Chapter Six: A Story for the Bored and Brave

There was an inn near the southern edge of Nestowe where the air always smelled of lavender oil and damp clay.

The hearth had long gone cold, the benches were warped, and the ceiling had been half-collapsed for decades. No one stayed here anymore—except, from time to time, a cat.

Not just any cat.

A small white one, fur like snow and eyes the color of old silver. He lounged near the hearth as if it still burned, tail flicking now and then. Occasionally, he would speak aloud—to himself or to the dust, or perhaps to someone unseen.

Today, he had an audience.

A hawk. One with a single charcoal-feathered wing and a wary, tilting head. Inkwing.

Perched awkwardly on a rafter beam, Inkwing made a low noise of irritation.

“You’re late,” said the cat.

“You’re always early,” replied the hawk.

The cat—Mogget, once Yrael, sometimes something else entirely—rolled onto his side with a lazy stretch.

“I thought you Clayr birds were supposed to have the future in your feathers. Guess I’ve seen better feathers.”

The hawk ignored the insult. “I came for the message.”

Mogget yawned, long and feline. “Oh no, no message today. Just a story. Stories are better than warnings, don’t you think?”

The hawk fluffed its wings uneasily.

Mogget smiled.

Long ago, before the Old Kingdom had a name—

Before Charter and Free Magic had split their thrones—
Before bells rang or walls rose or the Clayr peered into the ice—
There was something beneath.

A shape without a name. A thought without flesh.
Not Free Magic, though it drank from the same bitter spring.
Not Dead, though it would not die.
Not a Destroyer like Orannis.

“That one wanted to end the world,” Mogget said lightly. “This one wanted to grow it from the inside out.”

The Wurm was never given a true name. Naming it would have rooted it into shape. It resisted form. It squirmed between shapes, trying to become everything.

It entered dreams first, blooming like mold.
It whispered of spiral cities and teeth beneath roots.
It promised life, twisted and abundant, without death or time.

Those who listened became its hands.

They built a cairn—not a tomb, but a womb of stone, deep beneath the earth, shaped like a great spiral tower.
They carved it with runes never written again. They sacrificed memory, light, and stars to feed it.

And still it grew.

“Until someone noticed,” Mogget added, casually licking a paw.

Not a Charter Mage. There were none.
But something like a precursor to the Abhorsen—
An early Binder. Perhaps even a child of the Nine.

She walked into the Cairn alone, carrying nothing but a bone dagger etched in fire.
She did not kill the Wurm. She bound it. Or most of it.

The Cairn was sealed with seven loops of stone and time.
The memory of its entrance was cut from the minds of the builders.
Its name was erased from the stars.
And in time, the world forgot.

“Well, most of the world,” Mogget purred. “I never forget anything interesting.”

The hawk shifted. “Why are you telling me this?”

Mogget stretched. “Because the Cairn is listening again.”

“To what?”

The cat’s eyes glinted.

“To children.”

The hawk departed.

Mogget remained, ears twitching.

From far beneath the inn, something breathed.

Not wind. Not life.
Just an echo of a thought that once nearly became a god.