The Song Of Sophia: An Alexylva Academy Tale - SCP Foundation

Chaos, muse, is the song I wish to hear, the roiling dark

which birthed the Earth, which birthed the Sky, and the Titans

who brought forth Gods, who brought forth Man, who,

in arrogance, called the land his own. Conquering like ants

unaware the clouds mean rain, who glory their tunnels’ depth as

the plow churns the field, is it any wonder they hold blood

so cheap? We men, they say, are built for war. Built, yes!

Yet even a sturdy ship knows its fate is guided by the wind. Should

we pity boastful humanity, fools who dream that death brings glory,

like sailors who swear a rudder and knowledge of the stars

will guide them until the mocking thunder interrupts

their fun? No, for as the sea drags each body to its fate they

shall have pity enough for themselves. Lament instead the weak.

Pity the wife who calls out for her lord's return, circled

by vulturous, gold-loving men, and pity the child who will

never again be lifted in her father’s arms. The vanity of men is worth

no more than a girl who, every morn, waits alone on the cliffs,

until she has lived through enough winters to know –

those sails will never cross the horizon again.

In this way Sophia, bitter, learned the truths of life, and swore

her promise to the Fates, that when they took her it would

be after she made the world shake, and gave as price her

eye. From then on, after she plucked it with her own hand,

she saw with two sights. One looked upon the works of men,

and mocked all the games therein, while the empty orb gazed

into the realm deeper than Tartarus of which our muse now sings,

and though not a place for mortals wishing to rest easy after death

she never asked for less, or let its secrets leave her lips. Mercy,

she knew, was not for her, and she wore her face as if a mask

which only fell on lonesome nights, when the doubled darkness

felt too much to bear. Sending away her handmaidens, she wept

alone, scratching at the empty socket with vain hope that she could

rip away the darkness. At these times it seemed to mock her.

As if to prove she had no power, the Chaos showed her things to come,

images of coming failure, triumph snatched away, the coming end,

unavoidable. On these nights the blade seemed tempting. How

easy it would be rip the steel across her throat, and never have

to suffer it again, to take fate in her arms and prove it wrong.

In the end she had not the hand to take her life, so she wept

until morning, when time came again to hide her true face,

for tears do not suit one who shares blood with heroes.

Only one took pity on the child, that being wise Athena,

who from her perch had seen all that wracked the girl. Pallas,

moved by the sight of one to whom knowledge brought

only death, called upon another. In the mountains, far-off,

lived a man called Epiphanes who had once called Pylos home,

and there was known as learned. Kings and merchants had come

across the lands to hear him speak, for there were no subjects he

did not fancy, from rhetoric to war, and all who took his words to

heart were destined to rise. Yet he knew few understood the truth

he tried to impart on those he taught. For them only matters of

glory and riches were worthy of concern. When he spoke of Truth

or forms, the words passed by their ears like a breeze that brushes

against a sleeping soldier. Tired of wasted words, he retreated into

the wilds, and there lived until one day a vision of the Goddess

appeared within his fire.

“Lonely Epiphanes,” she said to him, radiating light so great

he had to turn his eyes away. “The time has come again to take

up the mantle of a man. Perhaps you think it wise to let your

body rot, and your mind empty of all it contained. The time for

this is no more, I have a task of you, and tempt not my fury

by denying this request.” Ever faithful, he could not deny a mission

given by the goddess, and made his way back to that great city

where he could seek a ship. A trader from the darkest east proved

willing to carry this man on his route, eager to question the one

whose knowledge was a legend. Every day he demanded answers

from the scholar. He was just as foolish as any of the others,

Epiphanes knew, not worth the sharing of secrets. Platitudes were

all he was willing to give the merchant, yet the dim-minded man

was more than happy with these. He found more comfort with

the crew, hardy men, who knew their place on earth and had no

desires to exceed it. With them he drank and laughed, until one

night beneath the silver moon, he decided they deserved a tale.

“As a youth,” he began, as the shipped rocked upon the waves,

“I did not understand the ways of my elders. I thought them all

foolish, followers of customs that no man could derive by reason.

Whenever they attempted to give me wisdom, I turned in the opposite

direction, desiring to know for myself where the truth lay. So I

grew to be a nuisance to my family, who could not abide what

they saw as pointless boyhood games. There had been a prophet

at the time of my birth, who said my destiny was to be sung about

as the heroes of old. Because of this my father thought I would, like him,

relish the art of war. Soon he found I could barely swing a sword, I

was a coward at heart, even the thought of a fight made me tremble.

