The False Mother

Long before Solennei reached the False Mother's house, she had already endured a bone-breaking trial.

Born under a fractured sky, her journey began not with a rupture, but with a quiet tug from her soul—an urging to reclaim something that had been stolen.

Solennei descended through a series of trials: The first was a gate that led her to him.

Throsyx—half-man, half-beast.

When it was done, blood soaked the ground.

Only the orb was left—hot in her fist, a pulsing relic of her original soul.

It dragged her through the veil. Through water that didn't wet her skin.

Through mist. Stone. Smoke that smelled like burned hair.

Then she saw the house.

But it saw her first.

"Come in, child." she said.

And I step forward.

The orb pulsing gently in my fist like a heartbeat. The air between us—ironically dry, considering I had just plunged into a world engulfed in water. I could taste burnt on my tongue, like she'd been scraping blackened toast into the air. Her home looked exactly like that—ash, everywhere. Picture frames lined the wall, unevenly spaced. Each one was filled with smeared ash instead of a photograph. There was no clear source of light, only a soft, sickly glow.

"Oh, lovely… you've brought us a gift?"

Her voice was layered, cracked, echoing, as if multiple versions of her were speaking in tandem. Beneath the surface, something menacing emerged.

"Give it."

Did I hear that correctly? I touch the side of my head, unable to clearly define or understand. Doubt becomes the closest thing to reason I have as I am pulled into this timeless ruin.

She ushered me in and was already to the left of me.

She cocked her head and stared deeply into my eyes. Taking me in, I breathed in her exhale and suddenly—I forgot.

Her eyes were black as coal, bottomless, like the grief that filled this place. Not deep in the sacred sense, but infinite in their refusal to end.

A grief that didn't echo; it collapsed into itself over and over again.

She frowned, sensing the unraveling, the collapse of beginnings and endings.

And I suddenly felt fear.

Looking again at my balled fist, I saw her recoil slightly, as if sensing her fear mirrored back.

"How is my friend?" she asked, tone too quick, flickering from my hand to my face.

Confusion bloomed. Her voice, malevolent and rising in pitch, echoed in my skull.

"You know who. Yes, yes—you know," she said. "Knowing is why you're here. Temet Nosce."

Her voice quaked. The walls of this insidious dwelling began to vibrate. The bones of the house groaned.

My bones creaked in sympathy.

Even her little trinkets trembled as she repeated:

"Temet Nosce." To know thyself.

She smiled, inhaled ash, and exhaled curses in sweet condescension—

"Murderer."

My mind raced.

How could I forget? What is this place?

Thoughts flickered, unable to hold, and heat flushed my cheeks.

Time bent—stretching, snapping, speeding, and slowing.

I swirled inside those words:

Temet Nosce. Murderer.

She clasped her mangled hands. Jagged nails pushed against leathery, grey skin.

Veins looked like interrupted choices—sharp angled, crisscrossing like the mouth of a liar.

Tiny swollen vessels tangled like a map of confusion.

She squeezed until the nails disappeared into the backs of her hands—bloodless, as if pain had long since been forgotten.

There, between thumb and index—a beauty mark. Just like mine. Just like my mother's.

Her hands were the first betrayal I could feel. Words may lie, eyes can manipulate, but hands—hands show what's been carried and what has been taken.

My chest beat like an alarm had gone off as her hands moved.

Wrinkles rippled like a sea that refused to rest.

Knuckles jutted like warnings.

Bones that remembered battles never spoken aloud.

Finding the feeling I could finally name - it vanished.

I had misplaced my thoughts again.

Then I saw it.

A glow in her eye.

Her gaze was fixed not on me, but on my fist.

She moved, hunched and serpentine.

Her neck stretched forward, unnaturally long, then snapped back like a coiled question.

"Come," she said, curling the word.

Hooking my arm, she guided me left, where the room split into two.

"Your journey was great. I've prepared everything for you—just inside the kitchen."

Her smile was soothing. Familiar.

And suddenly, I wanted to hug her.

Love her.

Give her everything.

I felt… indebted.

"Thank you, grandmother," I replied.

Her wrinkles eased in satisfaction.

"Just through there, my darling," she said—voice softening, blurring, fogging my senses.

I could no longer think. I only reacted.

She released my arm and drifted toward the right.

I stood before a grand archway.

She waited at the far end—in the kitchen.

Smiling. Comforting.

I relaxed. Took a step in—

My head split.

The archway narrowed into a tunnel, slick with condensation, walls ribbed like the inside of something once alive.

Something was wrong.

The air thickened.

The smell of soured milk and buried blood clawed at my throat.

I turned to go back—but the way had sealed.

I crawled forward.

The tunnel tightened—just wide enough for my shoulders, barely tall enough for my chin.

I couldn't see.

Her voice rose—both maternal and monstrous.

Each inch forward made her clearer.

The False Mother spoke,

"I kept you safe… I kept you small. I kept you soft enough to swallow you whole."

Her voice slid between tones—soft, cold, flat, cruel, echoing as if being spoken by many mouths.

Now she was behind my ears—inside my skull.

"I'm the only one who ever loved you.

They'll never see you how I do." she said, her voice stroked my hair, then squeezed my throat.

"Child!"

The word curled like a hook, catching the corner of my mouth like a fish.

I stopped moving. The crush of her swaddled love sank into my bones. I forgot how to move. But in the syrupy stillness, I felt… safe.

Not alive - but safe

No movement, only numbness.

A calm that silenced motion.

And guilt. I didn't remember anything—just the belief that this was all my fault.

Thick, ancestral guilt.

No words—just the whimper of obedience.

I curled into the fetal shape of shame.

Safe from death but drenched in the shame of not living.

I found a corner in my mind—the only safe place.

Everything else was ash and bone.

And I had forgotten—completely—about the orb.

I stayed there.

Seconds? Maybe months, maybe?

There was nothing but a great void, and I breathed into it.

Then a quiet stirring—I breathed.

And a voice, tiny, from inside:

"How did we get here?"

The orb stirred, humming.

I whispered, "How did I get here?"

A name echoed back:

"Solennei."

Soft. Like silk.

"Solennei," I repeated.

That's my name.

"My name is Solennei."

I remember.

The fog lifted.

Memory ignited.

I began this journey because my queen commanded it.

I was in the maze with him.

The bodies—gutted women, mutilated souls.

I escaped. I jumped into the Great Waters of Nemoria—no plan.

Just the orb.

And now…

I was here.

With her.

The False Mother.

"Is that you, little one?" she hissed, "Up so soon?"