You're only second rate.

All the ponderings and musings of the day dissipated from Larkin’s mind as his eyes ran over the tiny girl standing in front of him. As he faced her, he shut the door behind him. The night engrossed them both, and Larkin slipped the glove from his left hand to reach out and touch the delicate, rosy cheek on Stelon’s face.

“Stelon,” he whispered. A small smile crossed his face. This girl was so worthless to him. He paid no mind to those who tried to tell him this. He paid no mind to anything anyone tried to tell him. He would come to his own conclusions, yet this one felt so unimportant to him. The long, bare fingers of his hand slid down her cheek to her frail neck and down. The fabric of her dress fell easily away from her pale shoulder.

“I apologize for coming so late; it appears you were almost asleep?”

Stelon smiled shyly at him and shook her head. “Oh no, I don’t mind.”

Larkin watched her gaze drop and he lifted his hand from her bare arm to lightly touch her chin with his finger. Her eyes returned to his and remained locked there.

“I am sorry that we must do this tonight, but I have postponed it long enough,” Larkin’s face hardened momentarily, then as if remembering himself, it softened again. “I allowed you rest after the trauma you have suffered, but now I need you to cooperate with me.”

“Lord,” she said breathlessly, “I will do anything you ask of me.”

This he knew, staring into her eyes, having trapped her will in his.

Before Larkin began his soft questioning of her, several thoughts sped across his consciousness. There was a lust in him for her, he would not deny it. Lust that was gentle, soft, even purposeful; a feeling foreign to him. Following that, what to do with her once he had extorted all knowledge she had of the sorceress and the boy. He could not ignore that pulsating feeling that there was something he was not thinking of, something he was missing – that Stelon was a piece of the puzzle he could not yet fit into place. Something telling him, keep her

(touch her)

“Does the sorceress care enough for you to rescue you from me?” Larkin knew the answer to this question, but he could not resist alienating Stelon further from Miraye.

She hesitated to answer, as if she was unsure of what to say.

“I… she tried to kill you, she is a murderer…”

“Is there a chance she would come for you, if she knew you were here?”

“No, I do not want her to come for me.”

“But would she?”

“She was so intent on killing you. I am nothing to her. If she comes back, it will be to kill you.” At this, Stelon’s eyes became glassy.

“You mean nothing to her,” and Larkin willed this into Stelon’s mind. A glimpse of her pain and he stoked the fire.

But he misjudged the pain. This did not bother her, Miraye no longer her hero, no longer someone she could trust. What bothered Stelon so clearly now, with the windows to her soul thrown open, was the loss of her new savior: Larkin. He brought his bare hand and his gloved hand to the sides of her face. It jarred her and the connection was broken. She tore her eyes from his face and squeezed them shut.

She began to whisper an apology and Larkin placed his thumb over her lips, gently hushing her.

“You are exhausted and I should be ashamed reminding you of that dreadful, cold witch.” He turned her gently toward the entryway into her bedchamber. He guided her through with his hands on her shoulders and gently sat her on the side of the bed. It seemed the brief hypnotism had left her somewhat dazed but she was quickly recovering.

Larkin blew out the candles and the room fell into darkness, barely lit by the moon.

He returned to stand in front of Stelon. The look on her face he saw surprised him. It was of suspicion.

“Why was he so afraid of you?”

Larkin turned his head slightly and lifted his chin. His fiery eyes lit and he narrowed them.

“Who?”

“Tic,” she answered.

He had not suspected such an inquiry from Stelon, nor such a look on her face. He wanted to slap it off. Instead, he removed his remaining glove and placed it in his jacket pocket with the other. He took off his jacket and put it on the bed next to the girl. He could feel her eyes searching his face for the answer.

Larkin knew too many seconds had elapsed for her to believe anything now. Still, he knew she could be persuaded to believe anything. What he had to say was only half the truth. She knew the silence between them held another answer.

“He is a member of the SINK, a budding rebel. He was a prisoner and he was on the verge of betraying every secret they have to me. A traitor has much to fear; now he is also a fugitive.”

Stelon lowered her eyes, a defeated look on her face. So trusting, so easily manipulated.

There was a sound and Larkin looked over his shoulder at the entry way. Someone was knocking on the door. Larkin went to it.

“This better make my night, or you will regret finding me here,” he hissed at the two men standing in the hallway. They shrank somewhat at his words. The man on the left was dirty and looked like he’d just been running for his life. He was trying to keep his soldier’s composure. The other man was there to help explain the situation.

“They found the boy, and the sorceress,” he said, watching warily for Larkin’s reaction. He was not ignorant of the way Larkin sometimes reacted to bad news. One who had to work in close contact with Larkin had to become accustomed to the risk of death.

