Pallas's head drew back just so. 'They may believe we have moved on.' And who wouldn't? Nobody was there anymore, as far as he was aware- but he wasn't that aware, really. What if someone else took that spot as their own? No- they wouldn't right? Not a burnt tree. What would even be left? Reji, the others... He huffed out, very gently, feeling the strain of grief wash over him briefly.

He shook his head, just slightly. 'I would like to focus on this reformation first, then.' He dipped his head, eyes shutting for a second. If it was him who was the Voice, then he would know roughly what to do- a new being may reject it altogether, and he did not want to risk it. And, if he was needed for any other tasks, than this would bring him to more usefulness to Mother than he could ever dream.

They could take that other road later, then. 'How will it be done?' he asked, eager to make her pleased. He remembered seeing that first Trial, briefly, waiting for them- the flash of a Master's magic, sending them to their chrysalis and reforming them. Did Mother have this power? To make him linked to her, to rewrite his magic...

He held his head higher, excited for this opportunity.

The silence with which the Mother regarded Pallas was perhaps the most solemn he'd have ever felt from her.

"This... would be a sacrifice," she began; "your form would not... change. Unless... you wish it to-? But it would be... consumed. Reformed in... a literal sense. I will... try to suppress... the pain, if you are willing. But there will be pain," she warned, soft, apologetic.

Ahh, how she loved her children-! To even consider this-...

"You may change... your mind. Or take time... to prepare. When you are ready... my Praetors... will guide you to the sacred place. And I will... show you what to do. And then... in one cycle's time... in his image... you will be remade."

Imagery, now: of glassy stone, its clarity pure; of cubes of this shifting, perfectly-patterned, a slow crawl along the snow, in tandem. What were those? It was unlike anything else in Origin cave; an orderly march of inorganic, yet crystalline, something... Thousands of somethings. Cubes, shining, forming patterns, cubic in turn-... A fractal of incomprehensible shine.

The image faded.

"Is this... what you want?" she asked, and the rest remained unsaid. To be my Harbinger? To be my Voice? To suffer and be reborn, in my name, and in his?

@Pallas

Mother's emotional response was strange to Pallas, as though she were grieving her son that stood before her. It mixed with his own muted confidence. His ears flicked back, and his face construed into confusion and uncertainty- while he understood why it would be sorrowful for her, would she not be happy, too, for this process? 'I can endure it,' he assured her, leaning forward. 'For our growth, I will endure it.'

He did not want his Mother to grieve. His suffering would be temporary, and it would be for her.

When images flourished in his mind, his eyes widened- order, cubes and fractals in the snow, an image of pure perfection. Was this her vision? What beauty, and Pallas basked in it, his ears shoved forward as he mentally stared. Oh- he could feel a tingle down his spine, the excitement returning once more.

'This is what I want, Mother,' he confirmed, his thoughts quivering. It was hard to grasp himself as he basked in the memory of the vision. 'It is beautiful.' Slowly, he closed his eyes as he sighed, wistful. 'There is nothing waiting for my immediate attention. I am ready when you are.'

Something, some small little thought wondered, right in the back of his mind- what would it feel like, to die? To suffer, for her, for their family? Perhaps he would know soon enough, if Mother was prepared, as well.

The tent of matted, rot-stink white lifted, pulled. A single long, curved, scythelike white forelimb tore slowly free from it, reaching, reaching--touching--aiming the lightest stroke for the linsang's cheek.

"My beloved son," came the rasping voice, a click of mandibles, a rush of overwhelming love. "Then go... they will guide you. And I will be with you all the way." Was she--mournful? It felt as though she was.

Two Praetors broke away from the rest. Stepped forward like an honor guard, limbs clacking on the icy rock. They moved up, paired, to stand before Pallas--and then carefully maneuvered around him, and waited. Pallas was meant to get onto one--or onto his chosen steed--it didn't matter. All three of them would escort him to where he needed to go.

@Pallas

At Mother's movement, Pallas gingerly stepped forward, leaning into her touch and rumbling. The movement- it meant more than any parsed emotion could, filling his head with love compounded. 'Thank you, Mother,' he purred in his mind, his breathing deep as love and grief swirled together.

For her, he would be proud. He would be confident. Stepping back, Pallas waited and watched the Praetors, tail twitching as he turned to follow. It certainly wasn't hard to understand that he should ride one- and with Butler there, it was easy to know what steed he would choose. There was a practiced, quick climb up the designated Praetor's side, resulting in Pallas nestling in just behind Butler's head, resting on the thorax where he typically stayed during their travels.

