10:00 p.m. - At Space House Bedroom
He came back as heat.
Not the blaze itself—only the afterimage, a slow, dull warmth under the skin, as if his bones still remembered the brazier's breath. Ryan's eyes opened to cream walls and the same neat queen bed. The digital clock on the nightstand read 10:00 p.m., 09/09/2025, bright and stubborn. The room breathed its usual small noises: the fridge's low hum, the ceiling fan, the house's quiet insistence that nothing here was sudden unless he made it so.
Beyond the bay windows the void was exactly as it always was in this place: black and patient. Far away the rim of that still black hole sat like a painted ring. No wind. No birds. No one to see him wake up twice.
He lay still a long time, letting the panic sluice out in small waves so the rest of him could think straight. Then he swung his feet to the floor. The socks met the same varnished boards he'd walked a hundred times since the House had become his strange library. The towel on the chair smelled faintly of detergent—not the smell of a bath he deserved, but the smell he had here. His throat tightened, and he let a laugh that turned into air.
(I'm alive. The House took me. I came back. Good.)
He told the room, aloud, because he always did that here. Talking to himself was less scary than thinking. It anchored the panic in language.
Ryan (sits up, breath even): "Okay. Near-death flag. Domain pulled. I get it."
He stood and went to the bathroom. The shower came on hot and honest. Steam rose like a soft apology. The mirror stayed clear—no steam murals to hide in, no excuse to pretend. He scrubbed slow, watched the water bead like the world kept rules even in small things. The memory of the pyre and the priestly chant and the child's song—of the market, the papery smoke—receded a little with each pass of his hands across his face. He let the heat wash the phantom warmth away until the chest ache was only memory, not command.
When he shut the tap the droplets on glass aligned to the House's baseline and disappeared. The Space House had its tidy laws, and even condensation obeyed them.
Dressed in soft clothes that smelled like nothing, he moved to the desk. The PC's RGB glow was patient, the screen settling like a thing waiting on him. The mail form had populated the display before he sat. It sat there like a small bureaucracy in front of a god.
```Mail Form
Job Application: Reality Parameters
Status: Update Scripts
Next Cycle Begins in: 6 days, 23 hours, 59 minutes
Submit To: [email protected]
Safety Protocols Available:
- Safe from fire
- Safe from disaster
- Safe from spotlight
```
The cursor blinked. The unchosen words looked a touch wrong at the edges—as if the form had been read many times and had started to fray.
He put his hands on the desk and let his eyes go soft. In the House, thinking felt like a tool, here he could stretch out an hour and leave the world a second older. He reached for the notebook that had come with him across worlds—the one the Domain let follow him. He flipped to a blank page. The pen trembled a beat as he steadied it.
First the ledger of people who mattered.
He drew boxes, neat and firm, and wrote.
Cassian Morrow — detonated on handshake.
(If I picked Safe from the Red Moon before, that option became a kind of weather the Mandate enforces. If Cassian was a vector—Red Moon category, vampire, demon-affiliated—the Mandate might have auto‑tripped what happens when certain categories interact with me. That would explain the explosion-like failure at the High Temple.)
Odds he's tied to Belmara? High. Steward's job is access. Smooth voice, no loose edges—classic spy mark.
Note: Need corpse signal, ritual marks, anything physical. For now: inference, not proof.
Pope Thaddeus Marrow — ulterior motive.
(Why court me? Leverage is the short answer. If he can make me the convenient hero, he owns the story. If he makes me the convenient villain, he owns the fear. Either way he moves people.)
Behavior pattern matches a man who plays the long social game: nudge rumor, shape mercy, set spectacle when needed. Could be a Belmara asset. Not confirmed, but his habits smell of the same careful cunning.
Note: Watch for who benefits if Ryan becomes the city's cautionary tale or its savior.
Varena Kestrel & Odrik Stoneveil — market knives.