He decided he would, with force, both beat the questions from

my lips and teach me the arts all men must know. To this end he

took me to the woods and left me there, before my first hairs had

graced my chin. ‘If you return,’ he said, ‘I will no longer be ashamed to

take you as my son.’ When he left I began to weep. I begged

the gods to show me the path that would guide me to safety.

No answer came. I prayed until the woods had grown dark,

and I could hear the howling of wolves. At this time I could barely build

a fire. When I managed to bring forth sparks, it was barely enough

to illuminate the tears still wetting my face. My father had left me

a sword, and for the first time I held it willingly. All through the

night I clutched it, sleepless. I admit it, I was a cowardly boy. In

many ways I am a cowardly man. Yet there must have been some spark

of life in me, a few drops of my father’s blood, for when the morning

came I took the blade and made my way north, where from I knew

my father had brought me. I will not bore you with empty words

about the things I met and killed there. Just know that my sword

for the first time tasted blood, and I received the scars you still

see today marring my bare chest. When I pulled my blade from

the body of the beast which bloodied me, whose true name I still know

not, I realized I no longer knew the direction I must take. I had lost

the path. I would be dead had I not heard, some ways in the distance,

the beating of a drum.

Carefully I moved through the brush until I saw, between the trees,

figures swaying, bathed in shadows cast by a great red flame. Some

were human. Some were not. I saw among them a man with the legs

of a goat, and horns upon his head. With him danced a woman whose

hair was made of thorns, and when she pressed her body to his she

drew blood. He laughed and smeared that crimson liquid across his

chest, then held up his hand, so that she could lick the droplets from

his palm. Such sights I saw, multiplied a hundred-fold around the fire.

What madness could have set them on this path, where all sense

and human love of good meant nil? It was as obvious to me as the sun’s

rise is to the youngest child: the beating of the fearsome drum. Its rhythm

pounded in my ears, so forceful that even my heart began to beat

with its time. As I watched the flame, and the laughing dancers around,

I felt urges boiling in me which would have brought a sane man shame.

Yet I was not sane , I must admit, I longed to join the dance. Before

I could, the rhythm grew in speed. The dancers, one by one, collapsed

to the ground, holding one another, to commit acts more foul than even

the previous displays. As I looked on I came to sense another being’s

gaze. It was coming from the fire, a shadow there, a patch of black

within the heat. Slowly it emerged. The creature had the form of a man

but twice as high, and strongly built. It wore no clothes, but on its head

was a mask made from the face of a jackal. Its left hand held a silver

cup, from which an endless liquid bubbled up and dripped upon the earth.

Flowers bloomed from where it touched. When it sloshed across the

rutting bodies they screamed with ecstasy. Dionysus stared across the

clearing to where I hid. His eyes, beneath the mask, were empty white.

I could bear it no more. I cast aside my blade, ripped the clothing from

my back, and with all thoughts banished from my head I dove into the

celebration.

How I drank from the pleasures of life then, as much as my stomach

would allow. You are not soft men, I know, you are ones well versed

in the side of the world the priests try to push aside. Even then to share

the wickedness I indulged would bring such shame as to force me

to run to the side of this ship and throw myself into the waves. Woe to

me that wine, which helps other men forget, only makes the memories

of the night form clearer in my head. There is only one part I feel

I must tell, for without it this story’s purpose will remain obscured.

I had just separated myself from a writhing body when I heard cries

of delight rising above the drums. Below them were screams, but not

of pleasure. They were screams like a dying animal. I saw, near the fire,

a man tied to a stake, blood running down his face, his body wounded with

cuts that could only come from a great fight. I could not see his face, swathed

in shadow as it was. Curious, I approached. The other revelers danced

and screamed around in him, and as I drew close I realize he was hurling

venomous words at them, defiant to the last. The voice struck a familiar

note within my hand. The god stood next to him, and with one hand, greater

than a man’s skull, he grasped the victim’s head and raised his face for all to

see. When I saw the man’s hate-filled eyes, I gave a cry of fear. For the face

was that of my father.