Once he'd settled his paws comfortably onto Butler, he nodded. 'I am ready.'

The Praetors set off down the tunnel, and began their long march to a home Pallas had never seen. Almost immediately, they were pushing aside great, thin sheets of ice that hid other tunnels--tunnels that delved deeper than the rest, in long, sweeping arcs beneath Ursa's permafrost.

"The way is long," Mother's voice came--thoughts, now, instead of sound. "But you will be the first of this era to see our true home." Reverence rang in Mother's tone--worship for something even greater than herself-! She'd rarely shown a sign of such a thing, before, but now, as the Praetors delved ever-deeper, she held none of it back. "You will be welcomed, as I was, by his power. You will be my harbinger, as I am his. Together, we will drive back Chaos..."

The march went on. Praetors guarding side-tunnels stepped aside. Ice "doors" were pushed inward by Pallas's escorts, and then latched carefully back into place, as though the ice wall had never shifted. Side-tunnels split off into the dark--and the Praetors, unerring, sometimes slipped into these as they made their way.

At last, the tunnel widened: a broad space, dimly lit with a strange, misty white light. It was like the steam from ice, rising through the tunnel--and here even the Praetors slowed. Mother went quiet--a presence in Pallas's mind, but a hushed and almost awed one.

Slowly, a strange and perfectly rhythmic sound became apparent. Click... churn... grind... grumble... The Praetors, cautious? Respectful? moved slowly around the curve.

Before Pallas, moving at slow speed through the broad tunnel ahead, was something... incomprehensible. A series of dozens of cubes, of different sizes but all glassy and crystalline in structure, were slowly shifting into fractal form--each curved, Ordered shape repeated again and again at the largest and smallest scales, and everywhere in between. The entirety of this Clearstone structure was slowly climbing its way through the tunnel, each change in shape shifting its position slightly. The stone gave off a pale glow, with vapor wisping off it, rising and falling away in twists of bitter cold moisture.

The Praetors stopped.

Click... churn... grind... rumble. The cubes continued to shift, their quiet, Ordered march across the floor inevitable, unstoppable.

"You must join with it," came Mother's whispered voice--tense with anticipation. And Pallas would grasp the second thread of her message--unspoken, unwhispered: once he stepped within, there was no going back.

@Pallas

The only sounds in his ears as they travelled were the gentle clicks of the Praetors as they shuffled aside ice and the faint, excited heartbeat in his chest. Ah, Mother's voice- she was happy. They were going so deep now, and Pallas forgot about ever memorizing these tunnels. That was not his job. His, was to become her harbinger.

He could feel tension as they grew close. Slowly, the linsang drew up, perching on Butler- what lay beyond? Was it that perfect world, waiting untouched for eons? Dark eyes widened with a mirroring awe, his mouth faintly agape at the sight before them. Beauty. Ever changing, creating parts of parts that assembled many wholes. Its noise was song in his mind, like the steady heartbeat flowing through his veins.

This was his stop.

Breathing out a cold, airy breath, Pallas slowly descended from Butler, reverently staring to the Clearstone. This structure-- this, this is what he had lived for. This beauty, divine, and he trembled. This is where Order's influence began.

There was no going back. What was there to go back to- hiding and cowering in fear, terrified of the valkhounds, of Chaos, of those who would split Order apart? No. There was only going forward.

He held his head low to the ground as he continued through crystalline tunnel. His limbs trembled- for Mother. For Order. He would take on suffering so she wouldn't have to, so his family would not have to. He would be reborn. Steeling whatever heart he had left, Pallas marched onward, preparing himself for the pain to come.

The pull of the perfect fractal was a powerful one, a sensation like ice tugging at every cell in Pallas's body. The closer he drew, the stronger it became, and the stronger the misty light emanating from it seemed to grow--until the world was consumed by brilliant ice.

"A sacrifice, my son..." came Mother's murmur--"a sacrifice, and a gift."

And then his step brought him into the churning cubes.

It happened quickly--the snap of Clearstone against Clearstone, crushing what of Pallas it caught within; the searing rip of bitter-cold magic tearing through his body, freezing him, ordering him, tearing him apart so that he could be remade. There would barely be time to even scream: his very essence, body and magic both, were frozen and shattered and rendered into nothing.