“Take me to them,” Larkin ordered.

“They did not return with either, your highness.”

At this, Larkin turned to the beaten guardian and grabbed the man by the garments at his shoulder. He yanked him closer and demanded, “Then why did you even bother to show yourself? You interrupt me, here, in the middle of the night, to tell me you failed?”

“Sire,” the mean pleaded, “she killed everyone. The boy, he is a sorcerer as well.”

Larkin scoffed, “The boy has no power.”

“One of the villagers was burned to death. She was barely more than ash; I watched it all with my own eyes. He brought her back to life.”

“He is a healer,” Larkin whispered.

“We were in a community in the Hond area, and we were doing as instructed. The sorceress…”

“Shut up,” Larkin snapped at him, shoving him away. “You let them both escape. Since you are the only survivor of your regimen, that makes you highest ranking, and therefore responsible.”

Turning to the other man, Larkin instructed him, “Have men return to the village with trackers. They will follow the trail and send word to me of what they find. Should they find the boy, he is to be brought here. Kill the sorceress.”

Larkin stepped back inside and slammed the door shut. He stood staring at it, hands in fists at his sides. The boy, a healer? He briefly recalled the pain Tic had inflicted on him once, twice, before. Yes, perhaps the boy did possess certain power. Larkin’s fingers relaxed and he brought his hand to his chest, touching the stitched wound through his shirt. All the healers brought to him had proved disappointing. Having someone who could heal a person on the brink of death would be useful, wouldn’t it? If only that bitch hadn’t been there to protect Tic, the boy would be in his possession now.

Stelon had left the bedroom at some point and was standing behind him. How long she had been there, he didn’t know. He turned to face her.

Awkward Divinity.

"Don't... don't touch him," said a woman's voice.

Tic opened his eyes and blinked a few times. He was laying on the village floor, his clothes wet and torn from burns. The girl was no longer in his arms. There was a small group of villagers talking over him.

"Jonis' girl was sure as dead. There ain't nobody comes out of being set a-fire and still look like a pristine little flower! He's got somethin'. A power."

"It is trickery," replied a man. "A common magician's act. He's a criminal and a deceiver. He just wants us to think him a hero. The girl too. So they can get away and places keep gettin' burned up behind them. And there ain't no such thing as healin', Sal. Just a myth, the kind of story those Elanzir priests would have us believin'.

"Hey, he's awake. Get up, kid."

Tic sat himself up, looking around for a sign of the little girl named Zenia, wondering if he hadn't just imagined what had happened. His body was still quivering in shock. The village was still in flames, but now groups of men were heaving buckets of water and throwing their contents into the fires, which appeared to be dying down. There was an eery but comforting silence, the absence of panic and battle.

A man with a brown and gray beard leaned down into him, looking into Tic's eyes suspiciously. "It's him," he said to the other men. "Fits the description."

"So turn him in now before they come back for another go!" cried another man. "Boy, what have you to say?"

Tic could think of nothing else but the child. "I... where is the girl? Zenia?"

"Don't play games. We know it was a ruse."

Tic's nostrils flared in panic. "A ruse?"

"You think you saved her? You and your friend have caused enough damage to this village for a lifetime, and to countless other villages before it! Lives, homes, children were all lost! Burned to death! Zenia would've never ended up in that situation if it weren't for you!"

"Is she... okay?" Tic asked, ignoring the burning in his eyes and the shaking in his voice.

"Of course she is! You pulled her out and fell into the water before any harm got done. She's fainted from the shock, poor thing. But don't think you did something special, kid. Any guilty criminal would've done the same. Not even the lowest of criminals would want that on their conscience." He quoted the guardian, "'What man would let a child die to protect himself?' You're lucky you have a murderer for a girlfriend. She killed them all!" he threw his hands to the air incredulously.

Miraye. What happened? His memory was foggy. All he could remember was the little girl's face as it burned away from the bone. No, had it really happened? He touched his face. He could still remember fire burning his flesh, but there were no scars on his skin.

"Tic," whispered Miraye. "Tic, let's go."

Tic turned around to witness a sorrowful sight. Miraye stood, both her eyes a pale blue, blood slipping down from her face and neck. She held her right shoulder as though it were in pain. Her clothes were battle-worn, stained with blood, and torn away. She had a make-shift bandage across her left hand, arm and chest. Even though she had slaughtered all of Larkin's men, she looked defeated. It was a look she wore since she told him they were cursed, as if looking this way were the curse itself.

"If they send more," she said, "we may not make it through another fight. Let's go before the village turns us in themselves."

Tic nodded reluctantly and followed over to the girl, putting his arm beneath her for support. She shook her head and shoved him off.

"We'll gather what we have left in the tavern and leave immediately," she said. "What's left of the tavern, that is."