(They have hands, networks, and reasons to silence a competitor who undercuts them.)
They hired muscle—Gin, Barden, Lyss. Pattern fits: pay street crews to make problems, let law and crowd finish the job. Confirmed in his head: Varena pulls with money and men like a market puppet master, Odrik smells for fast coin and pushes when danger is cheap.
Edrin Quillwright — old‑world artisan.
Rival? Maybe. Insufficient information. He runs on pride in craft, he could be a soft rival or an ally if Ryan shows respect. For now: keep long leash.
He drew a thick line from Cassian to Belmara, another thin line from Thaddeus to that same place, and a dotted line from Thaddeus to "Me — leverage." He doodled a tiny stag with a question mark beside it: the Temple, a symbol he couldn't trust yet.
(You courted me because you sell order. Order likes tools. I make tools. So they either buy me, bend me, or burn me to teach the square what fear looks like.)
He spoke the thought aloud and the house returned only the faint whirr of fans.
Ryan (soft, sardonic): "Theater, all the way down."
He tapped the cached browser open. The Space House's internet felt like a fossil—huge, silent, all there—but without new lines. It would not let him reach other people, but it would let him read every old manual he wanted in peace. That, in itself, was a kind of power: time to learn without the world breathing down his neck.
(Being here calms me. The Domain makes the edges softer. I can think.)
He began to build a study plan on the second monitor. The words he bookmarked were careful, neutral: logistics and theory rather than recipes. He made categories: supply chains, safe powder storage, blast containment theory (high level), metallurgy basics, pressure vessel design in layman's terms, the history of cannonization as industrial evolution, machine tolerancing without modern machine tools, and standard parts systems.
He wrote two rules at the top of the page in stark letters.
Never make a thing I cannot explain in daylight. Build non‑lethal first. Deterrence > escalation.
He refused to put ratios, formulas, or recipes into his book. He would sketch flows and safety fences, not how to mix. He sketched diagrams for process chains: materials in, quality checks, two‑person signoffs, safe storage, transport rules, forced ventilation and blast hemitories in a workshop, test rigs with harmless loads. He wrote the phrase Holy • City • Steel on a line and put a circle around it.
(Holy • City • Steel — two of three, always.)
The thought of weapons in a fantasy world made him uneasy and tightly practical at once. He did not want to be the kind of person who learned how to blow things up for the thrill. He wanted leverage for safety and for bargaining. He wanted sheriff's tools, not terror. He needed a practical path: how to make deterrents, how to test safeties, how to build manufacturing that could be formalized by law and watchful eyes.
He spoke notes aloud, the same way he did when an algorithm in his head needed to be debugged.
Ryan (writing, a little breathless): "Trust architecture first. Labs second. Arms only after safeties and laws. No improv under heat. Two people on heat tasks. Small failures logged. Replace, don't hide."
He opened the mail form again, stare returning to the three choices. The blue cursor blinked like an expectant eye.
The tradeoff was simple and brutal: pick two, lose one forever. It forced him to measure what he was willing to remove from his world.
Safe from fire would keep him from burning, from the brazier's finality. The pyre had been real enough, the memory still could pinch the lungs.
Safe from disaster would protect against sweeping, large‑scale harms—plagues, floods, the kind of systemic shit the Belmara Empire would love to use as cover.
Safe from spotlight would keep him from being the city's showpiece or the Temple's stage—avoid public trials and spectacles, keep him from instant fame or instant monsterhood.
He rubbed his thumb along the page. The House was a mirror that made choices feel like a test. He let himself be honest.
(Cassian was either an agent or a vector. If Cassian was tied to Belmara and the Mandate tripped with my presence, that is terrifying and also useful.)
(Thaddeus courted me because a man with a priest's pulpit knows how to make crowds. If he wants to tie me with the city's story, I do not want the entire square to be his narrative. I need to control audience risk.)
