Egg wrote.

Or rather, she scribbled words on paper, frowned, then crossed them out.

The Almighty Penguin waddled into the distance, Egg wrote, nearly tearing the page with the ink-wet tip of her quill. And like a pastry hurled from a platter, it vanished into the distance.

She eased back, swept her bushy brown hair from her eyes, admired the words for a moment, then shook her head and crossed them out.

A pastry hurled from a platter? That was a weird simile. Maybe she was just hungry. And waddling off into the distance? Too cliché. This was the summation of years of work, the final line of her first finished book. It needed to be memorable, moving, and above all, not crappy. So Egg tried a new closing sentence:

“We shall meet again,” said the Almighty Penguin. “Someday soon.”

No. No no no. She slashed that, too. Made it seem like she was setting up a sequel, and she hated when authors did that. So presumptuous. At least let readers ask for another book before you go forcing it on them.

“Subtle,” she whispered to the page. “We need to be more subtle. And maybe even a little profound, if we can swing it.”

“Who are you talking to?” someone asked.

Egg sat upright and donned her most genial smile. The someone who’d spoken was a man seated in the sand beside her, a round and jowly type who smelled of perfume or ale, depending on the moment. They’d met a few hours prior, but Egg had already forgotten his name. Boffer, maybe. Or Boofer?

“Were you talking to me?” the man asked.

“No, Mr., umm…Boogler…” She thought better of answering truthfully, so she finished with, “…I was just warming up my voice. For the call-and-answer bit.”

“My name is Bowler,” the man corrected. He took a practiced swig from a flask in his pocket. “Mayor Bowler. What are you writing about, there?”

You’re a tad nosy, Mayor Bowler, Egg thought, though she didn’t say it. Instead, she tried her smile again. “Just, umm, taking notes.” She waved toward the makeshift dais before them, where the Holy Devoted was busy reading some story of self-righteous dopes from a chunky book called The Everything (the only book Egg had ever disliked).

Bowler blinked at the stack of paper mounted atop Egg’s lap. “That’s a lot of notes.”

It’s been a long service, she thought. Two hours, according to the nearby timekeeper’s hourglass, and the Holy Devoted had only just gotten to the introduction of the Ageless. Bowler gave Egg a parting hiccup before returning his attention to the oration.

Around them dozed the Quaint Village of Quaint. It was a pleasant smattering of sun-baked sandstone houses encircling a fountain carved into the likeness of Florinioniorius, God of Creation. He held a quill aloft that, if you believed the Holy Devoteds, was the quill used to write the world and everyone in it. Long ago, water had spouted from the nib. Now, however, it was dry as the sands surrounding it.

On the dais between the fountain and the onlookers (actually a creaky wooden box, but “dais” sounded fancier), Holy Devoted Sarene graced the boiling morning air with her voice, enunciating every syllable with precision and clarity. Her reading was flawless, as ever. If only her material was less tedious.

“And so Lira, Goddess of Order, and Florinioniorius, God of Creation, had 10 children,” Sarene intoned. “And those 10 children, along with their mother and father, would be the foremost of the Ageless, the Greater Gods and Goddesses. They would be the Dozen.”

“The Dozen,” the villagers repeated.

“And many more Ageless would be born of Lira and Florinioniorius, and though they too would be divine, they would be known as the Lesser Gods and Goddesses.”

“The Lesser,” the villagers repeated.

“And so all the Ageless, the Dozen and the Lesser, guide the lives of mortals. They make our world whole.”

“They make our world whole,” the villagers repeated.

“Except for Hylus, God of the Sun,” Sarene clarified, “who has left the sun in the sky for these past 50 years, and shall not move it until we mortals prove our worth.”

“Until we prove our worth,” the villagers repeated.

By the way, Egg wasn’t listening to any of this. It was too nice a day. The sun was fat and bloated and unsinking as ever, but for now it hid behind a flock of puffy white clouds. The air was stifling, as usual, but a nearby fanbearer churned some breeze (Egg made a mental note to give the guy a tip). Plus, a sunbird had joined them, settling on the eave of a nearby house. It listened for a moment, trilled, then departed. Egg tried and failed to suppress her envy.

Anyhoo, back to writing. She twirled her quill around and around like a real, honest-to-goodness writer must do. Unfortunately, when she looked down, she realized she’d splattered ink across the topmost page.

Oh dear, she thought.

She fumbled the quill and dropped it, which stained the paper further, plus got ink on her robes.

Oh crap, she thought.