In the attic of the bar where they spent their last few days paying off debts to the bartender Gaston, they found the sack of coins they had rightfully earned. The tavern thankfully had suffered very little damage. Gaston was not inside the bar, though they suspected he was helping to put out remaining fires. Tic wished he could stay to offer help, but already knew that he would be turned away. There wasn't much redemption for the criminal who had caused the village burnings in the first place. The villagers silently acknowledged, and some even thanked Miraye for defending them against the guardians, though she seemed not to notice their respect. She shrugged them off weakly.

After tidying up what they could at the tavern, they loaded up their satchels with food scraps. It was already three-moons dim by the time they were ready to leave. As they headed out, they heard a familiar gruff voice call out to them.

"Wait," said Gaston. He stood at the entrance of the tavern, staring inquisitively at Tic for a moment and then quickly looking away. His expression was unreadable, but it made Tic nervous.

"Thank you, Gaston," said Miraye. She curtsied to him. "You gave us more than we deserved. We are sorry we brought this upon your town. We will be on our way now."

Gaston looked down, his expression remaining stagnant. "Miraye," he said, nodding. "This village suffered less than any other village that burned before it. Thanks to you, no child had to die." He looked at Tic again. He seemed to want to say something that he couldn't say it out loud. Like a guilty secret.

"There is someone that wishes to see you, Tic," said Gaston.

Tic's heart plummeted. He knew there was still something left to happen before they could leave this village for good. Gaston held the door open for them. As Tic followed Miraye out the door, Gaston did something strange. Looking Tic in the eye for a brief moment, he breathed in quickly and immediately bowed his head, mouthing words to himself in what looked like a silent prayer.

Puzzled, Tic and Miraye followed Gaston out into the village courtyard. To Tic's relief, the village buildings were still standing. Any damage that had been dealt was repairable. In the town center, there was a circle of villagers huddled together, some holding wicker candles and talking in hushed voices. Some were humming hymns and whispering prayers. Children were holding their parents' hands and whispering excitedly. It looked like a vigil. A small girl was swinging her father's arm happily, humming along with the hymns. Gaston leaned down and tapped her gently on the arm.

"Zenia," said Gaston with a soft smile. "I brought him for you."

The little girl giggled and turned to gasp at Tic. Her crystal eyes glowed and widened as she smiled at Tic. "The angel!" she exclaimed. She ran toward him and stopped just an inch away from his feet. "Can I touch you again?" she asked, as though someone told her not to.

Tic raised his eyebrows and smiled weakly. He put his hand down to hers, took her pale white little fingers, and said, "Sure."

She gasped again when he touched her, and ran away giggling playfully. "I touched him again! I touched the angel again!" she bragged as she joined the circle of villagers, who, by then, had seen Tic and bowed their heads as Gaston had done. The girl's father broke away from the circle and approached Tic, removing his hat, and staring at the ground. He was a small man with short hair that grayed prematurely.

"I would like to apologize," he declared, as if confessing a great sin, "on behalf of the village. They did not understand. When Zenia woke, she told us... " Suddenly he was on the ground before Tic, kneeling before him with his hands clasped together. "I do not know how," he spoke, raising his tear-filled eyes to meet with Tic's, "but my daughter is alive thanks to you."

"We... we are good people," spoke another man. It was the man who had accused him of trickery earlier. "We try to look out for each other, we... we do what is best..." He took a great breath, regaining his composure. "It's just so hard to believe these days."

He kneeled himself beside Zenia's father.

"Forgive me," he said.

A woman from the prayer circle stepped out and kneeled in her place. "Forgive me," she repeated.

All around, villagers were falling to their knees. One after the other, they kneeled and uttered the phrase, asking the boy from nowhere for his forgiveness. He watched them in awe, uncertain of what to do, or what to say, without looking ridiculous or making some sort of religious taboo. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a silent err.

Miraye nudged Tic in the back and whispered, "Well, forgive them."

He took a deep breath and awkwardly raised his right palm to face outwards, like in the paintings he'd seen of the Seven Gods, not knowing a thing of what he was doing and hoping, even praying, that he was getting it right.

"You are forgiven...?" he mostly asked himself, waving his hand in a circle.

The kneeling villagers murmured the same three words, bowed their heads and rose to their feet.

"There. Not so hard, is it?" whispered Miraye, patting him on the back.

After the vigil, Tic and Miraye were invited for a brief feast before their departure, to which they declined and instead chose to take care packages of rations, clothes and water instead. They had enough to last them for what looked like weeks. As they departed, the townspeople bowed to them in respect, waving and wishing them good health. Leaving the village behind them, they came to the border of town where the small Elanzir temple stood.

