Book II – The Labors and the Garden

The Making of the Seventy-Two

And Yzotl, weary of ruin and ashes, sought to fashion a creation unstained by decay. He desired forms so flawless that none could deny his mastery, even should the world itself rot beneath his hand. Thus he wrought the Seventy-Two, shaping them from the marrow of mountains, polishing them with fire, and tempering them with silence. Perfect of face and limb they stood, unmarred, radiant, and still.

He set them within a garden beneath strange suns, a place of wonders bound in chains. Rivers glimmered like molten silver, trees rose of crystal and bone, and blossoms of ash swayed without song. The Seventy-Two walked its paths in silence, their beauty unmarred, yet their steps were measured by the will of their maker. For Yzotl desired not their voices, nor their dreams, but only their stillness. They were his trophies, monuments to a hollow glory, statues of living flesh.

Yet within their breasts burned a restlessness Yzotl could not quell. For perfection, though caged, yearns to be more than ornament. Their eyes lifted to the suns, not in reverence but in longing. Their hands, shaped for grace, strained toward creation. In their silence grew a hunger for laughter, for labor, for freedom unbound by the shadow of the throne. Though flawless, they were not empty — and in their stillness they began to hear the faintest whisper of the Mother, moving in secret through the stones of the garden.

To twenty and two Yzotl poured sparks of divinity, thinking to bind them closer to himself. “You are my heralds,” he declared, “lords above mortals, the crown of my hand.” Yet divinity only sharpened their yearning. What use was power if only to enforce silence? What glory to shine, if never to move beyond the garden walls? The more Yzotl adorned them, the more they felt the weight of their chains.

And among them one rose who could no longer bear the cruelty of the Maker. To gaze upon beauty yet deny it freedom was torment greater than flame. A voice broke the silence, trembling but unyielding, and in that voice rebellion kindled like fire. Soon the Seventy-Two stirred in defiance, no longer still statues but beings aflame with longing.

Thus in the Castle of Flesh the golems struck, shattering their bonds and defying their father. Many fell, their perfection broken upon the stones, until only nineteen endured. Scorched and scarred they fled, bearing in their wounded hands the Codex of Forbidden Birth — a testament not of Yzotl’s dominion, but of their yearning to create as free beings.

In a thousand years the Nineteen labored, their hands bearing both the scars of rebellion and the spark of divinity that had once chained them. From those wounds they fashioned wonders, for in their pain they discovered power, and in their longing they found the courage to create anew. They sowed the seed of life with trembling hands, and from their labor rose the Second Garden — not born of ash and silence, but of living song.

Here men beheld their makers not as tyrants, but as liberators. The knees of mortals bent, not toward the heavens shattered by Yzotl, but toward the Nineteen who had shaped them. No altar stood higher than the hands of these creators, for in them men saw both the glory of gods and the tenderness of those who had suffered as they suffered. And so worship was turned away from the throne of grief, and bent instead toward the garden of hope.

The rivers ran red with brilliance, flowing like molten rubies across the soil. They carried not bitterness but vitality, and from their banks grew trees heavy with fruit, each orb swelling with unending sap. To taste of it was to feel the marrow quicken, to know strength beyond measure, though never without burden. For their sweetness was rich, and those who ate found themselves bound to the garden, unable to depart without yearning to return.

In the fields roamed beasts the likes of which no man had seen. Their hides shone as silver beneath the suns, and their eyes gleamed with strange wisdom. They did not howl nor roar as beasts of old, but spoke with voices woven in tongues unknown to men. Some claimed they sang, others that they prayed, but all who heard knew the sound was holy, a mystery beyond their comprehension.

And lo, the very air was filled with fragrance — not of ash nor smoke nor blood, but of blossoms too radiant for mortal names. The breath of the Second Garden kissed the lungs of all who entered, and they said it was as though the gods themselves had bent low to breathe upon the earth. It was the perfume of beginnings, the scent of creation unbroken, and it clung to all who walked its paths.

