Can I Post?

Well, what a surprise. The Formerly Forbidden Cauldron is mine again. With my updated operating system, I find I can post here once more. What shall I do with this Cauldron? I've already moved my weekly stories and posts to the Cauldron of Eternal Inspiration at inspirationcauldron.wordpress.com. Perhaps I can use this place for guests rather than my livejournal at cauldronkeeper.livejournal.com? I think this Cauldron shall be a place of monthly updates, monthly snippets and blurby expressions of what I'm up to. Here's a little taste of something I've working on to celebrate this Cauldron's rebirth... “Leiwell, my Leiwell.” He buried his face in the younger man’s hair, tasting his brow with eager lips. “I have starved for you and the Shadow Forest has starved along with me.” “Starve no more.” Leiwell bared his neck, dropping to his knees before his master. “Feed until you are satiated.” Dyvian lay a hand upon his forehead but it was only a touch. “I can’t. Your brothers were right, Leiwell. You must be allowed to recover your vitality.”

Paula's Prompts: Wednesday Words

On June 24, 2020, P.T. Wyant posted at ptwyant.com the Wednesday Words prompt 'a day late and a dollar short.'

This poem was the result...

The story is late again

The existing tales are a dollar short

They’re too many dollars short

Expectations of publication falling flat, tripping over reality

There’s no even enough for a cup of coffee

Publish enough and you’ll gain revenue from each work

Publish enough and save enough to self-publish

Only the works are disappearing from the venues

Rights reverting, stories returning

Sources of revenue drying up

Leaving me distracted, having to find them new homes

There’s still not enought to self-publish

What have I learned from publication?

No matter how hard I try not to, I make mistakes

No matter how cautious I am, I founder

Left with less cash for myself, let alone everyone else

Sometimes I want to cry

Knowing I’m a single voice crying out in a sea of voices

All a day late and a dollar short

Some never get published

Some never open that door

It’s just the first in a series of doors

May I move beyond a day late and a dollar short

Only I find myself in a place neither better nor worse

Looking at bigger and bigger problems

Along with bigger and bigger rewards

Part of my soul shrinks from this

My cautious, cowardly soul

Seeing the monoliths of success trapped on their pedestals

Yes, they misstepped, but it’s so easy to misstep

Say the wrong thing, write the wrong thing

Letting loose the arrow that strikes the vulnerable reader

I’ve loosed that arrow

I’ve been struck so many times

I’ve done all this while I’m still tiny

How much worse would it be if I was great?

Am I afraid of greatness?

How much is me being small?

How much of that smallness is fear of greatness?

I envy it, yet I fear it

A dangerous combination

To learn is to grow

What alternative is there, to shrink?

To stop learning?

I have to grow, I have succeed

Even if one of the obstacles is myself

I have to overcome myself to become myself

Opening door after door

Hoping there are wonders along with horrors 

All waiting behind the next one. 

#QueerBlogWed: Paula's Prompts

On May 20, 2020, P.T. Wyant posted at ptwyant.com a Wednesday Words prompt involving an imposter, a note, and a portrait.

This letter from Elizabeth Hartford to Westerleigh Hartford, characters from my attempt at elegant gothic horror, A Portrait Is Worth a Thousand Words, was the result...

Have you found this note, my little imposter? 

Yes, I know you’re lying. You’ve snuck onto my estate, into my library under false pretenses. Yet you are one of my blood, a Hartford. You’re one who’s looked into the painted eyes of my portrait, felt the craving to serve me, to worship me in all the darkest crevices of your secret heart you struggle to conceal from the world.

Well and good. This means I can grant your wish, my dear. I have need of you, for your lady has made terrible mistakes. Yes, this may be difficult for you to comprehend in your innocence idealism, but I still walk the earth, even if I no longer live and breathe. My soul is trapped within pain by one who once loved me, yet did not know her own power. 

It is essential that you come to know yours, my duplicitous, yet devoted descendent. You must unlock what lies within your blood and brain, to access the part of me which lives inside you. 

This won’t be easy. Anyone who loves you will resist your efforts. You yourself as an individual may resist. What remains of me, unliving and feeding on life, will not be your ally. This is why it is crucial that you prepare to embrace me, to allow me within your heart and mind.

I speak in riddles, a maddening practice, yet necessary for me to mentor you from beyond the grave while allowing you to develop on your own. You were clever enough to deceive the caretaker of my estate and achieve access to my home. You must be clever enough to un-riddle the meaning of this note. 

