Fenae (Interlude IV): A Liminal Space.

On the cold, uneven ground of a torn forest floor, surrounded by trees so dense that light barely pierced the thick mist, a groggy creature stirred in the tall grass. The air was damp and heavy, filled with the scent of decay and the rustle of unseen threats. It wondered where it was, examining its many cuts, scratches, and bruises. It remembered falling. Struggling to steady itself on four shaky legs, fragments of memory flickered in its mind: a bright flame, ropes, a package, and then…

Suddenly, it jolted upright, its skin bubbling and contorting as it shifted into the form of a lynx. Sharp eyes scanned the treetops for any sign of the owl. It found no round eyes among the leaves, no movement on the branches, no dancing shadows — only some loose feathers left on the grass. It was alone, at least for now.

This creature had been given a name when it settled in these woods: Śliniak (shlee-nyak). It was a sound this Yaminka could neither translate nor comprehend, but he had come to associate that name with a kind and gentle caretaker. Śliniak longed for that presence now, feeling out of breath and aching all over. He fought the urge to shapeshift into a spiny mouse and find a hole to retreat into, at least until the bleeding stopped, but these woods had become far too restless and hostile to hide him.

Although animals apparently dared not challenge the Yaminka ever since he had revealed himself to be more than a dusty mouse, roots still snaked across the ground like claws, ready to ensnare him. The torn earth revealed sucking pools of mud that could swallow a bear into its depths, and even the treetops seemed to breathe with a twisted, disorienting rhythm, intent on discombobulating anyone within. There was no rest for Śliniak until he returned to the velvety carpet of the gentle caretaker’s colourful stone burrow. Before that, he had to find the Writer Mice and bring the backpack to the iron doors within the cavern woods.

“Expedition #3: Proof of Entry,” shot during a patrol into the Cavern Woods as part of training exercises in navigating exclusion zones. This photograph led to the demotion of several Renko officers for non-compliance with Rejtély safety protocols. Image taken with digital camera by Callsign Cyclops (Year 53 of the 5th Era).

Śliniak did not recognise this part of the woods. The landscape was broken and twisted by a maze of tangled roots that sprawled like snare traps, distorting the ground into something unnatural. It felt more like a liminal space — an impossible, shifting horizon that defied reason, actively hostile to the senses with an almost sentient determination.

Normally, he would orient himself by lying flat on the ground, sensing the “leylines” of the earth. But with his paws alone, he could already feel that something was off. The leylines were likely severed, their guiding energies shattered and erratic. It should have felt overwhelming, but Śliniak felt… nothing. Without these leylines to navigate by, he was well and truly lost.

As he shifted uneasily, trying to refrain from using his twitching leg that still bled, he noticed the roots around him: not just tangled, but coiling, moving almost imperceptibly — somewhat hesitant, but inching closer nonetheless, as if waiting for an inevitable misstep. It was not safe here, even for Yaminkas. Well aware of all the staring eyes surrounding him, Śliniak wandered in hopes of finding his way back to the mice.

—

Elsewhere in the forest, another solemn shape skittered past. It was taller and faster, but tiptoed just as carefully through the mire. The silhouette shrank into the shadows, bowing down to inspect the charred remains of a mouse-sized broom.

Too little and too late, it seems…

With a remorseful sigh, the figure stood back up. His head throbbed and his ears buzzed from the broken aura of this place, filling his brain with an unpleasant static. He heard the winds howl and hiss through the tree trunks with force; the goddess Vanu was venting Her anger.

As the silhouette rose, it revealed a nose so sharp that it could only belong to the Lisovvy Coirym. Indeed, after the mice disappeared below the treeline, he had assumed the worst and ventured into the woods to offer himself as a scapegoat. And as an apostle of the Fair Lady Vanu, he could listen to the breeze.

“Can the poor morsel even conceive of its wrongdoings?” Coirym heard the voice through the white noise grazing past his ears as he walked.

He recognised it. It was not his patron goddess, whose voice was the wind — whispering, howling, every sound long and flowing. This voice, clattering with every syllable like the crackling of sparks and friction, came from her husband Tharuman, patron deity of craftsmanship.

Photo taken during scene 215 of the critically acclaimed Summer Solstice Play in the Suspended Theatre, showing the marriage of Vanu and Tharuman as interpreted by narrator and stage director O.Q. Vinssyh with help of the Lisovvy Playwright Associates. Digital image, taken by S. Nimmens (year 51 of the 5th era)

“Perhaps,” Vanu answered eventually, “…and perhaps not. After this valuable lesson, we shall see if it again favours the apostle of — ”

Coirym’s eavesdropping was interrupted by a snarling growl creeping closer. With an almost absent-minded reflex, he waved his hand, and all the rustling around him turned into numerous subtle thuds against the earth. With the wrath of Vanu flowing through him, it was dangerous to use Her magic. But this was too important to miss.

“And the mice?” the crackling voice continued.

“They confound me,” Lady Vanu admitted. “No other creation of mine has so fiercely sought its own domestication. They too will have to choose between their mother and their keepers. But first, I must see to my eavesdropping apostle.”

Coirym’s face went pale.

From the farthest reaches of the cosmos came a faint chittering that whispered his name through the void. A thread was spun by the Fateweaver, and Coirym’s fate had been decided.