‘He came to us as a gift,’ cried Dionysus, his sonorous voice rising above

the din. ‘He refused the ones we offered him. He wanted no part in

the freedom we had to offer. Therefore we must grant him a death fit

for one such as he.’ At this the crowd rushed forward and with fearsome

blows, began to rip away at my father’s flesh. His defiant words turned to

unending screams as they tore the meat from his bones, and, blood still

wet, devoured it raw, and I, pitiful creature that I am, still felt some of

the festival’s thrill within me. The god looked at me, and I felt the pull

to join their vile feast. Thank whichever gods looked over me that I was

able to retain my humanity and fight away the urge! Yet I was not strong

enough to take the braver route. Instead of stepping forward to rescue the

man who birthed me and risk becoming the next victim of their wrath,

I turned to flee. Coward that I am! Yes, at night, when the world is quiet

I still hear the screams of my father as they faded into the distance, and I

Imagine that in his last moments, his most hateful curses were for me. Yet

that night I could feel nothing but fear that the Eleutherios would next come

for me, who had in a single night betrayed both my blood and my gods. I do not

know how far or long I ran, only that when I stopped my body was too tired

for another step, and the day had come. As I ran I had left the woods,

but I did not know where it was I now stood. There was a field around me, and

hills, but I did not recognize the land. Weeping, I collapsed. As I lay there I

contemplated taking my life, but I had lost my blade in the fugue. Therefore,

I knew, I had to find a cliff from which I could leap to the fate that I deserved.

When I had the strength again to walk, I started forward with this single purpose

In mind. Yet no matter far I went, I could not find the end of the island which I

called home. Instead I found a road which I did not recognize, even though I thought

that this entire place was known to me. I followed it until the sun was nearly

sunk beneath the horizon. It was only when I saw something that defied belief

that I stopped – a massive building carved of stone, perhaps taller than any palace,

and spread so far across the land that I could not see the end. An arched entrance

stood in front of me. Between it was a woman dressed in pure white robes. She

smiled as I approached. ‘Welcome, student,’ she said in a voice that was

the sweetest I had ever heard, like a flower freshly bloomed. ‘Your travels, long

as they were, have now ended. I know not from where you came, or why you

walked the road to us, but I know that all who reach these gates are destined for

a reason, for knowledge is what they seek. I cannot know what cause there is

for the pain your face betrays. Here we are not healers. We offer only

wisdom. Perhaps with that you can find some way to soothe your suffering.

If this you wish to earn, step forward. We will gladly accept whoever has

been chosen by the path to Alexylva.’

The woman’s words confounded me. This name was one knew to me,

yet it felt a comfort in my ear. My mind was still filled with thoughts of

cowardice and death. My desire to fall into the sea had not one bit

remitted. Yet as I gazed upon the stone I could not resist the curiosity

that filled me. Determined as I was to die, I found a stronger force

within – the need to understand. So, without a word, I stepped

forward, and let the woman guide me into that great place, which

would be my home for ten long years. What wonders to describe!

To describe all would take too long. The walls, I saw, were not lit

with torches or lamps. Instead round, shining objects hung from

the roof, so bright only sunlight could compare. Paintings hung

upon the wall unlike any I had seen. The colors were so vivid, and

the figures seemed to be real men trapped inside, such was the

detail that made up their faces. She took me down many long

corridors, each made with stranger things than this, until we came

to a door. ‘You will sleep in here,’ she said. ‘We will fetch you

tomorrow with your schedule.’ With that she left. When I stepped

inside the room, I saw it contained things stranger than the halls.

The bed was made from some material I had never seen, the

softest on which I have ever slept, and on a desk there sat

a contraption made of metal and glass. It appeared to me as if

the front were painted, like a vase, but as I watched the images

adorning it moved and changed. Later I would learn that this

was known as a computer.

There is more to tell my friends, of mysteries so great that

one could not comprehend them until witnessing with eyes.

Now, though, the night draws late, and I know you must have rest

if you wish to guide the ship without running afoul of Poseidon's

rage. Tomorrow, if you wish, I can continue. Let us disperse

until that time.”

Thus he went to the bowels of the ship, and slept until morning

arrived, and the next night plus many more continued his tale

until the crew reached the awaited land. He bid the shipmen safe

travels, and left them to argue amongst themselves with themselves

over whether the man was insane or worth their trust. As the sails

caught wind to continue their path, Epiphanes made his way

to the palace where he would find a student. He entered the halls

and found Lysistrate, mother of Sophia, sprawled across a chair.