I swear to you, I will always be near you, even if I am limited in how much I can act. If ever you doubt yourself or me, go to my portrait. Look at me, into the painted eyes which represent mine. They are the windows to my soul, more truly than actual eyes ever are. They will give you courage. They will give you resolve.

I sense your adoration, a sentiment I cannot reciprocate, but you’ve hardly earned it, have you, little imposter? What you have is my confidence and my trust. No, you haven’t earned these either, but they are your birthright and of far greater value than any mere affection. Whatever else you might be, you are my blood descendent, a part of myself. My purpose has nowhere else to live but in you.

Do not disappoint me, little imposter. Do not disappoint yourself. 

Sincerely,

Elizabeth Hartford

#QueerBlogWed: Paula's Prompts

On May 13, 2020, P.T. Wyant posted at ptwyant.com a Wednesday Words prompt involving ink, a red flower, and a middle-aged woman.

This poem was the result...

A middle-aged woman sees ink on her fingers

Petals fall from a red flower in front of her

How strange to get flowers

That someone would give her one

The ink was what mattered, not her

Why would anyone notice her?

Why would she want to be noticed?

It was her words that mattered

Not the woman who wrote them

The woman was the words

Why waste time wanting flowers?

Yet flowers appeared in her stories

Petals fell around creations of perfect beauty

Beauty was always important

She thought she herself had none

It was all in her words

Captured on ink, delivered in prose

Don’t look at the ink stains

Look at the words

All my beauty is in each sentence

Look for me there

Only someone insisted it was in her face

Someone insisted on giving her a flower

She didn’t know what to do with it

She’d given up on romance

It was all in the ink

Look at the ink

Wash away her regrets with ink

Her life was written in ink

There is nothing more

Why would someone see more?

A trace of beauty, a hidden kindness

She no longer believed in these things

What could she do with the flower?

Where could she possibly put it?

Among all her notebooks marked with ink

She made a place for that flower

Uncertain if she wanted it

Uncertain of the giver

Sometimes she watches its petals fall

Watching its beauty wilt and fade

Like time, like life

Like every precious moment she had left

Trickling through her fingers

Soon all the petals will drop

The flower will be gone

That doesn’t make it any less pretty

A bright burst of color amidst an army of notebooks

An offering of the earth amidst offerings of ink. 

Paula's Prompts: Wednesday Words

On May 6, 2020, P.T. Wyant posted at ptwyant.com a Wednesday Words prompt involving a late season snowstorm, an open can and either a cure or a curse. I've managed to work both of the last into the poem, which was my response to this...

Far too hot for a snowstorm

Yet the snow was settled there

Lying in patches on the ground

Hanging in icicles from the roof

It was far too hot for warm drinks

Too cold for fresh vegetables

Something was poured from an open can

Red, thick, exuding a sour smell

This was back when people were still being served

Cursing their bad luck for being caught in this crowd

Broiling in front of the open fire

How innocent we were

Sitting around at tables, packed together

Sweating in mutual discomfort

How innocent we were

I don’t miss the discomfort

Not the snow, not the concoction in the can

I miss the innocence

Is there a cure for our condition?

Should that innocence return?

The innocence of a crowd sitting at tables

Unaware of any danger other than discomfort

Maybe there was always danger

Lurking in wait in the crowds

Never defined or definite

We could touch the table others sat at

Not worrying about clung to our fingers

Only grime, dirt, and something smelly

Not a virus scattered by past fingers.

#QueerBlogWed: Byron's Song Part 3

On April 29, 2020, P.T. Wyant posted at ptwyant.com  a Wednesday Words prompt involving a water fountain, a celebration, and a mask.

This inspired a On the Other Side of the Mask freebie story so huge I broke it into segments. This is the third and final part...

Lord Ruthvyn made a curt nod to a young gentleman with strawberry-blonde curls standing nearby, dressed in a purple velvet, a porcelain tragedy mask with ribbons concealing his face. No, it wasn’t a gentleman, at least not a lord. It was only Nathaniel, grabbing his arm, pulling Byron to his feet like he had so many times. This time, he led his young charge away from his lord, the party, and the garden, guiding him in the direction of the manor.

Was Olympia somewhere in the party, wearing a comedy mask in contast with Nathaniel’s tragedy? Byron fought the urge to laugh.