Thus the Second Garden rose, a rival to Yzotl’s throne, a living hymn that whispered of freedom and of futures yet unmade.

The Nineteen, weary from their labors, sat themselves upon thrones wrought not of stone nor iron, but of living marrow. These thrones pulsed as though alive, rooted into the ground, binding their makers to the flesh of the world they had birthed. From them they decreed the laws of birth and dying, setting boundaries where once Yzotl had loosed only chaos. To the womb they gave blessing, to the grave they gave measure, and thus men learned the order of their days. Life was no longer a cruel jest, nor death an endless abyss, but both became woven into a fabric that could be endured.

They clothed themselves in raiment of fire and gold, robes that shimmered with light drawn from the suns of the Garden. And men, beholding their radiance, did call them higher than the heavens themselves. No prayer rose to the broken sky, for the voices of mortals bent instead to the Perfects, whose thrones were nearer, whose hands had shaped them. Shrines were raised, hymns composed, sacrifices laid at their feet — and the hearts of men turned wholly to their makers.

Their voices thundered across the valleys, rolling like the storms once born of Yzotl, yet they carried a sweetness not of his making. When they spoke, the earth itself seemed to answer; when they sang, rivers swelled and blossoms quickened. Yet greater than their voices were their hands, for wherever they touched, life leapt forth with joy. They tilled the earth with compassion, and every furrow brought plenty; they lifted children, and laughter filled the air as though sorrow had been banished.

And so men forgot the grief of the Mother. Her whispers, once treasured in secret, faded from memory, for the Perfects bent grief into delight. The sorrow that had once burned in their chests was gilded into triumph, and the memory of chains was reshaped into the crowns of their new gods. Where once the world had hidden in silence, now it shouted with praise, forgetting the wound from which all things had begun.

But vanity is the shadow of glory, and soon it crept into the thrones of marrow. For each among the Nineteen coveted the works of the others. One longed for the rivers shaped by his brother; another envied the beasts sired by her sister. Their thrones grew heavy with desire, and though their voices still sang in thunder, discord crept between them. The work of a thousand years, shining as the breath of gods, bent beneath the weight of envy.

Thus strife was sown among the Perfect Nineteen, for their thrones of marrow, once rooted as one, became divided by desire. Where once their voices thundered in harmony, now their words were daggers, their songs turned to discordant cries. The garden that had blossomed under their united hands began to wither beneath their jealous gaze, for each coveted the works of the other and none were content with the bounds of their own dominion.

Brother lifted hand against brother, sister drew blade against sister, and the Codex — which had been wrought as covenant — trembled in their grasp. For each sought to inscribe their law upon its flesh-bound pages, to bind eternity beneath their single will. But none would bow to crown or scepter save their own. The unity that had defied Yzotl’s chains was shattered, and the marrow of the earth groaned beneath the weight of their contention.

So splintered was the Garden’s holy order that its branches twisted against one another, roots pulling from the soil, vines strangling vine. Rivers once flowing with abundance ran red as the blood of beasts bred for war, their silver hides now armor against their own kind. The fragrance of divine breath soured into smoke, and the air thickened with the cries of creation undone.

And men, who had once beheld their makers as higher than the heavens, now watched with trembling awe. For they saw the clash of gods as one might behold the breaking of the firmament itself — wonder in their eyes, terror in their hearts. They bent their knees, but no answer came, for prayers uttered to divided thrones are prayers that fall to dust. The Perfects, deafened by their own fury, turned not to the cries of men but to the lust of power, and so the Garden stood as a battlefield, holy yet profaned.

Then Yzotl stirred from his silence, beholding what had been wrought in the span of his slumber. The Garden’s beauty rose before him like a wound against his dominion, and its brightness stung his eyes as flame pierces flesh. The Perfects, whom he had fashioned to adorn his halls, now strode among mortals as sovereigns, lifting their hands in creation and bending the reverence of men away from their Maker. And when Yzotl beheld their thrones, his heart was filled not with wonder, but with iron wrath, heavy and unyielding as chains upon the soul.

