Malacaz and Mahganda

Excited to finally understand how babies were made—something that stirred giggles and sly whispers among her fellow maidens—Vashti walked eagerly to her first class at the Temple School of Viscot. Her sandals scraped the polished limestone as she entered the lecture hall, a wide circular room surrounded by wooden columns wrapped in flowering vines. The air inside smelled faintly of old papyrus scrolls and dried herbs, and a large mural of Malacaz and Mahganda hovered behind the teacher’s podium, reminding everyone that this wasn’t just a school—it was a place of divine learning.

But Vashti’s excitement quickly shifted to confusion when the teacher didn’t start the class with anything remotely related to what she expected.

“In the beginning, there was nothing,” the elder began, her voice both melodic and commanding. “Then came Vathala—the God beyond space, time, and matter. The Alpha and the Omega. He spoke the Words, and our world came into being.”

Vashti blinked. This wasn’t what she signed up for. She wanted to know about bodies, about love, about the physical acts that led to children—not cosmology and ancient genealogy. Still, something about the rhythm of the tale calmed her. She had heard fragments of this story before. Her father used to whisper it to her as a lullaby when she was small and frightened of the dark.

The teacher continued, her hands moving in fluid gestures as if painting the scene in the air. “From the heart of the first bamboo sprout, bathed in starlight, came the first man and woman—our ancestors, Mahganda and Malacaz. Together, they gave birth to twelve children, and from them emerged the twelve tribes of our world.”

The room filled with murmurs of awe and curiosity. Vashti leaned forward, suddenly enraptured by the tale she had once dismissed as myth.

“Their firstborn son, Gener, bore the promise of inheritance,” the teacher said, her voice swelling with reverence. “To him, the entire kingdom was pledged. Though Gener had no elemental or spiritual powers, no magic in the world could touch him. That, in itself, was his gift. He could neutralize any enchantment, render any curse powerless. His people, the tribe of Gener, became the royal bloodline—our protectors against darkness, both seen and unseen.”

A maiden in the second row scoffed loudly. She wore the golden armband of the Arso tribe, known for their fire-wielders. “But they don’t have powers,” she said dismissively. “All they do is walk around looking important.”

Laughter bubbled up from some of the other Arso girls, until it was silenced by the slow, deliberate voice of a Gener maiden seated in the back row.

“Our power,” she said coolly, “disarms all others. Your little fire tricks mean nothing to us.”

To prove her point, the Arso girl flicked her wrist. A small flame danced on her palm, then zipped through the air toward one of the Gener girls. The flame fizzled out mid-air, harmlessly, as though swallowed by an invisible barrier. The Gener maiden didn’t even flinch. Instead, she smiled smugly and returned to braiding her hair.

“Wow!” Vashti heard a few of the younger students whisper, clearly impressed.

“Settle down,” the teacher ordered, waving her hand to still the chatter. “Let us return to the story.”

Vashti scribbled notes eagerly on her palm leaf parchment, her earlier disappointment forgotten. The story was more intricate than she imagined.

“Each child of Mahganda and Malacaz was born with a power that reflected their essence,” the teacher said, her voice softening with wonder. “Febo, the second-born, was as beautiful as she was persuasive. Her voice could bend wills and sway armies. Arso, born next, came screaming into the world wrapped in flame. Wherever she walked, the earth scorched beneath her. Then came Avryl—her light was so pure it allowed our people to hear directly from Vathala.”

The students leaned in as the teacher continued, each sibling more fascinating than the last.

“Ayo,” she said, “was a gift to all. Her touch could heal wounds, even reverse aging. Thanks to her, the children of Malacaz could live for more than a thousand years. Julio, the prankster, had the power of multiplicity—he could split himself into many forms. But only Gener could see through the deception every time.”

Giggles followed that remark.

“Then Gustav, the builder, whose strength raised the towers and cities of our world. Seth, the artist, breathed music and color into the kingdom, giving joy where there was sorrow. Octavo, the seer, guided decisions with glimpses of the future. Novo, the death-bringer, helped spirits pass peacefully into the afterlife. Dessi, the peacemaker, wielded the power to heal not bodies, but hearts—resolving conflicts, quelling hatred, and promoting harmony.”

The class was utterly silent now. Even the most restless girls had gone still, eyes wide with wonder.

“And yet,” the teacher continued, “after the death of Malacaz and Mahganda, division stirred. Sibling rivalry emerged. Power became tempting. Greed replaced unity. It was then that the kingdom first saw shadows fall upon it.”

Knowing all this, many of the girls—especially those from non-royal tribes—began to study more diligently. Being chosen by a man from Gener meant a chance at honor, legacy, and protection. Some dreamed of marrying into that bloodline, believing it would elevate their status and shield them from hardship.

But not Vashti.

She longed to return to her family in Viscot. She wanted to serve her people, to be loved not for her potential but for who she truly was. Still, she couldn’t help but be drawn into the mystique of the royal tribe.

A maiden raised her hand. “Teacher, can you tell us about the serpent?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. “The one who spread darkness over the kingdom?”

The room froze.

The teacher’s smile faltered.

“That is a lesson for a more advanced level,” she said quickly, fingers tightening on her scroll. “You will learn about it in due time.”

Another girl, braver—or perhaps just more foolish—pressed further. “Is it true that we were meant to be immortal? But there was a scandal… something about a visitor. A powerful one who—”

“Enough!” the teacher snapped. Her sudden sharpness jolted the room. “Where did you hear such lies?”

Silence.

The girl hesitated, then pointed at Vashti. “I saw it. Written all over her. I can see her future. She carries it in her blood.”

Vashti’s breath caught. All eyes turned toward her. She felt as though she were being peeled open, dissected by stares both curious and cruel.

“You…” the girl whispered. “You are the serpent’s wife.”

Gasps echoed across the room like stones dropped into still water.

Vashti stood frozen, her mouth suddenly dry. She didn’t even understand what the girl meant—serpent’s wife? What serpent? What future? But the chill that crept down her spine told her this was no harmless insult. It was a prophecy—or a curse.

The teacher stepped forward, placing herself between Vashti and the accusing finger.

“No more of this nonsense,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “Class is dismissed.”

But as the students filed out, one by one, Vashti stood rooted in place.

Something had shifted.

The history of Malacaz was no longer a bedtime story. It was alive, pulsing through her veins. And somewhere deep inside her, a voice had awakened—quiet, cold, and coiled.