The Sea and the Gate
"He will not eat our names."
The capital of Zantrayel trembled as Luruzt, the Beast God, finally stepped into the open. His form changed every time one blinked—sometimes a massive boar with skin like broken stone, sometimes a serpent of steaming flesh and fractured bone. But in every shape, one thing was constant:
His hunger.
He didn't roar. He breathed—and the breath alone warped the air, twisting minds and cracking the stone beneath his feet.
The gods were far.
The warriors were distant.
The gate was open.
And in that space of coming doom, two mortals stood against him.
Koko Miray, chosen of Twaile.
She wielded the abyss like a blade. The water still clung to her skin like armor, even though no ocean was nearby. Her harpoon pulsed with a rhythm like a predator's heartbeat. Her stance was low, her breathing calm.
A huntress.
Zafana, the Gatekeeper.
Still barefoot. Still in robes. But now her riddled words were laced with geometry and order. Circles formed in the air around her, golden and slow-turning, each one spinning on its own axis. When she blinked, the lines on her skin shimmered like script not written, but remembered.
A boundary.
Luruzt moved first—too fast for something that size. His body split into three parts mid-charge, all gnashing and screaming toward the women.
But they didn't speak.
They simply moved.
Koko slid forward, spinning the harpoon once, dragging the ocean with her like a second shadow. With a single upward throw, she speared the first beast head, pinning it midair—and yanked it down into a rising tide she summoned from nothing. Water crashed down like a god's hand.
The second head lunged for her blind spot—only to freeze in midair, locked in one of Zafana's floating golden rings. The air stopped for a heartbeat. Then the ring crushed down like a guillotine, severing limb from spirit.
The third rushed Zafana directly.
She didn't move.
Koko didn't speak.
She turned, threw her spear, and it bent through the air like it knew the shape of Zafana's protection. The moment Luruzt's jaw opened to bite the gatekeeper in two, the harpoon exploded into a net of seabeasts—living weapons that swarmed over him, biting, wrapping, pulling.
Zafana's voice, soft as always, murmured:
"You understand rhythm."
Koko, catching the returning harpoon mid-spin, smirked.
"You understand breath."
And the two moved again—perfect sync, though strangers till minutes ago.
Around them, the capital burned in silence and fury.
The city guards, loyal and hardened, clashed with the invaders—those who had once wandered the world in shadows. Broken souls—not corrupted citizens, but those shattered enough to hear the whispers of a thing made of hunger, and still choose to pray to it.
Once exiled, now emboldened.
They came in droves, whispering praises and gnawing on their own hands in ecstasy as they tore through the outer districts.
Yet none came near the gate.
Because at its mouth—Zafana and Koko Miray stood.
And Luruzt could not pass.
He screamed now, not from rage—but from frustration. No one had ever held him back. No mortals had ever stood like walls before him.
But these were not just mortals.
Koko's voice dropped low.
"He wants to feed."
Zafana answered:
"Then we'll leave him starving."
And for the first time, the Beast God stumbled.
Because they had become the thing he feared—
Not the gods.
Not the armies.
But two mortals with no fear in their blood and no interest in praise.
One of Duty, the other the need to make it home to cook for her grandson.