Despite the early hour she clutched a glass of strong wine, and when

the seer entered her home she did not pay him any notice until

he knelt before her seat. “Lady of this house,” he said, “I have come

to seek the one known as Sophia. Is this the name you hold?”

Lysistrate drunk deep from wine before she spoke. “Sophia is the

one I grew in my belly, and nursed at my breast. I am not one

to deny strangers hospitality, but understand that I cannot allow

one I do not know so easy access to the one I treasure most.

Speak your business quick, and should I find it true, I will not

have your head hung above my throne.” Always shrewd, Epiphanes

realized that not all the goddess had revealed should be known by this

woman. With carefully chosen words, he told her of the mission the

goddess had elected him for, but did not let her daughter’s secrets

slip. “The Goddess knows that within your child is a great mind,” said

he, “Surely you have seen it for yourself. What I have to teach her cannot

be found with any other learned man. I will not take her from you –

I ask to live here. All I require is food and water and a roof under which

to sleep.” Amused, Lysistrate accepted the man’s words. She called forth

a handmaiden, and sent her to retrieve the daughter. Sophia arrived with

a smile as false as ever, and asked her mother what was required. After it

was told, she looked at the man before her. A hate without cause or

purpose flowed through her as she inspected the withered, tired man. He

had no right to teach her, and no aid was needed. It was only duty to

Lysistrate that made her bend her head in friendly greeting. Epiphanes,

no fool even if he had not had Athena’s word, recognized the malice contained

within. “Our lessons will begin at the next rising sun,” he said. With that

he left, stopping next to the girl to whisper in words meant for her

alone. “There is no shame in fear. What you have seen, though strong,

is not the truth you think it is. In due time you will learn how to truly find

what it is you seek.” He said no more. Sophia watched him go, and felt

her hate becoming something similar to fear.

Rosy-fingered Dawn arrived to greet the new student as she climbed

the hill to meet her waiting master. He sat beneath a tree, and beckoned

her to claim a seat. She remained on her feet, arms crossed. “You come

from a strange land on a mission from the wisest god,” she said. “You claim

to know the visions that my one-eyed sight reveals. If this be trick, your life

will not much longer last. If it is truth, I hope you are not seeking great

riches in return. Since my father’s death our house is poor, and we have nothing

for a viper who only thinks of wealth.” Epiphanes did not respond. With a

stick he was scratching shapes into the dry dirt. They were nothing she

had seen before, not art but disconnected lines. “First,” he said, “you will

learn to read and write. It is not yet something known to this land, but

it is essential for any of our tasks. If your mind is sharp as the goddess says,

it should not take you longer than the next moon to put all you wish to

word. If you fail by then, I will know you are not worth the time, and take

my leave.” Barely had she time to speak before he began naming every shape.

When he was finished he told her to recite them. It would be easy work, she

thought, to get his questions wrong and drive him from the land, so that

she would no longer feel the way his gaze made her tremble. He would take

the letters with him if he went. That seemed even more terrible than having

to endure his awful stare. She named each glyph with no mistakes. “Now,” he

said, “I will show you how to form words.” He made more marks, and told

her how they read. “’Sing, O goddess, the anger of Achilles son of Peleus,

that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans. Many a brave soul did it

send hurrying down to Hades, and many a hero did it yield a prey to dogs

and vultures, for so were the counsels of Jove fulfilled from the day on

which the son of Atreus, king of men, and great Achilles, first fell out

with one another.’ You do not know these words, but you will soon. Wisdom

is not just reason and rhetoric. It is poetry, and knowledge of the earth. All

these things I will teach you. First there is a truth I must know. Why did you

remove your eye?” She still could not bear to meet his face as she gave him

her reply. “I had heard that the oracles lack sight, but I was too weak to remove

the second.” When he asked her why she felt the need to see the strings of fate

she replied, “I don’t see why that is for you to know. Teach me what you

have to teach. I may tell more if you earn my trust.” So they no longer spoke

of her past or motives. It took her no more than ten cycles of the sun to learn how

to read letters with ease, and how to form writings of her own. Within

four moons she had memorized the songs of Achilles and Odysseus, which

Epiphanes said were the great works of their civilization. “It is because this

Hellena is backwards, he said, “that you have not developed them yet. To name

yourself Greeks without Homer is as shameful as a warrior without a sword.

Perhaps you will be able to bring it to the people where I have failed. I sometimes

weep when I think that there are children raised without those great words.” When

she questioned him more he reminded her that she had secrets she too was

not ready to reveal, and that he would hold his close until the time was right.

