Citizen 1277 Phenomenon

Phenomenon had always loved the stars.

   On the islands he would spend hours lying on the cliffs and staring upward, eyes tracing the scatter of stars across the night sky. He mapped them out in his mind, time and time again, following them in his thoughts.
  He remembered the first time he learned how.

   It had been an old Rexal, long before tonight. An elderly one, who had whispered knowledge between stories and gentle laughter. They had taught him how to fix his gaze on Polaris, how to read the tilt of Orion’s belt, and how to find a bearing in the sweep of the heavens. The memory was warm, but it stung him deeply to recall now. That Rexal was gone, “Fed to the fog” as the Keepers phrased it. 

   Phenomenon shivered. The Keepers spoke often of this duty, of sacrifice, of offerings to the fog. He too was bound to them. Staying with the Keepers on the Posian Islands was a danger he could no longer ignore. He feared the day when the ritual words might be turned upon him, when his name would be chosen to walk into the fog’s maw.

   It was foolish, perhaps. By all logic, he should have been safe. He was the only Rexal here of No Lineage, an egg conjured by the Elders themselves. Untouchable, in the eyes of the Keepers. But fear has little patience for logic. The chatter of and about the fog clawed at his mind, louder each night.

   Earlier that evening, one of the Keepers had cooed at him as if he were still a hatchling, they had called him "our phenomenon”. Oh how he recoiled. They reminisced at length about his unusual origin, how singular and precious he was to them. How lucky the Keepers were to have him. The words should have comforted him, but instead they rang hollow, possessively. They loved him, yes, but not in a caring way. They saw him as something to display, something tied irrevocably to their rituals. He thought of the old Rexal again, the one who had loved the stars and ended up fed to the fog. And as the dusk settled in, the chatter that drifted through the village was all of the feeding scheduled for tomorrow. He did not want to hear the distant howling that came with it. Not again.

   He could barely rest.

   When the hush of late night finally sank into the Keeper’s encampment, when only crickets and late-night birds stirred. Phenomenon rose from his mat and padded softly toward the door. His father. Pontifex, the leader - the priest - of the Keepers, slept nearby. Phenomenon froze when the old rex stirred, shifting against the furs with a rasping breath. A red eye cracked open, then closed again. Phenomenon held himself motionless until the snores deepened, and only then dared to move on. His heart pounded in his throat so loudly that he was scared it may burst free as he slipped away.

   The sky was a blanket of black and silver. Stars scattered themselves across the horizon like spilled gems. Phenomenon drew a shaky breath. This was his chance, his last chance before the next feeding began and his courage was lost. He found the constellations the old one had taught him: the bright anchor of Polaris, the curving arc of Cassiopeia, the slanted belt of Orion. He traced the line toward the sea. Toward the Dome. It seemed almost a legend, the place of true peace.

   The boats used for the ritual waited along the beach, little more than wood lashed together with care. He pushed one out into the surf, water chilling his legs, and climbed aboard. His tail coiled tight around the vessel’s edge as he set the oars in motion. Each stroke drew him farther from the island, farther from Pontifex, farther from the fog.

   The nights blurred, and the stars became his companions, his teachers. By them he kept his course steady, east and slightly north, always correcting against the drift of wind and current. By day he drifted, conserving strength, baking under the pale sun. Hunger gnawed at him. The food he had stolen from the Keepers’ stores was meager, and by the third night his belly ached with emptiness. The sea seemed endless. At times he wondered if the stars were playing a trick, if they had lured him to drift forever.

   But still he rowed.

   Each night the stars rose again, and he trusted them, as the old Rexal had trusted them too, once. He spoke to them sometimes in a whisper, as if his teacher might still hear. The stars gave no answer, but their constancy soothed him.

   By the fifth night, he could not bring himself to stay awake any longer, and his sleep brought nightmares. He dreamed of Pontifex’s eyes, glowing red, watching him. When he woke, the eyes lingered at the edges of this vision, rippling in the waves like reflected lanterns. By the sixth, even in waking hours he thought he saw them, below the surface. Watching. Multiplying.

   When the final night at sea came, he looked to the stars once more, they had been his friend all this time, but now he must say his farewells. The star trails marked above him signed the end of his journey. He did not think it true, but the bite of the cold sea air told him it had to be.

   They marked his arrival, the Dome lay beneath.

   The sea was heavy as he slipped into it, and he shivered at its chill. He wrapped magic around himself in a protective veil. This would not be the hardest trial he had to overcome. But still, stamina was no small matter. The descent was long, exhausting. Strange shapes drifted in the shadows, creatures with mouths too wide and eyes too pale. He swam past, heart pounding, not daring to look too long.

   And always the red eyes followed.

   The red eyes multiplied and scattered through the deep. Sometimes they blinked from within crevices, sometimes they hovered like fire in the distance, always waiting just beyond reach. The deeper he swam, the more of them appeared, until the sea itself seemed to be one vast gaze, endless and accusing.