“None of that!” Nathaniel hissed, pinching his arm not nearly as hard as he could have. “You’ve already been insolent to the point of madness, not that you haven’t tried anything particularly special.” He gave Byron a little shake. “Do you think you’re the first to try to win our lord over with carnal affections? Seducing him is deadly, you little fool.”

“Lord Ruthvyn wants me to seduce him.” Byron allowed his tongue to be bold and reckless. Why not? “He wants to be seduced with songs, to suck the warmth and life right out of me.”

“Try that again and he’ll do it with such speed you won’t have a chance to fight back. You’ll be left a bloodless corpse, an ice sculpture, or worse.” Nathaniel shook him again. “What will become of Shelley if you allow yourself to be consumed in such a fashion?”

Genuine concern flickered in Nathaniel’s words, accompanied by a familar warmth, a memory of aquamarine eyes filled with yearning set in a heart-shaped face, surrounded by strawberry blonde curls. Byron wasn’t sure if Nathaniel was sending him the images through his fingers or it was simply his own yearning for Shelley conjuring him up. Whichever it was, he grabbed his captor, forcing him to stop and face him. 

“You’ve seen him.” Byron looked into the slits of the servant’s mask, trying to read anything he could of his expression. “Why do you care what becomes of Shelley? Or me for that matter?”

“I shouldn’t care. It’s dangerous to care.” Nathaniel shook his head, the ribbons around his mask swaying. “Your emotions have a heat which draws everything on this estate close to you, in spite of the danger.”

“How is he?” Byron let the question escape him, filled with all the yearning he tried to conceal, but how could he? The other half of his soul had been taken from him. 

“Yearning for you as much as you yearn for him. Seeking the humanity in myself, Olympia, and our lord, no matter how foolish it might be.” Nathaniel turned towards the estate, the upper levels. Was he looking at a particular light in a window. “He has a kind heart, your Shelley. Kindness is…unusual.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” Dared he to hope that it might be Shelley’s window? “We are as kind as we choose to be.”

“Now you sound like him.” Nathaniel claimed his arm and began leading Byron back to the estate. “Don’t let yourselves become too alike just because you miss each other. Our lord might decide he no longer wants both of you.” Nathaniel drew a long, shuddering breath. “One of you will disappear if he does.”

Byron resisted the urge to swallow, to shudder at these words. He wouldn’t show fear. He wouldn’t show weakness. Not in front of Lord Ruthvyn or his servants. No matter how frightened he truly was. 

It was only a matter of time before both Shelley and himself disappeared. He sensed this as keenly as he sensed the concern flickering in Nathaniel, a concern he wasn’t sure if Olympia possessed. 

Don’t be too alike. Perhaps Nathaniel had learned this the hard way. 

Byron felt the chill left behind in his mouth by Lord Ruthvyn’s cold kiss. He wondered if it would ever leave him. If his mouth and throat would ever be warm again. 

Perhaps not.

#QueerBlogWed: Byron's Song Part 2

On April 29, 2020, P.T. Wyant posted at ptwyant.com a Wednesday Words prompt involving a water fountain, a celebration, and a mask.

This swelled into a On the Other Side of the Mask freebie story so large I broke it into segments. This is the second part...

The trick was to fall, sway, and move with the riddle. To become part of it. To use Lord Ruthvyn’s madness against him. To seduce the madness, thus seducing the master.

Byron smiled with pure sweetness and made a little bow, wondering if he startled his lord’s guests, hoping that he did. A murmur came from the crowd, but it was more admiration than fear. 

Let them admire him if they dared. Once Byron had everyone’s attention, he began to sing. A low, rippling note, growing higher and higher.

More than a few guests clapped their hands over their ears. Not Lord Ruthvyn. Byron could pick his slender figure, clad in a tuxedo out from the crowd, the curve of his red lips below a devil’s mask, painted wood, carved horns, bulges in all the wrong place drawing attention to the contours of its face, and slits where dark eyes filled with melancholy mockery back at the world. Not a clue as what he was thinking was shown in his mouth or his mask.

This maddened Byron. He held onto the high note for a painfully long moment before descending, making each sound more earthy, more seductive. Time for the song itself. 

“Chasing shadows

Wisps of warmth

What do you dream?”