The island that had been claimed by Sophia’s father was small compared to those

owned by clever Odysseus or lord of men Agammemnon, yet learned Epiphanes

needed little to teach Sophia of the entire world. After letters she studied

mathematics, thoughts that would not be put down by Euclid until long after her

bones had turned to dust, and after that she gave her time to studying the forms

of life, followed by rhetoric, tactics, chemistry and music. He taught her the ideas

of Socrates and Heraclitus and Aristotle, easy to accept, for she had understood

ever since she removed her eye that the appearance of the world was not the truth

of it. History was her great love. He taught her not just of the past but of what may

be to come, if the world willed it, though he would not say how he had come

to learn these things. She understood, at last, the desire for which she had longed.

Without understanding such a thing was possible she had wanted to be remembered,

not a useless wife or sailor who would with time become a whisper, but a woman

of whom Herodotus would speak once his time arrived. To be forgotten was to

die, she thought. Yes, that it is the thing for which she had paid her eye. She told

Epiphanes this one night as he was describing the Ethiopians. He stopped his story

and starred at her. She looked back, no longer fearful of his gaze. “Child,” he said,

“you possess perhaps a keener mind than me. Sadly that means nothing when you

have not felt the arrows of life pierce your heart. I understand already you have

been tested in some ways. This does not give you wisdom. Remember, all is vanity

and vexation of spirit. Even if you appear in histories of the great they will one

day be forgotten. They are not immune to becoming dust. If this is what you traded

for, your payment has been meager.”

Enraged, she stood. “You say that this is dust, yet teach me all the same. Would

you claim that our time has been a waste? Why bother teaching me about a

world that is vanity of spirit? Because the goddess said, and you obeyed?

You have not even achieved what you claimed you could. At night my visions

are as hideous as ever. Should I have had you thrown from the cliffs as soon

as you arrived?” He looked into the fire and waited long before he spoke. “Perhaps,”

he said, “I would not have been so angry if you had done that. Yet you did not, so I did

my duty given by Pallas. I promise, I have never lost sight of giving the aid you

seek. Yet there are things I cannot explain with mere words. To understand the

movements of Chaos in your sight there are many first steps to take. Until they

are prepared, any help I gave would fall to the earth like a flower that failed to

bloom.” At this she stormed away. He waited for the rest of the night, and the next

morning she did not appear. It took three days for her to make a decision about

how she would find what she sought. She met him restringing a lyre, and said

to him, “Tell me the secrets of the Academy.” For the first time ever, his

eyes were filled with shock. “If you do not,” she said, “I will leave this place, and

search alone for cures to my madness.” He finished tying strings to the bends

of the instrument as she talked, and strummed a single chord. “How did that

word come to pass your lips?” he said. It was from a sailor, she explained, who

had arrived with a trading ship. He had helped take Epiphanes to this island,

and asked after his health. “Does he still rave about the Academy of Alexylva?”

he had asked. She would have asked her teacher that night what the words

of the shipman meant, yet a vision made her hesitate. It was if the Chaos had

given a threat. If you ask, the roiling darkness told her, you will witness

things in me that you will never unsee after. She kept the word to herself

until now, when she no longer held fear for what the darkness could inflict.

Epiphanes nodded. “I see. You have given me no choice at all. For, when I

answer your question, you may depart this place all the same. I can only

help give preparation, and perhaps wise words you will eventually heed.

I will tell all, but first know this. You cannot find the Academy, though you

will undoubtedly make the attempt. It appears only before those it

selects for itself. I had hope to prepare you to the point where it would

bring you to its gates. Yet you have not the patience. Very well. Here

is the knowledge you seek.

You are well familiar with Chaos, from which your eye will never let you look

away. It is from its primordial, ever-changing depths that all things were made,

except for one. Even a child understands that a house is never built without

a plan, and there must be something to create it. Think! Could Chaos do

this thing? Could Chaos alone give shape to the world? Naturally not.

Alone it would merely twist and turn ceaselessly, and nothing would exist.