She scooted to retrieve the quill, which displaced the stack of paper upon her lap. The pages slipped and scattered everywhere, fluttering away like so many leaves, and in her haste to catch them, she kicked the ink pot beside her. It tumbled across the sand, leaving a black smear in its wake. Droplets of ink spattered over everyone seated too close—including Bowler, the village’s Mayor.

“Oh shitsticks.”

She thought she’d thought that. But when Egg felt eyes on her—several dozen pairs of them—she realized she hadn’t. Those words had slipped out.

The entire village of Quaint, all here for the oration. All staring at her.

She rose. She tried summoning her genial smile, but managed only a guilty grimace. The stares had turned to glares, from an ink-stained Mayor Bowler, from the other ink-stained villagers, even from the clean ones, and also…

Egg gulped. Also from Holy Devoted Sarene.

There was no Goddess of Disapproval, but if there was, Sarene would’ve been her. She was stern and severe with a heron’s build and differently colored eyes: one brown, one blue. Her head was shaven, revealing a smooth scalp with a halo of runic tattoos—12 of them, each representing one of the Dozen Gods and Goddesses.

“Child,” Sarene said. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Egg tried to speak, but the sound came out as a sputter.

“She’s taking notes,” Mayor Bowler grumbled. “Allegedly.”

The Devoted did not react. She didn’t even blink. “You’ve made an unholy mess, Zeggara. Have you anything to say for yourself?”

“Yes. I have something to say for myself. I say I’d rather be writing than sitting here, because writing makes me happier than moping around every day for hours on end, listening to stories I don’t believe and joining rituals I don’t care for. I say maybe I believe something else, or would at least like the opportunity to do so. Also, I say you’re overstating the state of this mess—I’ve done worse. That’s what I say.”

…Well, that’s what Egg would’ve said, if she’d had the courage. But she didn’t. Instead, she squeaked three words:

“I don’t know.”

Holy Devoted Sarene was intimidating enough. It didn’t help that she also happened to be Egg’s mother.

By the time the gathering dispersed, the day was half done (not that you’d know it by looking at the sun; it hadn’t moved an inch, nor would it).

Nonetheless, the timekeepers flipped their hourglasses, the people of Quaint returned to their homes, and Egg and her mother retired to Quaint’s inn (called “The Goat’s Milk,” in case you were curious).

Up in their room, Sarene seated herself behind a desk. Egg sat across from her, beside a breezeless open window. The ink-stained manuscript laid between them.

“So.” Egg’s mother examined the cover page like a scrap of food on the verge of spoiling. “Please explain this.”

“It’s a book,” said Egg. Her eyes flicked to a nearby candle flame. (Candles—and flames in general—became obsolete once the sun stopped setting. Yet one could still find them if one tried. Evidently, Sarene had tried.)

“A book, yes. I see that. What sort of book?”

A meaningful one, I hope, Egg thought. But she said, “I don’t know.”

Her mother ran a finger over Egg’s tangled handwriting. “What would your father think of this?”

He’d at least give it a chance. “I…I don’t know, Mother.”

“Please stop telling me what you don’t know, Zeggara.” She fixed her differently colored eyes upon her daughter. “An anthropomorphic penguin?”

“It’s fiction,” Egg blurted. “Meant to provoke thought and reflection. You don’t have to take it literally.”

“Then explain it to me.”

Egg looked away. “You won’t like it.”

The Holy Devoted betrayed a rueful smile. “I don’t expect to.”

“It’s a story about a penguin who arrives in a village and teaches people how to be more penguiny. They toboggan, feast on fish, and swim together in rafts. Did you know a pack of swimming penguins was called a ‘raft,’ Mother?”

“I did not.”

“Well, it was. The point I’m trying to make is…” People have the right to live their lives however they want to—even if they want to live like flightless birds. But Egg swallowed and instead finished, “I really like penguins.”

“I can see that.” Her mother flipped to the front page and read, “Grand Teachings of the Almighty Penguin. Is that what I’m supposed to call this?”

“It’s a working title.”

Her mother sighed. “How long have you been writing this?”

“Years.”

The Holy Devoted shook her shaven head. “And all that time you could’ve been reading your Everything. You could’ve been studying for your Devotion.”

Devotion was a ritual in which mortals pledged their lives to the Ageless and became (you guessed it) Holy Devoted. Devotion involved getting tattoos representing the Dozen, plus some sort of quiz and a public declaration type of thing—Egg was fuzzy on the details.