"Think we should go in?" asked Tic, wondering if it wasn't a bad idea to see if the priests could advise him somehow.

"No," said Miraye curtly. "They know as much about your power as you do. Besides, they'll probably want to keep you and make you an ordained priest or something. We have to get out of here."

They travelled west toward the southern plainlands, dusk falling quickly upon them. He had been silent for much of the walk, thinking over the villagers' behavior. "Miraye," he said finally.

"Yeah?"

He raised a hand and looked at his fingers, inspecting them. "Will I always be treated like this, if they know I can... heal?"

He felt strange using the word. It didn't seem to fit him. Such a strange power to bear. He would have never known it existed, never known he had this ability, had it not been for the recent events. Up to this point he had been in denial of it and chose to forget all the events in his life that proved it was real. Even Miraye's resurrection still seemed like a dream; his memories of it were so fantastical that it seemed to have never happened at all.

"I think you'll have to get used to the attention, Tic, when it comes. There's not a lot of people out there that can bring back the dead and heal first degree burn victims back to perfect health. They think you're a God now."

"Oh," said Tic, pretending that it made sense.

"Don't let it get to your head," she warned, "because soon they'll want you curing their ill, dying, and diseased. They'll expect more and more of you. But your powers aren't dependable. You can't always heal right, for one," she said, and coughed, as if to emphasize the statement. "Not only that, but you may be one of the last of your kind... we wouldn't want too many people to know about you."

"Why?"

"People get riled up over that kind of power. They might accuse you of being a false prophet, a demon-worshipper, anything they can come up with to deny that your abilities exist. They might even try to kill you."

She paused before she spoke again, and stopped in her footsteps.

"But worst of all," she uttered forebodingly, "They will try to use you."

Tic looked down at Miraye to see her expression. She was staring far into the forest beyond, her eyes squinting as if to focus her vision on something she sorely disgusted. Her face bore an ugly grimace of hatred.

"Larkin," Tic said without hesitation. He looked down for a moment. He didn't want to worry about Larkin now. Not now. Not... yet.

Miraye looked at Tic for a moment, cocking her head to the side. "Yeah," she said. "You better hope he doesn't find out, either." She looked back at the forest in front of them. "Is this it?"

They had come upon the border of a dusky pine-filled forest. The trees were tall and full with leaves; their canopies hid the forest ground from the light of the remaining moons. Tic touched one of the nearby trees, testing its bark and grooves. He slipped his fingers in and around the trunk, as if reading something with his hands. He looked up from the tree and followed along a vertical path of trees with his eyes, counting in his mind. "Yeah, it's here," he replied.

"Right here?" pondered Miraye sarcastically, looking around.

"Yes," he said. He tapped the ground with his foot, knowing what lied beneath. The trees were discretely marked with specific bark patterns to indicate the path of an underground tunnel system leading to and from S.I.N.K. cities and the corresponding trolleys. The botanists that worked within the S.I.N.K. had chemically altered trees and planted them as markers for wayward Kith. The particular bark patterns on the trees represented how far away the mole hole was from where the tree stood.

"The entrance isn't for several miles, though," said Tic, pressing his fingers along the bark to read its code. They would be traveling for a few more hours, it seemed.

"Let's go, then," said Miraye. They unpacked flares, a gift from the village, and lit them. The flares hissed and cooled, giving off a soft, lasting glow of yellow light and decent heat. The air had gotten chilly. They pulled their hoods on and made their way into the winding darkness.

Undo.

The screams of the child entered Tic's head like an explosion and brought him to his knees. How could it come to this, the life of a child for his? Agony swept up inside of him, rushing the blood to his head and throwing him off balance. He grasped the edge of the wall and looked to the ground as it swayed dizzily before him. He let himself fall and buried his face in the ground, closing his eyes but not going unconscious. He struggled to keep his mind alert as he allowed the fainting spell to pass over him. The waves of dizziness finally subsided, and he raised himself against the wall, opening his eyes to a blurry scene of fiery chaos.

Villagers were fleeing in every direction. Buildings were burning; fire and smoke bustled from the windows of shops and homes. Smoke filled the air, shading the world in grey and black. The guardians hurled flaming discs toward the village houses, which erupted into fiery explosions as they collided into walls. Tic could see it all happening in front of him, like a surreal dream, unreal and untouchable. Somewhere beyond the smoke-filled air he heard the collision of metal upon metal, gunshots and electricity. He saw the forms of black-clad figures fight, fall and flee from a pink-haired figure dashing to and fro, swooping upon her victims and slaying in single swings. Men were shouting, women were screaming, and somewhere amongst it all, a little girl was burning to death.

