Twenty-Third Entry

Though I had never seen one in the flesh until that day, I suppose I wouldn’t have been a passable (if thoroughly unwilling) student of the divine had I not at least been aware of the existence of beholderkin. Creatures spoken of as the antithesis of anything holy, born of hunger and scrutiny: nothing but eyes to judge and mouths to consume. Yet the one that drifted forth from the shimmer above the green flame—four eyestalks, a stony emerald hide that seemed cut from the same glow as the jade fire itself—was not quite the nightmare I had been taught to fear. This was a purely lawful being. A Spectator. Naught but a guardian of this forge. Perhaps even an appointed one.

A long silence settled after the question it had hurled into our minds. What is your purpose here? Perhaps it was fear, or awe, or simply the shock of having one’s thoughts rattled like a struck bell—but I could not answer, not in that first moment. I nearly turned to the others for guidance, but its voice cleaved through our thoughts again, sharper this time:

“That is not my title, nor my god!”

Its ire seemed directed toward Ragar. I assumed she had attempted a reply—likely as flippant and unceremonious as her manner with every other notable figure we’ve crossed paths with. But this was no ordinary encounter, and spectators were well-known for their obsession with propriety, especially from those of us they considered lesser. Raph’æl understood this better than the rest of us. I saw him step forward, his voice steady even as his fingers laced and tightened behind his back.

“Great creature,” he said, “what is your title, so we may address you respectfully?”

Every small stalk-eye flicked restlessly among us, but the central, slitted one fixed solely upon our cleric. It gave no answer aloud. If it spoke, it was to Raph’æl alone; he continued in that careful, deliberate tone he uses when fear must masquerade as prudence.

“Great Spectator… it has been five hundred years. Whatever master you serve is no longer with us—”

“No! My master is not gone. My master shall return.”

Ragar, uncharacteristically cautious, asked, “Then who is your master?”

The creature’s stalks tightened inward, staring at one another as though consulting some inner chorus. The silence stretched—long enough for my companions’ curiosity to overflow in a cascade of ill-advised questions and hushed comments.

“Did you forget?”

“Five centuries is a long time…”

“Did your master abandon you?”

“Did your master kill himself?”

“Shh, Super…!”

All of it washed over the spectator unanswered. It remained suspended above the green flame, its contemplation so intense I could almost feel the heat of it. Then a flicker—something like a mental stammer—shivered through our thoughts before its voice returned, insistent rather than authoritative.

“There was a fight. I protected the forge. I destroyed the enemies. All that was left was the last two creations.”

We exchanged looks. Two creations?

We did not need to consider asking for long. Two of its stalks pointed toward a raised slab near the heart of the room. Upon it lay a mace and a breastplate—the final works of the Forge of Spells. None of us dared move. The creature might not have been evil, but that did not make it any less volatile in its confusion.

So we waited.

Slowly, its coiled stalks unfurled. “Has it really been five hundred years…?”

We soundlessly confirmed.

A surge of frustration pressed against our thoughts—raw, directionless. But eventually it quieted, resolving into a weary, echoing certainty:

“All of you speak the truth… and I am tethered to this forge without my master’s word. I serve no purpose tethered.”