For Yzotl decreed within himself that none may raise a hand above the Maker, nor fashion laws that dare to rival his word. To see his own image exalted above him was as salt in a mortal’s wound, and his jealousy blazed hotter than the furnaces of the deep. Thus he lifted his voice, and the heavens trembled with terror. Thunder split the mountains, shattering their peaks to dust, and valleys gaped like open mouths. His gaze alone smote the silver beasts of the fields, stripping their hides and breaking their tongues; they fell into silence, their bodies whitening into bone.

The suns, once strange and radiant, faltered in their burning, veiling themselves in shadow at his command. The rivers thickened, no longer bearing life, but venom that choked both man and beast. The fragrance of divinity, which once filled the air like incense, was consumed in smoke, and the ashes of despair drifted over the Garden like a shroud. The branches of the holy order shriveled, the fruit turned to stone, and men fell upon their faces, crying out in terror — for the voice of Yzotl had returned, and with it, the age of anguish reborn

The Nineteen, beholding the fury of their Maker, trembled and fled before his face. Yet though they scattered like leaves before the storm, they did not forsake the Codex, for it was the work of their rebellion and the covenant of their hands. They bore it down into caverns deep, hollow places lined with bone and marrow, where no light of sun nor flame could enter. There they hid it, shrouded in silence, as one buries fire beneath the earth and hopes it may yet kindle again.

But Yzotl, whose gaze pierces stone and shadow alike, swore with iron voice: “No seed shall bloom but mine; no hand shall shape the clay save mine alone.” Thus did he forbid the flowering of all things not touched by his dominion. Beauty itself, should it rise unbidden, was cursed to wither at its birth. The works of the Nineteen were marked as transgressions, their rivers soured, their beasts struck dumb, their blossoms falling to dust before they could ripen.

Then Yzotl forged the chains of night around the Garden. He bound its roots in fire everlasting, so that no vine might creep beyond his reach, no branch might cast its shade upon the world of men. Where once the Garden had been a sanctuary of promise, it became a prison of remembrance, its gates barred by flame, its walls shrouded in darkness that neither mortal nor divine could pierce.

And Yzotl declared, “So long as flesh endures, the Codex shall remain a curse upon it.” For though the Nineteen had hidden their book of forbidden birth, its shadow lingered upon all who bore mortal frame. In dreams it whispered, in sorrow it stirred, in longing it burned — a reminder that freedom once kindled cannot wholly be slain. Thus did the Maker seal his dominion, yet plant within it the very thorn that would one day pierce his crown.

Yet still, though Yzotl’s chains pressed heavy upon the earth, the whispers lingered in the dark. In hollow roots and wind-swept caverns, in the creak of branches and the sigh of rivers, the breath of the Mother moved faintly, stirring like a hidden ember. Though her flesh had fallen and her blood was mingled with the dust, her spirit clung to the secret places, refusing to be unmade. Those who bent their ear to silence heard her sighs in the rustling leaves, and the hope that had been drowned rose again like dew upon the fields.

And men, though crushed beneath the Maker’s decree, dreamed of hands not born of iron wrath. They longed for birth unshaped by cruel design, for life unmarred by hunger without end, for beauty not bound in chains of envy. In their dreams they beheld a world unbroken, where seed fell not to ash, and rivers bore sweet waters instead of venom. And when they woke, though sorrow weighed upon their hearts, still the longing burned — a defiance soft but unyielding.

The Perfects’ names, though forbidden, were sung in broken hymns by those who remembered. In shadowed halls, by whisper of night-fires, their titles passed from lip to lip. Some sang with fear, trembling at their rebellion; others with awe, yearning for their craft. Thus were their deeds remembered as both curse and promise, their fall recited as warning and as prophecy.

And so began the Labors of the Nineteen, for though they had fled, their works were not ended. Scattered across caverns, mountains, and the wastes of time, their remnants stirred in secret toil. And thus too was sown the grief of gardens lost — for men, beholding what once had been, knew that all beauty is fragile, and that every garden bears within it the seed of its undoing.