Though he wished he could not see it, he was drawn to the writhing mass of cloth, flesh and fire. His eyes were wide in a trance-like stupor, trapped onto that nightmarish vision, as his feet carried him toward it. The stench of charred skin had already reached him, churning his stomach in sickness. A warmth writhed within his chest as if his heart had caught aflame from the very sight of the girl on fire.

This was not where he imagined his life to turn. He could bear it no longer. His life and what control he had over it seemed to perish in those flames. Nothing would ever be the same. Nothing but the aching inside his heart that rose within him from the moment his heart learned to feel. That would remain forever; a scar, a gift, a desire to undo the wrong. The power to undo wrong. The power to undo death itself.

The guardian was already dead by the time Tic reached him. Dead from Miraye's sword. His eyes were shut and he appeared to be sleeping in the fire, holding his ragdoll to ease him into a sweet dream. Both he and his doll were cloaked in flames, their bodies whistling and cracking like fresh wood in a campfire. The girl was was nothing more than dead; her body was a mass of blackened flesh, crumbling and peeling the skin from her bones, melting away into nothingness. That is, until she opened her eyes.

The crystal clear blue of her eyes appeared dramatically radiant against the backdrop of molting flesh. The eyes widened at the sight of the boy leaning in toward her. What little strength that was left inside her was used to raise a withered black hand, as if to touch the boy's face. Without thinking, Tic laid his hand into the flames, slipping his fingers around the girl's. He leaned into the fire, flames licking his unscarred skin, so hot he could not feel anything but the girl's body as he slipped his arms around her and tore her from the corpse that bound her.

And when he did feel the pain, he did not scream, only closed his eyes and held the burnt doll in his arms. And even as the flames caught onto his clothes, he did not struggle, he did not throw himself to the ground. He stood up with the flaming black creature and walked to the pool of village drinking water. Each step he took was an eternity of pain, peace and death. There was fire, but something else was raging, something so unbearably hot that it did not feel like fire at all. Something so unbearably painful that it had become painless. Something he had felt before.

His eyes rolled upward, as if pulled to the sky. His heart tightened and relaxed, each beat alive in his chest, pumping something purer than blood through his veins. It overflowed and saturated his flesh, until every inch of skin was imbued with the immaculate touch. Looking down he saw the crystal clear stare of the girl in his arms, her skin as white as a dove's, as he pulled them both into the pool.

Army of Me.

Beyond the wall, men of the village were pelting stones and rubbish at the Guardians, who unsheathed their weapons and let their staves fly. Villagers climbing up the platform fell quickly as electricity shocked them to the ground. A brave villager had managed to get his hand around the hostage girl's ankle before shrieking and falling unconscious to the hiss of a stave. Angered, the Guardian holding the hostage threw the girl to the floor of the gallows stage and drew a large vial of black liquid from inside his cloak. He popped the cover and yanked the child from the ground. Holding her by the hair, he poured the grease over the girl's face, who whimpered and coughed, spitting the black substance from her mouth. The Guardian poured the grease until the girl's clothing was slick with it as well, then grabbed her by the collar and whipped her out in front of the crowd. The girl's tiny body dangled from his grip, feet kicking at the air hopelessly above the heads of the villagers.

"Villagers!" he cried above the ruckus, rattling the girl above the crowd like an undesired doll. The villagers immediately fell silent, defeated by the sight of the child doused in candle oil and the electric staff that hung threateningly near the hem of her dress.

"Are you audacious enough to risk the sanctity of your noble village? What men are you, I ask! What man would open his doors to terrorists and murderers? What man would let a child die to protect the life of a fugitive? You can still spare her!" He paused, waiting for a response. The crowd started murmuring, glancing to each other with suspicious and frightened gazes, as if they expected to so-called fugitive to reveal himself right there at that very moment.

The Guardian clicked the switch to the electric stave, which slowly powered up to a resonant hum. Small blue bolts of electric charges danced around a black globe, which crackled and sparked at the end of a metal staff, just beneath the girl's feet.

"What man would let a child die..." he screamed into the crowd, "to protect himself!" He threw his head around and watched the crowd, snarling. "What man, I ask! Show yourself, you coward! You are no man!"

The Guardian fell silent and waited. The villagers' started whispering to each other in panic. A haughty voice rose above the murmuring crowd, stating simply:

"You're right."

The villagers fell quiet and dispersed from source of the voice, leaving a gap in the crowd. A small girl stepped forward, throwing her hood back.

"I may not be a man... but I am no coward."

All onlookers went quiet, staring at the small girl in the crowd. The Guardians murmured amongst themselves. The lead Guardian knew it was her the moment he saw that atrocious rose-colored hair. The rumors were true after all. Looking down at her, he laughed.

