“My family got hold of this map just a century ago, as I’ve been told. Should still be close enough to reality,“ she noted. The claw of her smaller arm roamed, beginning from the neighbourhood of a small Dokan city, Cibin, until it finally pointed out Arcut. Mortigus looked closer at the territories, reading all the unfamiliar town and village names along the path awaiting him. 

  “You should take this map with you,” she urged him. ”It’ll lead you to Arcut way better than blind luck, though it would still be hard to navigate through these parts alone.”
  “Do you suggest you-”

  “ Oh no, I can’t really leave with you,” interjected Lut, “I have to take care of my home after all. But I will try to reach out to a guide for you, she should be able to escort you most of the way there.”

  After ruminating for a minute, Mortigus agreed to Lut’s offer. “I’d actually like to try to copy the map of the human lands,” he added. “I’d rather not borrow it without knowing if I can return it.”

  “Sure, if that's what you want. It’ll take a while until a response from the guide arrive anyway.“ 

  With their new agreement, the two continued to discuss the maps and books stored in the private room. Lut described, teetering on the edge of boasting, the efforts of her ancestors to keep delicate items such as these intact after centuries. Besides the mindful conditions of the room, runes were imprinted on the front pages of books. Such runes acted as contracts of sorts, greatly slowing down their deterioration as long as the promise of reading said books at the very least once every 5 years was kept. Magic was surprisingly sentimental when it came to items, so Mortigus thought. During his time in that room, a bizarre sensation crept in gradually, a minuscule bug crawling under his skin along his back. He tossed it aside as being still uncomfortable underground, perhaps he should move his lessons to another spot.

  After presenting Mortigus with a short lesson plan of languages and the use of magical objects, Lut covered back the archives and headed to dine in the kitchen, joined by the mycolian. Shortly after, Mortigus headed to his burrow beside the shed, lighting a couple of bioluminescent mushrooms before sitting down. His hands opened the book he’d just borrowed, touching its inscribed cover, “We who are defined in ink”. He felt a sting of nostalgia, a hazy memory of his childhood, as he stared at the first page, not even registering the words. He shook his head and began to read properly the introduction, though the archaic words and old-fashioned dialect pose some trouble. After an hour of reading the first three chapter, he summarised the theme of the book as the role of writings and maps in the understanding of the world, like a preservation of the past which then offers clues about the present. It was rather fascinating for the mycolian, though he just scratched a few of the nuances of the book. He flipped back to the table of contents noticing a couple of chapters focused on the making of maps, notes and documents. 

    He let down the book, crashing his head onto the makeshift moss bed. A familiar softness welcomed Mortigus in the world of dreams, together with the singing of crickets. With the light from his eye slowly extinguished, reality disappeared between a few blinks, letting a giant grass field surround him. Mortigus snapped back onto his feet, staring at the misty sea of greenery encompassing all. With the horizons swallowed by the teal sky welding seamlessly into the field, he attempted to reach into the ground, met only by barren soil. Suddenly, the toneless sky turned dark as golden stars sprouted, filling the tapestry above him. Mortigus moved his legs, wanting to run, but instinctually he knew it was for naught. The stars were following him, no, they were approaching him, steadily so, no matter the direction he headed in. The ground finally started to rumble, the air shaking, his body tensing, as the shine of the stars revealed itself as the shine of metal arrow tips descending while carrying the weight of bricks and stones. The arrows traced a sinuous path through the air, rooftops of towers slipping into view like serpents in their wake, winding toward the field like the roots of an old tree crushing the skyline. The pillars of silvery grey came close all around Mortigus, stopping abruptly as soon as their metal roof spikes brushed against the grass. In the cage of breathing pillars, one spire was snaking closer and closer, its rocky body twisting, its bell chamber rotating as if to keep always a window facing Mortigus. The slithering tower met the mycolian’s gaze, and its bell rang like overlapping thunders, stunning Mortigus’ brain. The shouting bell lowered its voice slowly, and the torchlights from the windows focused on Mortigus, and the bell’s beats unravelled into a voice, each toll shaping itself into words.
  “Mould of the world, grow fearlessly. View of the world, stretch shamelessly. Desire of the world, linger belligerently. All paths are led by your desires first, your feet second. Pause, and I shall not need to chase you anymore, oh greedy one, sad one, forgotten one, forgetful one. Old body, new body, old body, nobody to trust, no body to trust. What does the life pulsing inside you shout while you mute it with your thoughts? Doors are to be opened from inside and outside, yet after all these years you do not fathom the handle. No need to speak, your words always reach me. No need to despair, your wants always reach me. No need to breathe; your blood always reaches me. Oh greedy one, sad one, forgotten one, forgetful one, you shall remember me as I remember you, as I remember each one. May you beknown as you want to be known.“

