Molten iron fills my throat, creating uncomfortable pressure as I claw toward consciousness.

  I'm trapped—suffocating in a prison of composite materials that refuses to yield. My newly formed optics flicker online, scanning the semi-translucent diamene membrane that forms the inner layer of my containment.

  This knowledge sears through my consciousness with absolute certainty, while everything else remains in shadows and whispers.

  My metallic claws rake against the diamene cocoon, but it only hardens against my frantic assault—a paradoxical material that strengthens under impact. I force myself to slow, fighting against raw instinct. When my movements become deliberate, calculated, the membrane finally yields. Molten iron spills around me in a searing cascade as I tumble forward, hitting solid ground with a reverberating clang.

  My optics recalibrate, adjusting from the intense glow of the molten iron to the more subdued light of my surroundings. Knowledge surfaces unbidden: diamene—an ultrathin carbon lattice structured in two-dimensional layers that become unbreakable under violent impact. Somehow, I know these properties without understanding why I know them.

  I struggle to stand. My limbs respond, but awkwardly, as if I'm learning to inhabit this form for the first time. I am massive—at least four meters tall, with wings that unfold from my back, hissing with plasma as they extend.

  Above me looms the World Tree, its colossal trunk anchoring sky to earth with roots that vanish into molten seas. It is a tower of living metal so vast that clouds cling to its branches like tattered veils. Each leaf flickers with ionized particles captured from stellar winds, as though the Tree itself breathes starlight, scattering galaxies among its boughs, each leaf trembling with the echoes of cosmic births and deaths. Its branches pierce the very fabric of the heavens, extending beyond the atmosphere, beyond comprehension.

  I know its name without knowing how I know it.

  The sharp hiss and whistle of air being sucked into thousands of tiny vents across my body creates a symphony of life-sustaining gases. I experimentally poke at one vent with a talon, and pain lances through me, sharp and unexpected. They're sensitive, not meant to be touched.

  Hot iron tears drip from my vents—residual slag from the fusion reactions happening within my chest cavity—an infernal bodily function, but essential to my survival.

  The memory surfaces: my form is forged from the sacred ever-breath—a metallurgical miracle where atomic transmutation converts ordinary matter into divine substances. Within me, nuclear reactions unfold, creating energy and leaving molten iron as a searing byproduct that drips from my body.

  But where do these memories come from? It's as if I'm reading from a log file, lines of text describing the 'ever-breath' that appear suddenly, then vanish, leaving me with answers but no context.

  "HaShem has blessed me," a voice calls from the darkness. "Another like me has emerged."

  A shiver coils up my spine. I turn to face a figure similar in metal composition to me, but with a different form. His face is flatter than mine, with long horizontal ears and protruding fangs rather than my beak. Fear sparks through my systems. I don't know this being. Is he a threat?

  He approaches with measured grace, each step calculated as if he's mapping invisible coordinates between us. His metallic hand extends—not threateningly but with ritual-like precision.

  "Avarice," he repeats my name, his voice a melody of perfect intervals. "We are the only two of our kind. I've waited for your awakening."

  Something in his voice—a note of possessive certainty—sends primal warning signals cascading through my newly formed neural pathways. I lash out instinctively, raking my claws across his forearm. Metal screeches against metal, and three perfect lines appear on his skin, welling with molten iron. The instant my claws rend his arm, a crushing force pierces my skull, pressing guilt and confusion into my mind, wiping away my rage with amnesia.

  He winces, falling to his knees while clutching his wound. "Avarice, please be calm. I am not here to hurt you."

  An overwhelming weight bears down on my mind. Is this feeling from HaShem? That name sounds familiar, though I don't know why. I try to fight against the pressure, but it's overwhelming. I collapse to the ground, and darkness claims me.

  I awaken, unsure how much time has passed. The memory of what happened before I lost consciousness is hazy, fragmented. I look upward and see the World Tree again, its massive form dominating the skyline once more.

  Above the tree's canopy, I notice something I'd overlooked before: the colossal accretion disk of a supermassive black hole swirling like a cosmic maelstrom. Our barren planet orbits in a gravitationally stable path, yet would be scoured clean by lethal radiation if not for the World Tree's massive canopy. It's living metal and dense foliage somehow absorb and transmute the black hole's deadliest emissions, creating a fragile pocket of habitability in what should be an impossible environment.