(Varena and Odrik hired muscle—I'm sure of that. I can't let the market knives get public theater and the Temple's blessing in a single move. Spotlight kills quiet plans.)
He ran the options through three quick filters: personal survival, strategic leverage, long‑term resilience.
Personal survival: Safe from fire is the direct answer. He had felt the heat from the brazier, the way it reached bone memory. The House had saved him once, he didn't want freestyle pyres anymore.
Strategic leverage: Spotlight. If the city had this taste for images—burning a man into a lesson—then being out of the public stage was the difference between being a puppet and being a planner. Not being in the spotlight would let him move in shadows to build networks, forge friends, and test ideas without the Temple broadcasting his mistakes.
Long‑term resilience: Safe from disaster would be nice, but disasters could be mitigated with policy, infrastructure, and alliances. He had time in the House to learn logistics and build supply reserves. The Mandate's protection against disaster might buy him comfort, but at the cost of giving up the social invisibility that would let him work. He could live with greater material risk if he could stay out of the public theater and survive a pyre.
He said the calculus aloud, because speaking it made it a plan.
Ryan (to himself): "Fire kills you quick. Spotlight turns everything into a show. Disaster we can hedge. I'll keep myself unburned and off the stage."
He sat with the decision. The cursor blinked like a held breath.
Before he clicked, he rewound the string a last time: Cassian in a steward's neat suit offering friendly orders, the priest whispering soft instructions and touching the silver sigil at his throat, Varena watching market moves like a hawk, Odrik sniffing for cheap risk. The picture sharpened: a web that tangled commerce, faith, and shadows. If he let the Temple use him for a lesson—if he let Thaddeus craft a play that burned him in public—Varena and Odrik could use that spectacle to take markets, and Belmara could sit back and watch the city tear itself.
(If I pick spotlight off, I blunt Thaddeus' best tool. If I pick fire off, I blunt the pyre. If I lose disaster, I can still build hard stores and allies.)
He clicked.
The form accepted his choices like a machine swallowing the world.
Safe from fire — selected. Safe from spotlight — selected.
The cursor confirmed with an unremarked, cold click. The unchosen line—Safe from disaster—blinked once and faded like a page left out in rain.
A small, private weight left his shoulders. The House did not cheer. It did not sigh. It simply did what the Mandate did: rearranged a rule in the wider world.
(Okay. That's done. I traded a wall for a window. Good. Time to use the quiet.)
He exhaled a laugh that was more relieved than triumphant. The House hummed like an old server—business as usual. He felt safer physically and socially, but also more exposed to slow harms. He was an introvert who hated the idea of being paraded, and now the Mandate had granted a little of his wish. That gave him breathing space to plan.
Ryan (half-smile): "Cool. The pyre doesn't touch me. The square doesn't hog me. Now build."
After taking a break and thinking about the story and why we were here, Ryan started to create a list of the same things he had been writing down and jotting them down in his notebook.
Ryan (writing): "43) Make soap that smells good and kills disease — check."
(He felt a small, honest pride at that one. It was a thing that helped people now, not later.)
Ryan (writing): "44) Create currency that can't be easily counterfeited."
(The idea made his chest tighten a little — responsibility, and the faint dread of becoming the banker he never wanted to be.)
Ryan (writing): "45) Establish 'Veythralis Times' — the first newspaper."
(He smiled at the thought of truth printed and folded, it felt like setting a little light on a dark table.)
Ryan (writing): "46) Form a research guild: 'Institute of Rational Wonders.'"
(When he wrote the word 'guild' his hands steadied — community, not cult. That felt right.)
Ryan (writing): "47) Introduce universal measurement standards (meters, liters, kilograms, etc) — in progress."
(He ran a thumb over the line and felt the calm order of numbers, comfort like a warm sweater.)
Ryan (writing): "48) Plant one million trees. Then teach elves about carbon cycles."
(The scale made him laugh softly, then feel small. It was a hopeful impossible thing he liked imagining.)