  As the spire spoke its last words, the mangle of towers lifted the field by their roof spikes and came together, crushing the world. Mortigus flung forward, awake, with the first signs of sunrise reaching his feet inside the burrow. His body was pumped, shocked to its core. Mortigus crawled outside, frantically looking around. Lut’s plot of land was unchanged, morning dew sliding down grass blades and into the ground, to the mycelium greeting him. Mortigus took a few deep breaths, grounding himself. It was still a bit too early even for a morning person such as Lut. Mortigus nabbed one of Lut’s gardening tools and headed to the shade of a tree. He thought of Arbero’s teachings and of the days in his forest of solitude and considered a way to break himself out of his trance. He placed his left hand against the hard trunk and pressed strongly with the blade of the hand hoe. The top half of his hand rolled down the tree’s roots and onto the ground, his liquid Essence poured over the bark. He let out a minor muffled shout, but after his days of practice, he was able to manage the pain, as loud as it banged in his head. He steadied his wrist and concentrated, pushing his Essence to close the wound and to force his flesh to string back together. Elastic but durable filaments steadily grew from the severed-like stems of young plants, forming a mycolian’s equivalent for a hand’s bones. Ten minutes later and his hand had fully regenerated, though the effort kept him panting as he leaned against the tree. He could tell his body was improving in this process, little by little, and he welcomed the way his mind was fulfilled, engrossed by it. 

 He prepared to cut off his other and promptly slashed it off with the hoe. He let out a solid grunt and dropped the hoe, recoiling from the pain. Right then Lut appeared, following the grunts of pain she’d heard, now facing the bleeding Mortigus. She gasped at the sight and quickly untied her shawl.

  “Mortigus, what happened? Quick, let me wrap your wrist to stop the bleeding! Sis someone sneak past the bushes?” she exclaimed, panicked.

  “Wait, aghh, don’t worry!” interjected Mortigus. “It was me! I’m actually fine, there is no real danger!”

 Lut was stunned for a second, still extending her arms with the shawl to treat Mortigus; hand. He shook what was left of his hands in denial, assuring her again that he would heal to normal in just a few minutes. Lut’s eyes betrayed her dismay, she struggled to believe Mortigus and his nonchalant demeanour. Ten fingers were lying down in the grass at his feet, his Essence painted the bark and the hand hoe, yet she was the one truly panicked. After a few more assurances from the mycolian, she regained her composure and asked him to lie down and let himself heal while she tended the garden. She hesitated to offer any further comments and simply left while struggling to look down.

  Mortigus was not so oblivious as to miss the fact that he and his kind might take self-mutilation too lightly compared to not just humans, but many other beings such as the Chitindras. Mycolians must seem rather morbid from an outside perspective. He felt guilty for making her shudder. He needed to apologise right after his right hand grew back. Certainly moving forward he should hide better when training his body.

  Though things remained uncomfortable between the two for the rest of the morning, Lut snapped back to her cheeky demeanour eventually. Half a week drifted by after that incident, with them sharing meals, doing chores and reading little by little. The Diplomat’s monocle and pendant did not budge yet at his Essence, but he couldn’t expect to learn their method of operation so soon. He planned to attentively copy the map of Doka and Meniah. 

