution, letting my boots sink into the powder while making as little noise as possible. I check the wind's direction and ensure it won't shift.

The armored vehicle comes to a sudden halt, jolting Sierra awake from her nap. She sits up, quickly descends from her perch, and opens the hatch, peering inside with a hint of concern.

Your little puppet seems ready to be shelved… The sorcerer turns toward the figure emerging from the shadows, fully aware of her presence long before she made herself known.

I discreetly listen to the young Bravos strut like a rooster in front of his buddies. His hood is pulled over the top of his head, covering his close-cropped hair—likely as an attempt to look cool, though I can’t quite tell what kind of vibe he’s going for.

I play with the ring, watching the light dance on the polished metal’s surface as I roll it between my fingers. A ray of sunlight catches the part of the band that had been transformed into a diamond, the brilliance nearly bringing tears to my eyes as I squint. I let out a long sigh and shake my head at the obvious. How could it have been otherwise?

I let my doll take a sip of Arcolano Milk, feeling the liquid glide down her esophagus as if it were my own. Her taste buds are bathed in these flavors—now familiar, yet still intoxicating—and her head begins to hum, like bubbles rising in harmony with my cervical ganglia.