But Devotion wasn’t Egg’s calling. Writing was, always had been. It was the one skill she considered herself halfway decent at (aside from her uncanny abilities to spill things and talk to her manuscripts). She’d been writing constantly, ever since she was young. Granted, Grand Teachings of the Almighty Penguin was the first story she’d finished, and her previous attempts had been unimpressive at best. But she had written them. And writing remained her passion, despite her mother’s tireless attempts to replace it with religion.

“I just want to write, Mother.”

Sarene offered no answer. Instead, she sighed. “There is only one book you should be studying, Zeggara. You know what I must do with this one.” Her gaze slid to the candle flame.

“Please.” Egg didn’t want to cry in front of her mother, but she feared she might if it came to this. “You can’t.”

“I must. There is no Goddess of Penguins, Zeggara. We’ve traveled to this village to share the teachings of the Ageless. Not for some fanciful tale of flying creatures.”

“Swimming.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Penguins didn’t fly. They swam.”

Egg’s mother kneaded the tattoos on her bare scalp. “As you say, child. I know little of extinct species.”

“And it’s satire,” Egg added, her sudden courage taking her by surprise. “The point isn’t to present an alternative religion. It’s to poke fun at religion itself.”

Her mother narrowed her mismatched eyes. “That cannot be, my daughter. Our faith is everything to us. Why do you think the sun never sets? Why do you think it stings our eyes and singes our soles? It’s because we aren’t devoted enough. We don’t believe enough. So if you truly want to become a Devoted, Zeggara, you must set aside this writing and focus on what matters.”

That’s what you want, Mother, Egg thought. Not what I want.

It was unsurprising. Ever since she’d given herself to the Ageless, Egg’s mother had become a total party pooper. Egg wasn’t even sure she could have dessert without permission from the Ageless (not that it ever stopped her).

“Mother…” You’re missing the point. You’re preventing people from thinking for themselves. What if my book gave them a new perspective on their belief? What if it made them laugh, instead of feeling guilty or fearful?

She wanted to say that, and more. But she couldn’t. “Please. It’s just a book.”

“Books have power. And this book you’ve written, Zeggara. It’s blasphemous.”

“Have you even read it?”

“I’ve read enough. Sometimes the right thing to do is also the hardest. But for your sake, I must do this.” Her mother leaned toward the candle.

“Wait!” Egg cried. She wasn’t exactly sure what they were waiting for, but the answer came to her suddenly. “Let me do it, Mother. I…I’ll do it.”

Sarene hesitated, holding the pages mere inches above the flickering flame. “You shall?”

“I must. It needs to be destroyed, burned, obliterated, all that. Just what blasphemy deserves, am I right?” She forced a chuckle, wishing she was better at lying. “I’m the one who created it. I should be the one to destroy it.”

The Holy Devoted gave her daughter a wary look. “If you promise you’ll do this, you must not balk. I’m trusting you, child.”

Egg offered her most trustworthy smile. “You can count on me, Mother. I just need a day to say goodbye. After that, I’ll destroy it. I swear it by…by the Ageless themselves.”

It hurt to make a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep. But her mother’s sudden smile hurt worse. It was one of the few times Egg remembered her mother looking on her with pride.

“Live your life as long as it lasts, Zeggara,” said her mother, passing the manuscript across the desk. She patted her daughter’s hand. “And do some good with the life you’re given.”

Egg hugged her manuscript. “Thank you,” she said. But what she really meant was, Thank you for helping me finish my book.

Egg hunched on the creaking front steps of the inn. The village was quiet, the stagnant air was suffocating, and her left hand itched to write. She drew her quill from her pocket, wetted it, then flipped to the final page of her book and scribbled one last line. It went like this:

“Live your life as long as it lasts,” said the Almighty Penguin. “And do some good with the life you’re given.”

“You’re done,” Egg whispered to her book, planting a wet kiss upon the page. (Her lips were probably blackened now, but whatever.) “Now I have to kill you.”

She’d sworn it, both to the Ageless and her mother. Could she break that promise?

She looked around. To the west were the Badlands, a desert of dry bones. To the south stood the Tower Atop the Tower Atop Mt. Baldie, a structure so tall some said it reached Upstairs into Elden itself, domain of the Ageless. To the north, other stuff. And to the east, the looming bulk of a city.

Buystuff. That’s what the villagers called it. They said it was the commerce capital of the world, the place where one could find masters of every trade. Hunters and trappers, jewelers and smiths, guides and mercenaries, monarchs and peasants, writers and…

…And publishers.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Egg asked her manuscript. But she already knew the answer.