Chương 1: Burumma

"Burumma Burmma Exodias Burumma."

"Burumma Burmma Exodias Burumma."

"Burumma Burmma Exodias Burumma." The Church of the Eternal Summoning had stood for four hundred and twelve years. Its columns rose thirty feet from a floor of pale marble veined with gold, each one carved by the master mason Aldric the Stout during the third reign of the Sunlit Dynasty. Along the eastern wall, stained glass windows stretched from floor to ceiling — twelve panels depicting the ancient prophecy in breathtaking detail. A hero wreathed in holy fire. A great darkness retreating.

A world saved by chosen hands. In the morning light, those windows threw colors across the marble floor. Crimson. Gold. Dark sacred blue. Deeper into the sanctuary, the flames of forty-seven candles trembled in their iron stands, casting long shadows between the columns. Incense drifted in slow coils toward the vaulted ceiling, where painted angels watched with serene expressions. Everything smelled of cedar and old prayer and the holiness of a place that had been believed in for a very long time.

The chant moved through it all like water.

"Burumma Burmma Exodias Burumma." Sixteen voices. Perfectly synchronized. The sound filled every corner of the vast space. It climbed the columns. It settled into the stones. At the center of it all, the summoning circle burned. Twelve thousand gold pieces, quarter-sized coins, the entire coffer of the church, ready for the sacrifice of the spell. The ritual would consume them entirely. That was the point.

The gold dissolved as it worked, each coin burning down to light, and that light pulsed with the steady, patient glow of something that had been waiting a very long time. At sixteen stations around the circle's edge, at sixteen ceremonial positions marked by tradition and scripture and four centuries of unbroken practice, stood sixteen members of the Order of the Eternal Flame. Each one proudly standing on a step stool. The stepstools were oak. Sanded smooth.

Fitted with small rubber stoppers on the feet so they would not scratch the marble. The High Priest's step stool was older and just a bit taller than the others. High Priest Nibbles the Venerable stood atop it with the bearing of someone who had never once in forty years of holy service considered that a step stool was in any way unusual. He was a guinea pig — white, mostly.

A patch of deep brown covered his left eye and ear entirely, giving him the permanent expression of someone who had heard something interesting and was still thinking about it. He was round in the way that certain very serious people are round, carrying his considerable weight with the dignity of a man who considered his body simply another vestment.

His ceremonial robes were dark red, heavy fabric that pooled slightly around his feet on the step stool, embroidered at every hem and collar with silver symbols so old scholars had debated their original meanings for two hundred years. A silver chain at his neck held the Seal of the Eternal Flame, a disc the size of his palm, worn smooth from four decades of anxious handling during difficult sermons. His whiskers were groomed to perfect symmetry on either side of his small pink nose.

His eyes were closed in concentration, his round body swaying slightly with the rhythm of the chant. Brother Fenwick was a red guinea pig — a warm reddish brown that covered most of him except for a small puff of white fur on his nose and one white front paw that he was never entirely sure what to do with during ceremonies. His robes were dark red, like the others, but simpler: less embroidery, less weight, the fabric newer and slightly less broken in.

Above his left breast, a single small sprig of silver thread caught the candlelight. He had earned it three years ago and still felt a quiet pride about it that he would never have admitted to anyone. His white paw rested on the edge of his step stool. His eyes were closed. He was, by every outward measure, fully prepared for this ceremony. Around them, the other fourteen acolytes chanted with varying degrees of spiritual focus. Sister Marvella, in the northeast position, had tears on her cheeks.

This was her first summoning ceremony. She had prepared for three years. She intended to remember every moment. Nobody intended to forget any of this. They were summoning the prophesied hero. He was here to save the land. The circle's light began to change.

"Burumma Burmma—" Nibbles cracked one eye open. The coins were going. Each one burning down from the edges inward, the etched runes flaring bright as they dissolved, twelve thousand flames dying in sequence across the floor until the light they left behind was something else entirely. Something urgent. The air above the circle had begun to shimmer, as heat does over summer stone, except that it was cold. A strange cold that raised the fur along every neck in the room simultaneously. This was it.

This was the moment.