"Sorceress. What a pleasant surprise. So pleased to finally meet you," he snarled. "Have you met Zenia?" He gestured the girl he held forward, who whimpered loudly, crying pleas at Miraye.

Miraye felt hatred boil like liquid fire at the base of her spine. She did not respond.

"And where is your friend? Have you come to hand him to us?" The guardian asked.

"What a useless cause," Miraye scoffed. "For such a useless boy."

The Guardians stared at her quizzically. She walked slowly toward the platform, her hands clasped together neatly, and continued speaking, looking up at the sky in thought.

"You don't want the girl who destroyed half a city? Who killed half your politicans? Who almost, but didn't quite... murder Larkin the Shrike?" she spoke with a grin.

The Guardian grunted. "We are aware of your accomplishments, witch, and surely would have pursued you had you not been presumed dead by his hand."

"Then why bother with the boy? I'm the one you want, and I'm right here."

"This is no time for heedless games, witch!" shouted a guardian.

"Take the girl, forget the boy! She's worth more, I'm sure!" whispered another.

"Are you a fool? She's killed thousands..."

"Silence!" yelled the lead Guardian. "We have orders, and we cannot disappoint the King." He looked toward Miraye, licking his lips. "And though your dead body is quite tempting...

"Hand yourself and the boy to us," he gestured to the child, "and she, and her village will not meet the same fate as the towns before us. The burning will end. The suffering will end. Maybe we will even... spare your lives, for a fair exchange." The Guardian's eyes fell downward upon Miraye's body, his lips curving into a terrible smile. "What man would abandon such a... fair exchange?"

"What man," she whispered. Blood sped through her veins to her fingers, the heat of madness rushing through her spine. Visions of that sandy-haired boy shattered before her eyes. Her pupils dilated and irises swirled, shifting colors into a ferocious red.

"What man... " she repeated to herself. She shut her eyes and pressed her fingertips together. The air around her hands appeared to darken and materialize into a red mist. She smiled peacefully, as if in prayer, then let out a bloodcurtling scream.

Eyes red as the sun, she lept onto the gallows platform wielding her scarlet sword high above her head. She lunged at the Guardian, swooping her weapon down upon him in an instant, but stopping just as fast.

The Guardian had pulled the girl in front of him just as she struck, holding the girl as a human shield. Miraye's blade hovered less than an inch away from the side of the girl's wet face. The hilt of the blade remained still in Miraye's firm grip, unwavering, but its tip was hidden deep inside something else. She leaned in toward the guardian and whispered into his ear, asking him his very own question. "What man... would let a child die to protect himself?"

Miraye withdrew the sword from its fleshy hilt. A red stream of blood gushed from the side of the child's face, where it missed her by inches, and landed directly into the Guardian's heart.

"Fool," he whispered.

The Guardian squeezed the child against his bloody chest and threw himself from the platform to the village floor. His voice cracked and gargled as his mouth filled with blood and he screamed his final orders. "Burn... everything... and spare no one."

He pressed the electric staff into the little girl's dress. Holding the girl tightly against him, both he and the girl caught aflame.

The Bystander.

"I'll deal with you later," Miraye said coldly and sprinted toward the village center.

Tic turned and fell against the wall, looking away in disgust of himself. Just like that, he was left to hide again. No more than a mere spectator to the battles he should be fighting himself. How weak he must be, he thought. Miraye was the only person to risk her life for him, and yet all he could do was stand back and watch. He pressed himself around the corner wall and followed the girl with his eyes. She hooded and disappeared in the crowd of village men pelting the gallows stage with rocks.

Be it.

She coughed.

She tried to hold it in since she had entered the small room. When finally she heard a door shut not too far away, she let go. Quickly she had bent over the sink with a hand over her mouth and she coughed. When she finally stopped coughing she let go of her lips.

Miraye stared at her pale complexion in the mirror situated where her body was hunched over and heaving. There were black splotches on her chin and lips that had appeared when she swung her hand back. She looked at her palm and the same foreign substance lingered on her fingers. She didn’t want to think of why this happened. She didn’t want to recall the dream she had. She didn’t want to remember that this had all been under the influence of a curse.

She slipped to the floor and rested her forehead on the edge of the tub. Her chest moved up and down in normal pace but her heart was speeding. Her head was quaking. She closed her eyes and coughed again where she could feel things coming out of her throat. She covered her mouth once more, coughing until all was at calm.

Soon after, the trickles of cold water tracing down her skin had erupted her flesh into bumps. She was awake now. She was alive. And she dipped her hands into the liquid where she cleaned her face and let the natural air dry her features.

When she opened the door, only the numb silence welcomed her. The boy, she had already guessed, had gone out. No matter, she thought. She didn’t want to see him after the weakness he had shown, she thought as she dressed.