  Close to the hour of the sunset, he sneaked a peek away from his work at Lut standing outside with her arm stretched out forward. He followed her eyes and spotted a large, fluttering butterfly, its wings woven from transparent strokes of subtle colours. If he wouldn’t have looked directly in its direction, he would’ve missed it for sure. The sylphlike butterfly descended onto Lut’s hand gently, spreading its wings and stretching so hard it almost split. Its thin body turned even thinner as it morphed into paper, and its head dissolved into a wax seal. The insect revealed itself in Lut’s hand as a letter with barely any signs of writing. Lut brought the letter close to her mouth and brushed her antennae against its contents. She headed inside to write a reply, where she met Mortigus’ curious gaze. 

  “A message from a friend,” clarified Lut, waving the letter. “She’s returning to these parts in a few days after she completes an errand. I’ll write her right away to ask for the favour of escorting you to Arcut.” 

  Mortigus was delighted at the news. Lut took a thin brush and carefully rubbed it against the spots on her chest and abdomen, then stroked the paper in deliberate lines, though Mortigus couldn’t see distinct words behind her lines. After writing her answer, she stapled the same seal from her friend’s letter onto hers. Lut returned outside and tapped on a tree’s branch. She tapped once, twice, and on the third a twig broke off, shaking on the branch as the leaves hanging on it melted into it. From the mesh, a plump form was born, a hazel-coloured caterpillar of plant tissues looking around with its new tranquil eyes. Lut lightly stroked the caterpillar’s back and placed her letter in front of it. The caterpillar began tirelessly gnawing the letter, devouring it in less than a minute. Satisfied, it wiggled its legs lazily towards the edge of the branch. From its apparent mouth a silky strand came out, steadily enveloping itself in a cocoon and hanging itself on the branch. Lut kept guard of the cocoon for several minutes until finally slender limbs parted away the silk, marking the butterfly’s rebirth. Its head and wings squirmed until it escaped its cocoon. At a closer glance, in the amber light, stretched words imprinted the wings of the magical insect. Lut reached her hand again, inviting the butterfly to walk onto it, then waving it forward. The butterfly fluttered away on its own quiet mission.

  “It won’t reach her until the end of the week, most likely,” remarked Lut. “So we’ll have to wait a bit more, though you don’t mind it, right?”

   Mortigus had to simply continue his new schedule, which soothed his impatience. He had retreated to his burrow yet again on that evening, remarking on the sunset’s disappearance. An otherworldly feeling chilled him. The winds howled wildly, biting his back even from inside the burrow. A storm brewed on the horizon, its clouds thick and swollen, heavy with moisture that seemed ready to collapse under its own weight. They churned in slow, ominous rolls, their underbellies bruised with deep purple and sickly green, a soured sky. The air carried an unnatural haze, thick and cloying, wrapping the world in a dense, almost tangible shroud. The spores, unseen but ever-present, drifted as restless ghosts, saturating the atmosphere and feeding the storm like a relentless tide, their presence an eerie prelude to the incoming deluge. Distant thunder rumbled, a low and guttural growl that vibrated through bones, heralding the storm’s wrath. The wind stirred in uneasy bursts, curling around twisted branches and rattling through brittle leaves, as if whispering a warning too late to heed. The first gentle raindrops bounced off his cap and touched the ground. A dust devil brushed against his feet, redirecting his eye at Lut, straining the earth to close all openings of her giant burrow. The soil swirled at her command until the burrow was fully sheltered. She then rushed past him, grabbing him by the arm. 

   “We need to cover the garden! A rainstorm of that size will swipe it all away!” She cried out distressed. The words barely left her mouth before the sky turned to sobbing uncontrollably, tiny droplets swelling into cascading torrents.

  Quick on his feet, Mortigus stomped the ground firmly, shielding his makeshift burrow in rigid fungi, the rain now sliding off the dense packs of mushrooms with wide caps and away. He then followed Lut towards the garden, though his vision was fogged by columns of water. Dust swirled around Lut’s arms, defying the rain, and she plunged her claws into the ground, digging deeper the canals between the straight rows of vegetables and raising short walls to fend off the winds. The soil beds grew elevated across the entire acre.