What took the Chaos, what gave form to the matter, was its twin, which

moved with purpose, a plan, and created structure from that which had

none. What to call this thing? Perhaps Order is the word. But all who have

encountered it have known it through a single form, the Academy of

Alexylva. Like its churning brother, it exists beyond this world, above all

worlds. They connect to it like spokes encircle the center of a wheel. Worlds,

indeed I said! You think this is the only one? There are ten thousand seas

and ten thousand wars of Troy, and ten thousand mountains that house

ten thousand of every god. All of it was shaped by the Academy. Greece,

this great land, is what Alexylva has created. It is a haven from the

nothingness that surrounds us. Tell me, do you know what would happen

if you sailed to far to the east, or the west, or the south? What you would

encounter? Why I have not yet taught you of those places? They simply

do not exist. Travel across the ocean for enough nights and it will

disappear, and you with it, back to become Chaos. It is constantly

trying to push deeper in, to take us all back within it, and the Academy

does all it can to give us life. That is the place I wanted you to reach,

where you would be safe from the darkness that attempts to invade

you.” He stopped when he saw the girl was growing pale. Her eye

rolled back deep into her head, and he barely managed to catch her

as she fell. Her body quaked, like the last spasms of a dying man. As

he held her in his arms, he saw a shadow was beginning to move

across her face, crawling out of her empty socket. It was as if

thousands of insects grew beneath her skin and burst out to

scatter across the earth. Tiny beads of black that covered all,

unceasing. Epiphanes struggled to keep his student in his arms, but

the darkness was too mighty of a force. It ripped her away, and tossed him

through the air, and he felt his old body crack as it met the Earth. His legs lay

limp before him. Helpless as a child, he watched chaos churn across

the earth, with Sophia at its center, dissolving all it touched back into the

nothingness of its past. It moved without purpose or reason. It merely

knew that it was free, that with this freedom it would spread without

limit.

Higher on the hill a handmaiden knelt beside a stream, collecting water in

a jug. Lost in reveries, she did not notice the water she gathered turning black

until the jar she held burst and the foul new liquid splattered across her

skin. In that instant she suddenly knew what it was like to not exist. For less

than a second she glimpsed inside herself absolute emptiness, saw that she

had come from nothing, was nothing still, only covered by a thin lie. How long

that moment must have lasted! How deep the abyss must have seemed! She

had time to speak only a single word, “liars!”, before the chaos enveloped

her completely. It followed the river, and spread through the grass, and climbed

the trees, and devoured every creature from insect to lamb. Husbands tried

to save their children but only perished with them. A pair of lovers, deep

in an embrace, did not even notice the wave until it overtook them. Lysistrate,

at the front of her palace, watched the shadows rush towards her and smiled.

In the center of all this lay Sophia, and her empty socket which had become

a gate. All of this she saw through the shadows, as if her own body had joined

with the chaos beneath. It was hers no longer. Nothingness cannot belong

to any man or woman. Amid the chaos, she did not exist. She never

existed. She never would exist. In pure absence existed no trace of mind,

or body, or earth, or time. All was not.

Then, again, she was real, and standing above her in the dark was the

most-wise goddess, and Sophia found herself filled with strength. She

rose to stand. The rough beauty of Athena weakened her legs, but

Sophia refused to fall. The pair stood in a place that should have made

the mortal collapse in the bitter cold, surrounded by snow and ice, a

mountain peak further than any man could travel. The warmth of Athena

protected her from this. The goddess clutched a spear that appeared more

like a beam of light, and around them snow fell not. Before Pallas

Sophia felt a wretchedness new to her. Not sorrow, not hate, but a simple,

clear knowledge of her mistakes. It was this that made her fall to her knees

before the goddess. “The blame is mine,” she said. “I have cursed all

unlucky enough to know me. I have let myself be used for ends of destruction.

If you wish to kill me, goddess, I deserve not even that. Better that I live

with knowledge of my shame, than be given the easy escape of death.” Athena’s

voice seemed to come from all around the air, and Sophia’s bones shook

with it. “If I killed you, regretful Sophia, you could not serve your

purpose. You seem to think you are a person, free to make choices and feel

shame. You are no more of a person than the spear I clutch. If you

feel regret, obey me and perhaps win back some honor. If you reject

this bargain, you will obey me still, but only as a slave. Whether this way

or the other, you will learn your place in the world.” She turned, and

the rock next to her opened into blinding light. “Step through here if you

wish to become mine. Down this path is the Academy. There you will study

what Epiphanes could not teach, and you will learn the true ways of Greece

against the void.”

In this way the broken child entered Alexylva, as the fates knew she

would at her birth, as the world had been prepared for since Nothing

was first formed into Man.