Ryan (writing): "49) Convince dwarves to use safety goggles."
(The image of squinting, stubborn eyes behind glass made him grin. It was a gentle, silly pride.)
Ryan (writing): "50) Build a weather observation tower. Predict storms."
(He got a little anxious: prediction meant responsibility. He knew people would trust him — or blame him.)
Ryan (writing): "51) Make clean water accessible to every village."
(A cold wash of sadness hit him thinking of choking wells. He wanted to fix that with both hands.)
Ryan (writing): "52) Invent the printing press. (Or 'magic scroll duplicator.')"
(The fun of that word made his mood lift, childlike wonder peeked in and he let it stay a moment.)
Ryan (writing): "53) Build a science toy factory."
(He felt protective — toys that teach, not weapons. He pictured small faces lighting up.)
Ryan (writing): "54) Create a postal system."
(He felt lonely for a second, imagining letters from home. The thought of connection warmed him.)
Ryan (writing): "55) Map the stars and give them names."
(There was tenderness in that line — naming felt like claiming beauty from the dark.)
Ryan (writing): "56) Create internet into Veythralis."
(The enormity of the line made him breathe fast. It was dazzling and terrifying at once.)
Ryan (writing): "57) Design plumbing that doesn't flood during winter."
(He laughed out loud quietly. Practicality pleased him more than grand plans sometimes.)
Ryan (writing): "58) Establish a 'Bureau of Sanity' — for quality control in inventions."
(He felt a wry, private joy. Rules could be kind if they kept people safe.)
Ryan (writing): "59) Train loyal griffons for sky transport (if they have)."
(The absurdity made him grin, then worry about logistics. He loved the wild idea anyway.)
Ryan (writing): "60) Create an academy of engineering and arcane science."
(He felt heavy with hope — teaching others felt like planting himself into the future.)
Ryan (writing): "61) Develop an education system where logic and empathy are both taught."
(That line made him quietly proud, it sounded like his best self on paper.)
Ryan (writing): "62) Start the first international fair: 'Festival of Progress.' "
(A soft excitement rose — he imagined markets, strange foods, and music stitched from many voices.)
Ryan (writing): "63) Invent the concept of weekends."
(The small, human joy of rest made him smile. This was the kind of change he liked.)
Ryan (writing): "64) Build a space organization."
(He felt a little awe and the old itch of ambition — the far future calling.)
Ryan (writing): "65) Compose a lullaby that even demons would hum."
(He felt oddly tender. The thought of a song that could touch even the cruel made him tear up.)
Ryan (writing): "66) Make roads connecting all major cities — safe and lit."
(Practicality again: he liked the steady work this would need. It felt reliable and honest.)
Ryan (writing): "67) Create the first constitution protecting freedom of thought."
(He paused. Fear and courage mixed. Writing rights on paper felt dangerous and necessary.)
Ryan (writing): "68) Learn necromancy… ethically."
(A chill ran through him. Curiosity mixed with caution — the line tasted like power with boundaries.)
Ryan (writing): "69) Build a mechanical clock tower in every capital."
(He felt a little romantic. Clocks were steady things, he liked the sound of time made visible.)
Ryan (writing): "70) Start a 'Museum of Lost Civilizations.'"
(Nostalgia washed over him, he imagined dusty rooms that taught better than any sermon.)
Ryan (writing): "71) Develop windmills that can power villages."
(Hopeful and practical. He felt the warmth of small, clean turns changing lives.)
Ryan (writing): "72) Found the 'Guild of Honest Merchants.'"
(He felt a tightness — idealism warring with realism. He wanted fairness but feared corruption.)
Ryan (writing): "73) Invent the microscope — discover the world of the unseen."
(Excitement bubbled up. Tiny worlds under lenses felt like unlocking a secret friend.)
Ryan (writing): "74) Build a library with every known book — 'The Lighthouse of Knowledge.'"