   He clenched his jaw, kicking downward, tail sweeping in strong arcs. His chest burned. And though the pressure was not something that could hurt him, he certainly felt that it could. The eyes pressed closer, filling the dark like constellations inverted.

   And then his mind seemed to clear all at once.

   The eyes were gone.

   Phenomenon’s claws brushed stone. The seafloor stretched before him, a shadowy plain, and there at its heart shimmered the boundary of the Dome. He staggered forward, pressing through the veil, and the water fell away.

   Warmth bathed him.

   The Dome was beautiful. Peaceful. Perfect. Gardens unfurled in gentle terraces, the air crisp and fragrant with fig and vine. Homes carved of stone and clay glimmered beneath the glow of Caelum’s painted stars. No fog lurked here. No red eyes waited.

   Phenomenon stumbled onto the grass, gasping, the salt of the sea still clinging to his throat. He turned once more toward the path he had come from, toward the black deep and the islands he had left behind. The memory of the stars lingered, steady above him, shining through even  Caelum’s false sky.

   He had followed them, as he was taught. He had followed them into freedom.

   There was no fog,

   It would not be fed.

  But he was not done yet. Long ago from that stargazing old Rexal, he had heard of a kind relative of theirs, one that lived in Atlas, taking in unfortunate Rexes and nursing them back to health. As he awoke, he had a singular goal in mind.

   Noctus.

   The name rose in Phenomenon’s memory sharply, it was a promise that he would not be entirely alone once he reached the Dome. The elderly stargazer had spoken of Noctus with great fondness - gentle hands, a patient voice, and a gift for mending wounds of both body and spirit. They had said Noctus could make a crippled wing whole again, or soothe a heart cracked by grief. In the long hours of rowing beneath cold stars, Phenomenon clung to that story as if it were rope.

   The Keepers had filled his ears with talk of the fog, of sacrifice, of duty. They had never spoken of mercy. But if the stars led true, then mercy awaited him below.

   He imagined what it would be like to meet Noctus: to stumble out of the sea, half-starved and trembling, and to be met not with suspicion but with open arms. To tell them of the old rexal who had been fed to the fog, and to see recognition, maybe even sorrow, in their eyes. To feel, for once, safe.

   The thought carried him as much as the current did. Hunger sharpened, fear gnawed, and still he pressed on, Somewhere in Atlas, beneath this painted sky, Noctus lived. And Phenomenon, weary and lost though he was, would find them.

   Phenomenon lingered at the edge of the Dome’s shore, water dripping from his fur, heart still galloping from the descent. Though exhaustion begged him to collapse, he lifted his eyes once more. The sky above was not the true one, but Caelum’s careful craft—every constellation rendered as faithfully as the surface allowed.

   And yet, it was enough.

   The stars had led him across the sea, and they would not abandon him here. He traced the familiar constellations, letting their angles settle in his mind. If Atlas was as the elder had said—built along the freshwater river that cut the Dome in two—then its heart would be beneath Orion’s rise. Even this painted sky bore truth in its positions.

   He staggered forward. Fields of figs and olives lined his path, patterned with low clay walls. The river glimmered faintly, and he followed it, always keeping his gaze tied to the constellations above. Each step aligned him closer with the memory of where Orion’s belt hung, the stars whispering silent encouragement.

   The Dome was quiet at night, save for the distant hum of cicadas. Shadows stretched from pottery kilns, from trellises heavy with grapes. As he walked, fear nipped at him—what if Noctus was only a story? What if he found only strangers, or worse, enemies? He shook the thoughts away and fixed again on the sky.

   At last, Atlas rose before him. Its white-washed walls and domed roofs gleamed faintly, their curves catching starlight. The streets wound like rivers themselves, narrow but alive with traces of recent bustle. Here and there, a lantern still glowed in a window, a reminder that not all within slept.

   Phenomenon stopped, staring up at the stars one final time. Polaris fixed him. He turned with its angle and followed.

   The house he came to was unassuming, tucked between two taller structures. A clay lantern burned faintly by the door, its flame steady against the night breeze. He hesitated, claws flexing against the stone path. What if he was wrong? What if this wasn’t them?

   And then he saw it—above the doorframe, etched into the clay, was a symbol. A crescent moon crossed by a single star. He remembered the stargazer’s voice: “If ever you are lost, look for the mark of Noctus. They keep their door open to all who suffer.”

  Phenomenon’s throat tightened. His body trembled, but not from cold. He raised a claw, tapped softly against the door, and waited.

   The silence stretched. Then the door creaked open, and a pair of warm, steady eyes met his.

   “Noctus?” he whispered.

   The rexal studied him, saw the salt-crust in his fur, the gaunt lines of hunger, the way his legs wavered from exhaustion. Their gaze softened. “Come inside, traveler,” Noctus said, their voice low and kind. “The stars have brought you here.”

   And Phenomenon, who had crossed sea and shadow, who had defied fog and eyes in the deep, finally let himself believe he was safe.

By MilquetoastMawce