“Good morning, Gaston,” she accosted when she had gone down stairs. The tavern keeper was cleaning a few mugs and gave her a nod and went to his work. She in return went to fetch the broom and sweep any particles away but was distracted when the bell above the door jingled and the door opened. Miraye didn’t like the presence she had felt despite not even knowing who it was that entered. Instead she slipped behind the counter and waited, listening eagerly to what ever would be said.

“What can I do for you?” she heard Gaston ask.

“From King Larkin,” the other one announced – it must’ve been a guardian, “we have been sent to look for this boy.”

The rustle of parchment echoed.

“I can’t say I’ve seen him,” the bartender said sounding very genuine as she guessed that he handed whatever it was back after looking at it for a moment.

“He’s also been known to hang around with a witch. Neigh high, unusual rose hair.”

“Well, if I do see them, I’ll be sure to report it as soon as I can. Now if you please, I must prepare for the day and if you would be kind to step out –“

“Hold on,” the guardian snapped. “We’ve also been given clearance to search the premises.”

Miraye held her breath and pressed her back against the counter as their heavy steps circled around the room. She was trapped. As they came closer and closer she could feel herself starting to panic. From the corner of her eye she could see the toe of a boot and quickly her eyes flashed green. The guardian stood before her, his eyes searching through her. But as soon as she expected the worse, he walked away.

Peeking from her space, she wondered what gone on.

“All clear. But just to let you know, if the boy doesn’t hand himself soon… be prepared for the worse.”

And with that, the guardians had exited. Unbeknownst was that her eyes had gone back to its usual brown when she slumped on the floor and gave a sigh of relief.

“Are you alright?” Gaston asked, lending a hand to help her up. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. I could’ve sworn he saw me. But… it was as though I became-“

“Invisible?”

“…Yeah,” she said staring at her hands. “I guess so.”

After a pause, she looked up. “Did you see where Tic went? I don’t like what I just heard and something in me is saying I should go find him right away.”

“He went out heading towards the center-“ But to Gaston’s surprise, she had already vanished.

Miraye watched everything from a distance. Her eyes still kept Tic in clear view the whole time but there were moments where she had to keep herself from running up and stopping everything. She felt disgusted. So Larkin had stooped as low to bring the whole town into this for one boy. There was something else clicking away in his mind if this was his means of getting things back the way he wanted.

Slowly she withdrew from her alley and made her way into the crowd. Even though pink hair would stick out in the crowd, she had successfully managed to steal a black handkerchief and covered her head. She was now behind Tic who was still unaware of her when he flinched and his body automatically moved forward. Miraye grabbed him by the shoulder, hissed him to be quiet and gingerly dragged him back into another alley where everything was still seen and heard.
“What on earth are you doing?!” she snapped, pushing him against the wall.

“I- I can’t stay here… I need to hand myself in-“

Miraye stopped, staring at him in disbelief. In the deepest corners of her soul, anger bubbled. Tic stared at his feet, a mask of confusion and fear on his face.

“I need to… I need to… hand-“

But before he could finish his sentence, she slapped him across the face with all the force her body could muster.

“Don’t you DARE!” she scolded, holding the collar of his shirt and raising him a few inches above the ground. “Don’t you even think about it! I didn’t die so that you can go back to him – we didn’t fight so that you can give up so easily!”

All of a sudden a commotion broke a few yards away. Miraye dropped Tic, staring out into the platform. Villagers were attempting to fight against the Guardians.

“I’ll deal with you later,” she said coldly and sprinted to the scene and started to fight with the villagers.

Gimme shelter.

“We have been cursed.”

The words etched themselves onto the walls of Tic's mind and sank through. They registered slowly in his brain; his first instinct was to consider it absurd, but the gravity in Miraye's demeanor spoke more truth than his doubt could deny. Before he could even begin to question the authority of Miraye's valiant decree, she had shut the door and left him alone, sick to ponder. Even if she had remained in the room, he didn't think he could've asked anything more than, “By who?”

But he didn't need to think of who it was.

He didn't want to, either.

Looking away from the door Miraye had disappeared behind, he turned his glance to the pile of clothes on the floor. His mind was utterly blankened by a race of thoughts. He glanced to the open window and the breaking daylight behind it. The tavern they took refuge in no longer felt like a safe haven for them to bid their time any longer. How long were they going to keep hiding? Their destiny awaited patiently in the world outside. He gave an uncertain glance to the bathroom door again, deciding Miraye would be fine if he slipped out for some air. The streets wouldn't be too busy at this hour, he assured himself.

He reached down to the pile of clothes, and dressed himself eagerly.