He searched for Shelley while singing, searched for that sensitivity which made the air tremble before the other boy appeared, the special warmth he gave everything around him before you saw his slight form, the sweet, heart-shaped face surrounded by strawberry-blonde curls, the cupid’s bow of a mouth which invited kisses. No sign of him of watching or waiting. His warmth was gone if it had ever been here.

He felt the anger rising, heating him. Shelley’s warmth was for Byron alone. It had infuriated him back at the Cathedral when Mae or Claire reached for it, greedy flowers craving the other boy’s light. Now that light had been taken by a pale lord and locked away. Unbearable insult even if it was right, proper, and even merciful on the outskirts of Paradise. 

Byron allowed that anger to creep into his smile, his song, all the anger he’d ever felt towards the man who’d snatched two songbirds away from the Goddess’s Cathedral, to separate and trap them in his personal cages. 

“High above the sorrows

Untouched by harm

When will you scream?”

Not perfect, nothing like the original poet whose name he’d taken, the Byron from outside Paradise, but the challenge was in the lyrics. Pale lords didn’t scream. They couldn’t. They’d lost the fear, the passion which allowed such a sound to swell within a breast, to escape from a throat. 

There was an uneasy stir in the crowd while many a masked figure grew still, far stiller than usual. He’d struck at where once there’d been a heart with his song. 

Time for the final blow. 

Byron stepped down from the figures in the fountain, passing through the spray of water, feeling it soak into his hair and clothes. This hadn’t been choreographed. He was supposed to stay away from arcing path of the spray’s dance, out of reach of the guests.

Too bad. 

He stepped out of the fountain, soggy and wet. He touched the sleeve of a guest’s coat with damp fingers. Another he winked at. 

The pale lords shrank back from him, yet gazed at him through the slits of their masks in fascination. Byron wouldn’t allow his attention to settle on anyone other than the distant devil. 

His lord moved away from the crowd, directly in his path. Byron weaved his way through the guests, approaching his master. All the while he sang.

“A mask conceals furrows

Disdaining all charms

Are you what you seem?”

He stopped right in front of Lord Ruthvyn, ready for the final scandal. He reached up to seize his master’s face, pulling it towards his own. Those red lips beneath the mask were near enough to taste and he would taste them. 

Byron fastened his mouth upon his lord’s, claiming it in a kiss. 

He expected to be shoved away or to receive the back of his master’s hand. Instead Lord Ruthvyn enfolded his songbird in his arms, accepting the kiss. 

Cold spread through Byron’s mouth, reaching down his throat. Ice invaded his chest, chilling his nostrils, his temples. The chill sought every crevice within him, squeezing his heart. 

At the same time, Byron felt a stirring between his master’s legs even as he froze. 

“It’s not wise to stir my passions too swiftly, little songbird.” Lord Ruthvyn withdrew from Byron, still holding the boy loosely in his arms. “Or do you think you possess enough heat to satisfy me?”

Byron couldn’t speak, couldn’t get his frozen tongue to move. His teeth chattered. 

“What’s wrong, Byron?” His master gave him a little shake. “Where’s your rebel courage, your proud resolve? Surely one kiss didn’t make you forget what truly matters to you.” 

Lord Ruthvyn let him go. Never had he seemed taller, or to cast such a long shadow, looking down at the boy with his lower lip curled in amused contempt. 

“Where is Shelley? Or did you forget to look for him?” The pale lord cocked his head to the side, studying his shivering songbird. “Have you spotted him yet?”

“He’s not here.” Byron forced the words through his trembling lips. “You promised he’d be here. You promised I’d see him.”

“And you promised to sing for me. Not to disturb my celebration with your crude attempts to seduce me.” Lord Ruthvyn gave his songbird a shove before stepping away. 

Byron stumbled, falling to his knees. Tears threatened to well up in his eyes, but no. He wouldn’t cry. Not in front of the pale lords. Especially not in front of Lord Ruthvyn. 

“This is what happens to those who lie, those who disobey and disturb the happiness of others.” His master crossed his arms, glancing from Byron to everyone in the gathering. “Remember this.”

“What do you know of happiness?” Byron looked up behind a dark curl which fell forward over his eye, to glare at the shadow waiting to consume him as always. “You’ll never be happy, no matter how much you drain from me or anyone else.”