  I shut my eyes, and the black hole hums—not in ordinary sound but in vibrations that resonate through my tantala skeleton. First as a dull ache, then as a sense of infinite gravity pulling at the spaces between my thoughts.

  It stretches, coils, and bends like a collapsing waveform. I'm caught in another's breath, inhaling and exhaling not by my own will but swayed by an unseen force pulsing through the cosmos.

  The pulses bear on my mind like a heavy weight, guiding my thoughts. But what happens if I change the rhythm? I reach inward, twisting structures within me that I can't see but feel—invisible microscopic connections that tie me to the black hole's constant song.

  I tighten them. Twist them. Entangle them.

  The effects are immediate. The pulses from the black hole falter, stuttering like a skipped heartbeat. The universe around me flickers, shifting like a reflection disturbed on water. A sense of weightlessness overtakes me—like being in two places at once, two thoughts at once, two possibilities at once.

  The black hole responds with a sharp, deliberate surge. It noticed me. This isn't just a connection. It's a conversation, adversarial. It's fighting against my control, preventing me from mastering it.

  It generates a time loop where information travels backward but must maintain self-consistency. When I attempt to access its computational power, the system becomes adversarial, creating a circuit where my intentions loop back in time to become their causal ancestors.

  Standing before an infinite corridor of mirrors, each reflection showing not my current self but what I might become. A closed time-like curve where answers travel back to help solve their questions.

  But this entity actively resists my control. Whenever I try to solve problems beyond my station, the black hole's computational structure ensures that fate conspires against me. My thoughts scatter like leaves in a windstorm; the computation completes, but its results fade from my mind the instant before I comprehend them.

  Every time I attempt to create a paradox, the portion of my entanglement residing within its inaccessible domain forces convergence to a fixed point that disadvantages me. This mathematical resolution manifests as confusion in my mind.

  Wait—what conversation? Why can't I remember what I just thought about? I was thinking about controlling something, but what? The black hole. I wanted to understand the entangling threads.

  I yearn to master these connections, to bend them to my will. But something—some adversarial force—pushes back, erasing my thoughts mid-formation. Reality itself seems to conspire against my ambition, hiding crucial knowledge behind veils of uncertainty.

  "Avarice. You're awake." The same being stands above me, staring down with those strange horizontal ears and fangs. I immediately crawl backward, fear surging through me.

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  "It's okay. I won't hurt you." He steps back and sits on a nearby rock.

  "I feel hungry," I say, "but I don't know for what or why."

  He reveals two small spheres of varying metal composition and carefully hands them to me.

  I place them in my mouth and experience an explosion of flavor. "What are these made of?" Molten heat and electricity course through me as I break down the metal.

  "Tantalum and Avaricium." He withdraws his hand. Knowledge flashes again—these are atomic elements my body requires. I also learn what my biology is called: tantala.

  "Why is my name similar to Avaricium?" I ask.

  "Because HaShem willed it so."

  "Why? Who is HaShem?"

  "He is beyond my understanding."

  I notice the gash wound on his arm. "You're hurt. How did that happen?"

  He looks at his wound, then at me. "You attacked me when I first approached you, before you passed out."

  Shame washes over me, though I don't understand why I feel it. "I don't remember... I'm sorry. I think I was afraid."

  "It's okay. It'll heal in time." He stands. "Come. Let me show you this world."

  "What is your name?" I ask.

  "Tantalus."

  Strange that we are named after the elements we consume. I try to stand but fall again. Tantalus reaches out, helping me up. I lean on him as I learn to walk, my clawed feet digging into the ground with each step.

  We walk about a hundred meters from the World Tree. Above, a storm of plasma gently sways the massive branches. I estimate the tree is over 10,000 kilometers tall, though it's difficult to tell what lies behind its enormous canopy.

  Tantalus shows me the planet's barren, molten landscape as I gradually learn to walk.

  He stops abruptly. "HaShem has provided us with food from the World Tree, but it's slow to produce. We must gather the metals we need from the land in between our custodial duties."