(A deep, steady joy. Books were refuge, he felt protective toward that idea.)
Ryan (writing): "75) Find a way to communicate instantly
(magic radio?)." (He felt impatient in a good way. The idea of voices crossing distance made his heart quicken.)
Ryan (writing): "76) Teach people to wash hands — seriously."
(He snorted, half-amused and half-grieved. Some ideas were painfully simple and important.)
Ryan (writing): "77) Make an airship that actually lands safely."
(He was playful here, picturing clumsy landings and proud pilots. He felt amused and warm.)
Ryan (writing): "78) Create a council of all races — for peace and debate."
(He felt solemn and a little scared. Unity was beautiful, and fragile.)
Ryan (writing): "79) Host the first 'World Science and Magic Expo.' "
(He felt excited and nervous. Bringing many minds together could make sparks — good or bad.)
Ryan (writing): "80) Invent a vaccine (start small — cowpox style)."
(He felt deeply moved. The thought of preventing illness felt like real, simple heroism.)
Ryan (writing): "81) Create a music festival that unites all tribes."
(The idea made him feel light and hopeful, music as glue felt very human.)
Ryan (writing): "82) Build a mega project."
(He felt wary and thrilled. Grand projects could bind a city together or break it.)
Ryan (writing): "83) Discover renewable mana energy."
(The line made him breathless, discovery was the kind of risk he craved.)
Ryan (writing): "84) Write a book: 'Science for Villagers.'"
(He felt tender toward the imagined readers, teaching plainly felt like kindness.)
Ryan (writing): "85) Make prosthetic limbs for war veterans."
(He felt a hot, steady compassion. This one was personal—repairing the torn was sacred.)
Ryan (writing): "86) Create a code of engineering ethics: 'Do no dumb harm.'"
(He smiled. Clear, blunt rules made him feel safer — for everyone.)
Ryan (writing): "87) Invent the refrigerator. (Milk deserves better.)"
(He laughed aloud. Small comforts mattered. This was a wholesome, silly hope.)
Ryan (writing): "88) Build a data storage system."
(He felt careful and a little proud. A place to keep truth felt like a moral act.)
Ryan (writing): "89) Make public baths — and call them 'Spa of Civilization.'"
(He felt warmly amused and a bit indulgent. Baths felt like community and peace.)
Ryan (writing): "90) Invent the concept of retirement."
(He paused and felt a soft sadness for those who never got rest, this was a promise.)
Ryan (writing): "91) Discover caffeine plants — start 'Mercer Coffee Co.'"
(He grinned. The small joy of coffee hit him like a private victory.)
Ryan (writing): "92) Build a radio tower that broadcasts knowledge."
(He felt a quiet thrill at the thought of shared learning reaching every ear.)
Ryan (writing): "93) Learn to brew beer without killing anyone."
(He felt playful and mischievous. Practical safety with good beer sounded like a win.)
Ryan (writing): "94) Make a monument for every unsung worker."
(He felt solemn and grateful. Recognition mattered, he wanted to honor the unseen hands.)
Ryan (writing): "95) Design a currency exchange system."
(He felt responsible again — numbers and trust tangled together. It was heavy work.)
Ryan (writing): "96) Create a weather satellite (or a crystal equivalent)."
(The idea made him feel small and awed at the scale. He liked dreaming big.)
Ryan (writing): "97) Build the first fantasy world university: Veythralis Institute of Progress."
(He felt fear and pride in equal measure. Institution-building was both safe and risky.)
Ryan (writing): "98) Record history — truthfully."
(He felt reverent. Truth written down felt like a small rebellion against lies.)
Ryan (writing): "99) Create a warp gate."
(He felt exhilarated and afraid. The thought of doors between places made his heart race.)
Ryan (writing): "100) Return to Earth."
(A lonely, aching hope touched him. It was the smallest and biggest wish all at once.)