When mortals and other Divine alike thought about the God of Discipline, for most of their existence, they found Kal’Meera’s name to be synonymous with punishment. It was a sensible assumption to make. When Kaya’HikKal’Meera was still one, it was not Kal’Meera’s place to think. It was Hikkal who determined the way that things should be in order to preserve order, after all; and Kaya’Hi was the one to determine the fairness of the laws crafted by his determinations. All that Kal’Meera needed to do was to swing their axe down on those who did not abide. That was not to say that they were ever mindless. No, Kal’Meera had their opinions about the decisions made. But it was not their place to make those thoughts known. So, like the executioners that worshipped them, Kal’Meera hid their scowls and pitying stares behind the mask that they wore. Because they trusted their siblings, they were content to be the strong hand that forced their collective wills; but even the most seasoned of executioners will occasionally glance down at the blade of their axe and consider the finality of its swing.

       When they and their sister split away from their brother, both simmered like the magic that burns through Mutantur’s core. Their sister found comfort in her rage at the wrongdoings that they had both allowed. But Kal’Meera, accustomed to holding their tongue, considered each and every consequence delivered by their hand. There were some that Discipline stood proudly behind, even after the divide. But there were those that they had not given a second thought to until they were impossible to correct. After all, they had supported sealing Volqui’s tongue away when Hikkal suggested it; but it was not until the young God was silent that Kal’Meera realized they missed the whisper of gossip that flowed between mortals and Divine. And the thought had not crossed their mind that the Nothing could be abused until Libero was wrongfully forced there. And, perhaps more prevalent to the conundrum that they found themself in, Kal’Meera had not thought that they would miss being one with the tyrant that their brother had become until they were split apart.

       As Kal’Meera flipped through the pages of their regrets, Epiphany struck them: had they held a firmer hand with their siblings, (with themself), they might have prevented all of the pain they had endured. And now, with the Imperium forever scarred by Hikkal’s hubris, the mortals would suffer for Kal’Meera’s oversight tenfold. They pulled the mask away from their face and allowed themself, for what may have been the first time in their existence, to openly lament their decisions.

       In that moment, what was once synonymous with punishment became synonymous with patience. Though their axe is still sharp, they do not swing it unless absolutely necessary. Kal’Meera has learned to speak when needed, and to purse their lips together when words do not serve them. And though they still carry their mask with them, they no longer hide their face behind it. It serves as a reminder of consequences, both natural and unnatural; and it reminds them that they are immune to neither.

       I will readily admit that I am not disciplined. I am rash and I make decisions that must make them cringe when they look at me. But I have only seen benevolence, (or, perhaps, pity), in their eyes. And I try to hold their words close to my chest: The future will always come. It is as certain as Josmir’s endless march through the Celestials. Stay your hand now, and you may serve all of your purposes with a well-timed strike when it does.

       Patience. Oh, I hope we all learn it before it is too late.