The Pentamorphs of the Museum

The Phoenix had always been his guide—a constant in chaos, a flame drawn to corruption. As a boy, burdened by kingship, he would gaze skyward at the "Stem of Rolhim," a lone beacon guarded by five sages who wove the realm's fate.

Now, stripped of his crown and past, Valen stood before that very stem. The stone pulsed with a presence beyond understanding. Once a king, now a wanderer, he reached out. The stone was cold—alive somehow—and it seemed to see through him.

"This is the end of my journey," he wondered. "The beginning of the 'enlightenment journey.'" He felt no triumph—only unease. He had crossed cities, fought demons and mysticals alike, and abandoned all he knew. For what?

As he climbed the spiraling stairs, memories surged.

"I ruled with power—an iron hand. Conquered and carved districts, made the city kneel. I called it duty, but was it pride? As Rigor says. They feared me more than they loved me. Each victory carved a hollow in my soul."

He had built monuments, led armies, earned fleeting praise. But even myths end, and the people saw him not as a sovereign, but as a shadow—necessary, yet burdensome.

"Power made me mighty, not whole," he realized. "The summit is lonelier than the climb."

Now, no crown, no title—just the question: Who am I without the throne?

The walls whispered as he ascended. Ancient etchings glowed faintly. Touching one, he felt it hum—alive with Kol-nic.

"Do the sages feel this weight? Do they ever doubt their worth?"

At the summit, he entered a vast chamber lit by walls themselves. The five sages waited—not deities, but serene figures, ordinary and infinite.

They said nothing, asked nothing. Instead, they handed him a mantle of shimmering silver, woven with starlight.

"Why am I the first?" he whispered.

No answer. Only silence.

The mantle was light, yet crushing. Not physically, but in spirit.

"They gave it without trial, without proof. How can they be certain? I am not. I'm… afraid."

He wandered the celestial halls. Stars felt close enough to touch, but beauty brought no peace. Doubt gnawed at him.

"They should have seen through me. I ruled for myself, not wisdom. I sought the stem for escape, not service. How could they choose me?"

He faced a mirror—his reflection haggard beneath the majestic garment. "What if they made a mistake? What if I fail?"

Memories returned: the people's fear, the love he lost, the blood spilled in his name. The women who left him, children in tow. His brother, lost to age—and to him.

"I fought when demons came. I saved my brother's hope. But I sought the stars not for their light, but because Ghent was too heavy. And they chose me. Why?"

The Stem's silence held no answers. Only the weight of memory and regret.

He stood on a balcony, the world a speck below. "Do you know what I've done?" he asked the stars. "Do I?"

The mantle slipped like water through his fingers. The clarity that once drove him was gone, replaced by a storm of scattered thoughts.

"I thought I'd find answers here. That the sages would reject me, and I'd learn why. Instead, they gave me this burden of being one of them."

He dropped to his knees. "Maybe… maybe they chose me because I'm not worthy. Because only the broken know what they lack. Or maybe… they just couldn't carry it anymore."

The stars said nothing. They simply burned.

And then, slowly, came the understanding. The sages had not chosen him for answers. They had chosen him for the question.

Why?

The mantle's weight was not its fabric, but its meaning—a symbol of doubt, responsibility, and the courage to keep seeking.

He looked out over the world—his kingdom a distant speck.

"Perhaps that is what it means to be a sage," he thought. "To ask, not to know. And to carry the question."

That night, he lay in the tower, wrapped in the mantle. Its weight pressed into his soul. As sleep took him, the question echoed still:

Why?

And perhaps, he thought, that was the answer.