“Pray you’re wrong about that. For Shelley’s sake. For your own.” Dark eyes gleaming through the slits in a devil’s mask fixed themselves upon his. “From now on, my happiness is yours. My unhappiness as well. You’re mine, Byron. You exist to serve me.” The words trembled in the air, vibrating as they made their way into Byron’s ears, the recesses of his brain. “If I suffer, so shall you.”

To be continued on Wednesday; September 16, 2020...

#QueerBlogWed: Byron's Song Part 1

On April 29, 2020, P.T. Wyant posted at ptwyant.com a Wednesday Words prompt involving a water fountain, a celebration, and a mask.

The results swelled into a On the Other Side of the Mask freebie story so large I had to break it down into segments. Here is the first part...

Night had never been a time of celebration. Not in the Cathedral of the Goddess at the heart of Paradise. It was a time of silence, where shivering children huddled in their thin blankets on their narrow beds, eyes shut tight, trying to lay as still as possible in the darkness, praying that darkness wouldn’t notice. 

In the meantime, the pale lords of darkness would celebrate within their moonlit grounds. Drinking from bubbling glasses, filled with red liquid that let out a faint scream or sigh when it touched a lord or lady’s crimson lips. Those mouths were all Byron could see of their white faces, hidden beneath many a mask. A crowd had gathered around the fountain in Lord Ruthvyn’s garden. Many of his guests wore tuxedos, top hats, or silken evening gowns, but everyone wore a mask. Various animals snarled and grinned at each other, abstract concept were warped into porcelain or wood, concealing the face of the wearer. It was all part of the fun, the game. Just who was hiding behind the mask? No one knew, but you could guess. Everyone adopted a playful, mocking fashion as they teased and flirted with each other, passing by a ghoul, a satyr, or a mad collection of stars and flowers. Just what did your mask have to say? What might you reveal while hiding yourself?

“Your mask is a part of you as much as your true face.” Lord Ruthvyn’s words caressed Byron’s inner ear, even though he was nowhere near his songbird. Was it part of his power or were Byron’s thoughts speaking to him? On this estate, it could be hard to tell which. Lips touched Byron’s cheek, cool as an ice cube sliding down his skin. “It’s up to you how much of yourself you decide to express or reveal.”

Byron gazed from the spray of water leaping, dancing, forming arcs within the fountain. He stood posed amidst the other cupids, untouched by the water, invisible. Everyone would think the songbird was simply one more statue until he moved. Until he began to sing. Ominous, how easy it was becoming to stand still, without drawing a single breath. He just had to calm his heart and mind, forget what agitated him, or least distance himself from his agitation, from his eternal question. 

Where was Shelley? Was he here in the crowd? The other songbird was smaller than anyone else here. Byron looked at the gathering of lords and ladies, headresses decked with feathers, silk gowns, diamond-covered throats, smirks often revealing themselves beneath the masks. 

“You promised Shelley would be here.” Byron remained still but his anger pulsed through the fountain, spreading out through the ground. It made many a pale lord pause, fixated on the warm energy in the air. Some stuck their tongues out to taste it. “You promised.”

“What’s wrong? Can’t you see him, sense him?” Something cold prickled his neck, like fingers touching him. It was the same sensation Byron got at night at the Cathedral, lying in bed, a sensation that a hungry ghost was present, ready to suck the life out of the sleeping songbirds who breathed too loudly. He’d been right. 

“This is your challenge, my Byron. Sing for me in front of my guests and Shelley shall appear.” Always the master spoke in riddles, wrapping himself in madness and mystery, keeping his confused minions off-balance. “Sing for me and I shall grant your wish.”

(To be continued on Wednesday; September 9, 2020)

#QueerBlogWed: Wednesday Words

On April 22, 2020, P.T. Wyant posted at ptwyant.com a Wednesday Words prompt involving a tile, a pond, and a game.

This story amidst the Tales of the Navel: The Shadow Forest was the result...

What existed before the Garden of Arachne was a blurry memory, punctuated by vivid images. Dyvian didn’t fight these visions the way his arachocratic ladies and relations did. He allowed them to strike his mind, pentrating his thoughts like a droplet of rain upon a pond. He could see the pond in those moments, the spray rising from millions of droplets of water hitting it, changing color. He felt the cool kiss of the spray from where he sat at a table across from Lord Stefan Ashelocke, just the two of them alone with the falls. 