"Exodias Burumma." The circle detonated with white light. The acolytes flinched as one. Several held onto their stepstools instinctively. Sister Marvella stopped crying and grabbed Brother Aldous on her left, who clung to her back. The candles guttered violently. The shadows swung. The painted angels on the ceiling seemed momentarily startled. The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. Then the light settled. And something was standing in the circle.

Nibbles the Venerable opened both eyes. He had imagined this moment ten thousand times across forty years of faith. He had read every scripture, studied every depiction in every stained-glass window, and committed to memory every prophetic text the church possessed. He had a clear and detailed image of what the hero would look like. The thing in the circle did not look like that. The smell hit first. It was catastrophic. The subject was tall, at least. That much matched. One shoulder sat higher than the other.

Its clothes were strange, torn and dark, like nothing Nibbles had ever encountered in scripture or study. Its skin was a pale, yellowed grey, pulled back so far the face was barely skin at all. The cheekbones were sharp. The jaw was hollow. Drawn tight enough to read as a skull wearing the last of what it had been. A few thin wisps of hair clung to the crown. Missing eyes with the sockets glowing. Several acolytes had covered their noses. Brother Fenwick had gone very still on his step stool.

The hero, if that was what this was, turned its head slowly across the room. The glow in its eye sockets moved from column to column with no urgency and no recognition. Then a glowing screen appeared above its head. The hero hit the glowing screen. Then the glowing screen came back. The hero hit it again. Warning Warning System Message: 🚨🚨🚨 💃💃💃 🚨🚨🚨"It has..." one of the junior acolytes began.

"Is it... are those dancing—""I see them," said Nibbles.

"What are—""I don't know." The hero stopped hitting the screen. It became distracted. Its head turned, slowly, with a kind of drifting animal attention, toward the northeast position of the circle. Toward Brother Fenwick. Brother Fenwick did not move. The glowing screen above the hero's head erupted: Warning Warning System Message 🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨 The tiny dancing figures appeared again — frantic now, pointing urgently in every direction except northeast. A series of red symbols cascaded past. The screen flashed.

The dancing figures danced harder, more desperately, with the energy of something that had been through a great deal already today and could not believe this was happening. The hero leaned toward Brother Fenwick. Brother Fenwick leaned back on his step stool.

"High Priest," said Brother Fenwick, without moving his lips very much.

"Yes, Brother Fenwick."

"It's looking at me."

"I am aware."

"Should I—""Do not move."

"I'm not moving."

"Do not make eye contact."

"I'm not making eye contact."

"Good."

"High Priest."

"Yes."

"It's still looking at me." Above the hero's head, the glowing screen had gone briefly dark. Then one single image appeared on it. A guinea pig. Then a large red X. Then the guinea pig again. Then the red X again. The hero did not look at the screen. It reached out instead. One pale, yellowed grey hand, large and slow, with the drifting certainty of something that had never once been told no, closed around Brother Fenwick entirely. Brother Fenwick made a sound, the high squeal of a startled guinea pig.

"Brother Fenwick—" Nibbles started. But the hero had already lifted him. Brother Fenwick was rising, up past the hero's chest, past its chin, held in a loose grip that was somehow more alarming than a tight one. The glowing screen above the hero's head had gone fully red. Warning Warning System Message: 🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨 The dancing figures were no longer dancing. They were running. Tiny, frantic figures sprinting in every direction with their tiny, frantic arms above their tiny, frantic heads.

Nobody in the church moved. Sister Marvella had stopped breathing entirely. Brother Fenwick hung in the air at mouth level, staring directly into two empty sockets with only the menacing glowing light. The hero's mouth began to open, ready to taste the squealing object in front of it. Those eye sockets were empty. The dull light highlighting the scared clergy.

"Hello," whispered Brother Fenwick. The mouth did not stop opening. [SYSTEM PRIVATE LOG] System Message: [Entry 1] Delivery confirmed. One month, four days late. Recipient converted before arrival. World of origin: lost. Current location: unknown fantasy realm. ▌ Becca, if you are listening. ▌ There is a small religious official at mouth level. ▌ I am doing everything I can. ▌ He was supposed to save the world. ▌... Please don't eat the guinea pig.