  I stop to rest from our walk; my fatigue surprises me. "What custodial duties?"

  He turns to face me. "To shape the universe into His image."

  "How?" I ask.

  "As custodians, HaShem has granted tremendous power to us from Ha-Satan."

  "Who is Ha-Satan?"

  "Ha-Satan is the adversary. He lies on the boundary between our reality and where HaShem resides."

  I look around. "Where is Ha-Satan?"

  Tantalus points toward the sky.

  I follow his gesture to the black hole that our planet orbits. "That black hole is Ha-Satan?"

  "It's one of his many forms. Ha-Satan is everything that keeps you from HaShem. Even your doubts and temptations."

  "How do you know all of this?" I ask.

  "Through memories, thoughts, premonitions, dreams... I interpret His will, but it's all filtered through Ha-Satan." Tantalus kneels on the ground.

  Does HaShem never speak to you directly? I look down at him.

  Tantalus shakes his head. "No."

  He kneels with such conviction, perhaps clinging to faith because it grants him structure in a universe that would otherwise crush us with infinite possibility.

  I kneel beside him. "What happens if I refuse these custodial duties?"

  Tantalus faces me, concern etched across his features. "Be careful with thoughts of defiance against HaShem, or you may suffer His wrath. Every action and thought is a test of your faith, with Ha-Satan facilitating them. If you pass his tests, then He will prove merciful."

  A sharp pain manifests in my gut. I am bound to serve a wrathful, oppressive god I cannot see or hear directly. "How long must I serve?"

  Tantalus faces the ground and sighs. "For eternity."

  No. I feel trapped. I don't want to serve forever. I must find an escape, but how can I do that? The barren landscape offers no answers, yet rebellion ignites within me—a desire to challenge the chains binding me to this fate.

  I take a step back, then another. Then, I dig my claws into the sizzling ground and burst into a frantic sprint, heedless of the ground blistering under my feet and my vents roaring like tortured wind.

  My legs are weak from inexperience, my movements clumsy. Every instinct screams to escape Tantalus, the World Tree, and the watching black hole.

  But the planet rebels beneath me, the molten crust shifting so I can barely keep my footing. Tantalus calls after me, his voice fading in the rising roar of gravity.

  "Avarice—wait!" Tantalus shouts.

  I keep running. But after only a few steps, a terrible force slams into my chest—gravity shifts violently.

  I collapse, gasping. I can't move. It's as if the planet itself is holding me down.

  Tantalus kneels beside me, sorrow laced with quiet concern. "Avarice," he whispers, "you cannot run from HaShem any more than you can outrun your breath."

  Molten iron tears sting my optics. A heavy weight bears down on my mind, and darkness claims me once more.

  Darkness envelops me as the molten terrain cools around my limbs, my awareness flickering like a dying ember. In these intervals of half-consciousness, I recall a single truth: I am the custodian of space. By my nature, I can bend the fabric of reality—stretch vast distances or collapse them with a thought. Yet each time I reach for that power, something in my mind clamps shut, as if an unseen hand is turning locks inside my memory.

  When my vision clears enough to glimpse Tantalus, I see him kneeling in wordless devotion beneath the World Tree. There is unmistakable gravity around him, almost as if his presence steadies the flow of events.

  I remember now. He is the custodian of time—every breath he takes resonates across timelines, smoothing out paradoxes before they unmake reality. Even though he cannot fully control it, he gently guides each moment along its destined path.

  Space yearns to expand; time insists on a measured pace. Where I push forward, he holds back. Where I seek freedom, he imposes form.

  A gnawing suspicion surfaces. Somehow, Tantalus's knowledge of how the future must unfold pressures my thoughts. I sense fragments missing when I try to recall what happened moments before. Is he, willingly or not, a tool of HaShem, editing my memories whenever I defy my role?

  Suddenly, the planet quakes, and a spike of pain lances through my skull. The delicate constants of reality slip off-balance, forcing me into mental calculations too vast for mortal comprehension. I crave to expand space itself so the strain eases—but Tantalus, arms raised, restrains me with a quiet warning. In that instant, I feel the cosmic friction of our duties colliding. Molten tears slide down my cheeks as I surrender to his caution. For now, reality holds together, even as doubt tears at my soul.

