Chapter 75

Sol’othuan, Fourth Herald to the Devourer—or as Sol called her, Mother—strolled the vine-encrusted hallways of crumbling stone, intrigued at the novelty of the world her people had invaded.

She had always been curious—her people called it ‘sentimental’—for her kind. Even the lesser worlds they conquered were fascinating. This one? Unique even to that standard. Fractured, with such curious, artificial structure imposed onto it. Workings of a Prime, possibly several in tandem. Fascinating.

It felt, to be honest, a transgression to be consuming such delicate designs. But food was food. And the structure thrummed with energy, so much she could eat until she was full a hundred times over. Enough energy that she was surprised her people kept themselves in check, gnawing at the edges rather than gorging themselves completely. Even Sol was tempted, and she had more restraint than most.

But Mother had commanded them not to, so they didn’t. For now, they gnawed.

Mother preferred a subtle touch. A world this powerful—inhabited by sapient races, and patroned by one or several Primes—required weakening before the Famished could lift their inhibitions. Mother was more powerful than many of her peers—the Prime, those who had ascended to divinity—but her children were not. And her children, Sol among those numbers, though in a more literal sense of ‘child’, were the invaders, not Mother. Mother was simply ... their overseer. She couldn’t join in the feast directly. All Primes were bound. Near infinite in strength, but limited in scope.

Sol hadn’t explored much of this world. Mother had kept her secluded on their arrival, not allowing her to join the initial breach. She had wanted to ensure they had gone unnoticed, or at least, uncontested.

Thus far, Sol had contained herself to the deepest reaches of the fractured dimension realms that composed this strange world. She’d yet to find people down here. Real ones, at least.

She’d found the simulacrums. A few of them. These smaller realms—like she found herself in now—always had one.

For that matter, one of the simulacrums watched her now.

The perplexing half-people that championed each of these ‘shards’ were bizarre. Were they creations of the Prime? They were people ... but not. False in some way. An intuition hard to describe.

They were powerful, though. Not strong enough to pose a threat to Sol—or most of the Famished—but still shockingly dense with energy. Rulers of their respective domains. ‘Bosses’ of their ‘shards’, as the local terminology went.

They shared that power with the shard itself. Which meant as Sol snacked away, she was eating the simulacrum, too, piece by piece. That probably explained the horrified, curious gaze.

‘Gaze’. Not quite right. It could see her—sense her—but not directly. The simulacrum had an awareness of its shard, but Sol could elude it physically. They had yet to meet. She intended to keep it that way.

The lack of company—besides the watching false-eyes of the simulacrum—didn’t bother her. Sol had always found more interest in things than people. And there was so much to marvel over, here.

And so much to eat.

Sol traced a finger down a length of wood, fascinated. The power humming in the material wasn’t the only thing she marveled over. Hands ... fingers ... her new body. In the same way her people absorbed memories and concepts from the creations they ate, they appropriated forms. This one was comfortable, though she was still clumsy in it.

Human, the species was called. One of the sapient races inhabiting this world. Had Mother ever eaten a human world? Odds seemed high. Mother was old, even for a Prime, and the Famished had worked through many, many worlds. Most they ate didn’t have sapient life, as those were less likely to have a patron. Defending Primes. Thus, easier pickings.

But this one had been too dense with essence to resist. And ... according to Mother ... was seemingly abandoned. Or half-abandoned. Its patron Primes weren’t watching over it as they should. Disinterest? Its state of decay—how it had been fractured into so many pieces—even before her people had arrived, indicated something of the sort. But why? Why had such a complex creation been abandoned, left to decay?

Such intriguing questions. Sol loved questions. Frequently, more than the answers. Answers could be ... disappointing.

She studied the magic imbued into the wood. Structured magic was rare. Or, she’d been told. She didn’t know first-hand. Sol was young for her kind, having only lived through two Devourings. But she’d been told stories, and had referenced the archives to confirm them.

Sometimes it felt like Sol was the only of her people to do so. Sometimes, if she were brutally honest, it felt like their people were more savage than the ones they ate. They glutted themselves but cared for little else.

Perhaps that was proof of how little ‘sophistication’ mattered. If savagery triumphed, wasn’t that the trait worth celebrating?

Survival—that which persisted—was holy, and little else.

She brushed away her wandering thoughts, focusing on the curious object in front of her. Her hand rested on a wooden box, the item which she’d been tracing a finger across, admiring, and inspecting. Its cover was discarded, tossed to the side, its securing nails ripped out. Some crusted substance pooled at the bottom, dried, which her nose—alien senses were always intriguing—protested at being exposed to.