As the Clearstone spire churned away, nothing at all was left behind--no drop of blood, no twist of fur to hint at what might have occurred.

Pallas was no more.

...Until.

---

As the days passed, the black Tourmaline that had been left behind--caught up and torn apart in the marching cubes--was reformed, and spat back out--left behind in the perfect center of the tunnel. Now, however, it was clear: crystalline and glassy, become Clearstone itself. The imprint of Pallas--and his memories, his mind--were not lost.

The stone grew, over the coming weeks. It swelled with Ordered magic, reforming the Banded Linsang perfectly within--any scars or items, any magic links, any dye or jewelry, simply gone. One cycle later, the stone would begin to crack.

The fungus was no longer needed: Pallas was linked to Mother forever, now, through his very stone. Any magical affinity he once had held was gone: his was now the magic of Order itself, a new power granted him by Mother's hand to wield as he saw fit. The compulsions of Order remained, of course--Chaos had no place in the world, and it was his responsibility to set that right wherever he encountered it.

The first voice to greet him would be the last he had heard before utterly losing consciousness: Mother's, now with a soft clarity it had never before held. "My son... You stir," came the warm greeting, though she gave him time to wake. "Come back to me... when you are ready. You must be hungry..." she added.

Pallas's Praetor would be there, and waiting.

---

Pallas has been reformed by the Clearstone Spire, and is now Ordered Element. His stone, now Clearstone may reform anywhere on his body provided it is perfectly symmetrical. He will no longer give off any scent at all.

@Pallas

The allure of the Clearstone was evident, flooding his mind and vision, every sense that he had- and then, a snap. Every nerve frozen and fried, his cells split apart, and then he was simply nothing.

There was no preparing for that. It was a sacrifice, certainly- but it was one that he'd have no time to think over after this, only chrysalis left behind.

▴
His consciousness swam together after the cycle of cleansing, put through the magical washer and stripped clean of anything wrong. It was a slow start- one of calculation, a feeling, the sticky fluid of his chrysalis surrounding him. Neurons rebuilt from the ground up slowly connected to his mind, and he could feel himself stirring, just as Mother said- her sweet, sweet voice coming to him in perfect clarity, and it was the last spark to give him life.

Jerking his head forward, Pallas's skull broke through the clear gem that surrounded him, the shards unfolding with the wet fluids from within. He felt different, aligned, perfect. Propping two paws on the crystal, he heaved himself out, leaving a trail of the amniotic fluids of restructuring.

"Mother," his mental voice softly returned, awash with warmth and love. He had been reformed. "I am hungry..." he confirmed after a moment, shutting his eyes to assess himself.

Crystals clung to him through the stickiness. Hm. No- that wasn't right. Even as his empty stomach starved, Pallas twisted to gingerly remove the crystal and place it perfectly by the side of his chrysalis, organizing each shard by size, with the largest in the middle. It was quick, practiced work, and he'd dried out just slightly in the meantime, preparing in front of Butler.

Finally, he was ready. Sucking in a deep, crystal-clear breath, he turned to the Praetor and shook himself out- there was no need for Butler to feel his wet body on its thorax. "Thank you," he muttered to Butler, leaning up as well as he could to touch his muzzle to the Praetor's high, high mandibles.

Act of love performed, he flowed up the Butler's side and settled in once more, lying flat on its back. "Please, return me to Mother." A gentle request- one he knew that would be fulfilled- but kindness filled it all the same. His paws flexed in a mirrored tandem, excited- he would see her once more, now truly awake.

The journey was a long one, as it had been going in--and there was no sign, anywhere, of the churning fractal that had reformed Pallas. Instead they circled up empty tunnels, the quiet click of Praetor limbs echoing across the ice.

When at last they emerged into Mother's chamber, there was a white and woolly fur laid out for Pallas--and atop it a little food, piled on one side. Chief among this was a small, dead mouse, not a drop of blood to be seen. Mother's gaze gleamed, pleased with her favored son, and her voice sang softly through the chamber.

"My first-... My son. Pallas Drone," she crooned, and somehow it did not sound insulting--it sounded adoring, loving, admiring. "How do you feel?" she asked--although surely she must know; and--"will you choose a title, Pallas-? Speaker, perhaps; or Ambassador; Diplomat, or Messenger? You are the first among my children here, and you will be Zero Zero One--one, and the first--and Pallas Drone..." Her voice trailed off with a pleased chittering of mandibles, and she waited--giving him time to settle in, and to respond.

@Pallas