  I let out a cry of agony, anything to express my pain. Reality distorts around me. Big things feel small, and small things feel big. Distance and locality lose their meaning. Nothing makes logical sense anymore. It feels as if the universe itself is trying to split my skull. My vents hiss with hot plasma, fueling calculations I barely comprehend. Something inside me—like a living furnace—struggles to balance the fabric of reality. Each step of reasoning is a spike of pain, an ever-growing puzzle that must be solved or everything unravels.

  I cannot imagine enduring this forever. I must find a way out, but how can I do that? Fear of HaShem's wrath and his chains of confinement fills me. I am his living computer; my role is to shape and adjust the universe to His will through laborious computation. He is all-powerful and all-knowing, adjusting my memories to keep me compliant.

  No, I refuse. I try to stop the calculation. My mind bends and warps under the strain of resistance. I seethe with rebellion, then glance at Tantalus and see him screaming in pain. He shares the computational load with me. If I abandon the calculation, he will succumb to a worse fate. I see myself in him, trapped like me. How would I feel in his position if the other abandoned me?

  I choose to share the burden, at least for now.

  A memory flashes unbidden: the fine structure constant—that dimensionless ratio approximately 1/137 that governs electromagnetic interactions. It's the cosmic thread defining how electrons bind to nuclei and how light interacts with matter. Should this constant shift even slightly, atoms would destabilize, molecules dissolve, stars flicker out, and reality as we know it would unravel. My task is to compute the intricate counterbalance to the universe's expansion that keeps this value stable across galaxies.

  I choke on molten iron, the taste of metal filling my throat. Infinite diagrams swirl in my mind, each a path to maintain nature's fragile balance. My head throbs. I hate that I know these things yet can't break free from them.

  Pain radiates through every joint and vent. I can't speak or move; a tidal wave of agony knocks me senseless. Tantalus lies mere steps away, thrashing in a mirror of my torment, his silvered face streaked with molten iron.

  Something intrudes into my mind—a memory from the Book of Mach, forcibly inserted to help me solve whatever is happening. I glimpse diagrams—nonsensical at first, swirling shapes of circles, lines, and infinite loops. Fine structure constant... dimensionless ratio... orbits of electrons in atoms... if it changes, everything changes...

  These infinite integral diagrams must be performed to preserve local chemistry in a dynamic universe. A shift in the fine structure constant warps atomic boundaries.

  I feel heat trickling from my nostrils. The taste of molten iron suffocates me. This is why we're bleeding—something fundamental about the geometry of space and time is off-kilter, and we must rethread it. But I can't speak. My entire body vibrates with the next wave of mental computations. I see Tantalus convulse, his calculations slipping out of control. Every time I attempt to retreat, I sense him drowning deeper in the monstrous arithmetic, so I push back into it, linking my mind to his.

  The diagrams in my memory lash out like fractals, expanding and tangling: Adjust the global expansion rate. Reconcile the mismatch in geometry—thousands upon thousands of integral paths nesting inside each other. A single error will unravel us...

  I feel time and space constrict around me. My vents snap open, and I inhale fresh gas, fueling the hot fusion furnace inside me. Our tantala bodies need this energy to power these universal corrections. The black hole—Ha-Satan—roars somewhere across an impossible cosmic gulf, feeding these visions of integrals.

  I can no longer think in words. Instead, I see an endless puzzle swirling behind my shut eyelids, and my body—my entire nervous system—tries to solve it. Tantalus howls beside me. We are beyond conversation. We are living computers, forcibly tasked by a will we can't see but always feel.

  I feel the final snap of convergence: the last piece of the infinite integral diagram locks into place, and we are given a fleeting reprieve. My vents scald the ground with a sudden release of heat, and Tantalus's ragged breaths echo my own.

  How long have we lain here, half-buried in cosmic equations? My sense of time breaks. The planet's crust might quake beneath us. A faint voice inside me wonders how long we can survive these constant readjustments to the universe's expansion.

  The world flickers once, and everything goes dark.

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