Yes, he remembered Stefan. Back when he smiled, loved, plotted, and schemed. Before  he surrendered to the arms of his Lady Duessa, becoming the First Marriage Feast. A still icon of beauty, immortal and unchanging standing at the very center in the mazes of Duessa’s garden. 

In the visions, Stefan possessed life and color, wearing a midnight doublet which matched his raven hair as he lifted a tile in his slender fingers, placing it in a careful arrangement of waves, wands, crystals, and lightning bolts. It was all part of the game, a symbol of a greater game he sought to impart to his nephew. “Most people simply find a pattern, see it as the pattern. It’s a rare player who creates his own pattern amidst everyone trying to convince him to set the pieces in a pre-conceived design.”

Eyes as rose-purple as a gem or a flower, eyes Damian would one day possess, met Dyvian’s own, filled with mockery at his own wisdom. He allowed his fingers to linger upon the wand he’d just placed. 

Dyvian looked down at the lightning bolt upon the bone in front of him, his own hand tingling with images of a pine twisting in the wind. Perhaps a lightning bolt would stroke it. Perhaps a wand would be taken from its branches. He could smell the metallic odor on the hillside, warning of the coming storm. He could feel the splash of water against his face, the first raindrop signalling its coming. 

Perhaps these images were impressions left upon the bones by their former owners before their remains became game pieces. Perhaps they were part of message left for anyone who played this game Stefan teased Dyvian into again and again. Perhaps they were simply part of the meandering path Dyvian wandered in his own inner landscape. 

Or perhaps the tiles were just telling him what he already knew. It was dangerous to play with the Lord of Mystere, even if he was no more than a memory. Ah, but Dyvian held onto that memory, not wanting to resist it. Why would he? No one resisted Lord Stefan, no one. Even the Lady Duessa, who’d put an end to his games, had once been a violated and adoring victim. 

No more. The lady had consumed her former husband, draining his essence, his energy. Nothing remained of Stefan but a statue, a beautiful shell. This was why Duessa told her court and the boys blossoming in her garden. This was what many chose to believe. 

Was it true? Stefan had left his imprint on many places in Mystere, lingering in the garden, in the memories of those who’d loved him. No, Stefan remained if you were willing to look for him. To let him into your thoughts. 

Dyvian glanced at the pond next to their table, their game, dappled with reflective light. Sometimes the light changed color. You could catch a glimpse of a lost soul, a missing memory with those shifting hues if you looked closely. The fleeting images clinging to the tiles gathered together in each droplet of water, waiting to be found. 

It wasn’t a lost memory Dyvian looked for in the sparkling color. It was an ideal, a secret desire. A youth’s fair face, beardless, framed by wavy dark hair, dominated by a pair of green eyes, brilliant as any emerald. Exquisite. 

Shameful to imagine any boy being more beautiful than those growing in the Gardens of Arachne. Everyone knew they were lovelier than anything outside of Mystere. Lord Stefan’s sacrifice had released this beauty, this potential in every male who came after him. This strange boy was the culimation of that grace, yet somehow untouched by the garden. Dyvian could see the innocence, an eager willingness to be guided coupled with a hunger vying with any arachocratic lady’s within those green eyes. They tempted Dyvian with their silent longing. 

This boy he saw with the waters of the pond was Dyvian’s secret, much as these conversations with Stefan was. An arachnocratic boy might dally with others, but he was destined for his bride. One day a lady would claim him in a Marriage Feast, drinking his life, his vitality, all that he was in an ultimate night of ecstacy. Nothing would be left of him but a beautiful statue standing in his lady’s garden. 

Every boy in Arachne lived for that moment, that night, that ecstacy. One day Dyvian would give himself to that passion, aroused and brought to a climax by his bride. 

No point in disturbing anyone with his perversion, the secret passion for this green-eyed youth who might be more than any bride could be. A boy who might one day become flesh. The pond was, after all, a portal to the Shadow Forest where all dreams were possible. Who knew what might emerged from its waters if Dyvian wished hard enough? Who knew whom might come to him, born from his own desire.

“A life is the ultimate pattern.” Stefan watched his nephew, weighing his words. “Ask yourself, Dyvian. Just what is the point of the game? What do you hope to achieve?”

“To become one of the few who creates his own pattern.” Dyvian smiled at his uncle. “Whatever he might evolve into.”

Stefan raised a hand over the tiles in what might or might not have been a gesture of benediction. “You don’t disappoint, my dear.”