Outside, the temperature was perfect for refreshing the senses and clearing the mind. In the sky, the moons were hidden by the grey clouds that loomed gloomily over the land. The chilly yet soothing morning breeze whipped through his hair as he stood outside the tavern, holding and rubbing his arms in a slight self-embrace. Miraye's words replayed in head for a moment, sounding more and more like a death sentence. And it made too much sense that a curse would cause him to have such an unlikely nightmare. Certainly Miraye had dreamed similarly, but her violent spasms bothered him deeply. What else could this curse do to them? He didn't want to think of it. With a sullen sigh, he turned to look around the barren street and wondered just how early he had risen. He didn't expect there to be many people out… but he didn't expect there to be none, either.

Casting a wary glance behind him, he pulled the hood of his tunic over his head, and made his way out onto the empty street.

A walk would be better to ease his thoughts, he assured himself, even if the street's eerie desertion irked him. He started on his way to the center of the village, hoping to see at least some of the villagers there. Perhaps it was Seventh Day; the day of the week when labor was probihibited (all except slave labor), and the denizens of each city were ordered, by law, to use the day to rest and worship the Seven Moons. He hadn't known, since he never practiced anymore, and since he had lost track of time ever since he had been captured…

A strange thrill ran through him at the thought. He paused in his footsteps, feeling an unusual sense of deja vu, but quickly forgot it when a distant scream shook the air. Head upright, he fixed his stare ahead of him. The scream had come from further down the road. Sooner than he had time to forget it, another scream reached his ears. Fear suddenly gripped him, telling him to turn back.… but something even more powerful told him to keep going, and his feet carried him forward.

He neared a corner, hearing the screams rise in volume as he came close. When he turned the corner, his heart sank; he found where the villagers had been, but it didn't seem they gathered for a good cause. They crowded around the platform that stood in the center of town, looking tired and distraught. Their expressions were unmistakably marked with unease; some held each other, looking onto the platform in fear, while others looked away, shaking their heads gravely. A woman, whose beauty was lost to the ugliness of tears, was gripped tightly by a man who might've been her husband; she was wailing and thriving in distress, her cries heard high above the soft murmur of the crowd. On the platform, a group of men stood. Two men were standing at the front of the group. One was holding a long roll of parchment in front of him. The other held a little girl by the hand.

All of them wore uniforms of pitch black. On their waists, they wore sheaths to electric staves.

Tic's eyes widened. His feet lost their movement, unable to take him neither forward nor back. Captivated by terror, he could do nothing but watch.

The man with the parchment unrolled the paper completely, raising another hand to silence the onlookers. The villagers complied immediately; even the crying woman quieted her sobs to mere whimpers. He cleared his throat, then read from the scroll:

“In concern for the well-being of The Nine Cities, our King and Master Larkin Shrike has ordered to him the return of Tic Synkrat Ideo, committer of illegal craftery and attempted murder. Any village holding in its name over three hundred persons is punishable by one death should the criminal not be produced." He paused, glancing to the little girl on his left, then continued: “Selection of the punished is at the discretion of The Royal Guard."

He rolled up the scroll, pocketed it and peered across the crowd, allowing his words to sink in.

The crying woman resumed her bawling, her cries reaching the pitch of hysterics. She finally broke free of her husband's grip and ran for the platform. “Zenia!” she cried, reaching for the girl, who stood quietly with the uniformed men. The hiss of electricity suddenly burnt the air, sending a small flare of light. The sobbing ceased immediately. Something hit the ground with a thump and the little girl screamed. A man ran forward, kneeling to the ground and taking the unconscious woman into his arms.

“It's very simple,” the Guardian spoke to the transfixed crowd, returning the smoking stave to his sheath with impassive ease. “Hand over the boy,” he smiled, taking the now struggling girl's arm into his own, “And little Zenia doesn't get hurt.”

Even if final confession isn't granted.

“D’you suppose there are such things as ghosts?”

Rucks stopped at the question. He turned to look at the soldier next to him, his eyes jumping from every corner that a shadow lingered in the massive corridor. He was a new, only recently hired and was young as well as naïve. Rucks couldn’t believe they paired an experienced guard like him with a blundering newbie. Still, it was his duty to watch out for any unfamiliar thing or person that crept in the castle.

There was plenty of that, he mused. So many things buzzed around in gossip from the time of the ball to only now. He thought it was odd that the shrike mixed himself up with shady people.

“Why would you ask that?” Rusk asked, rolling his eyes and continued to pace his rounds.

“Didn’t you hear it last night?” Mikar asked, holding tightly to his staff. “There were howls coming from this place. It was a ghost!”

“Nonsense!” Rucks dismissed, slapping the young guard in the back. “There aren’t things like ghosts. It must’ve been a sick dog someone let it.”

“I know what dogs sound like when they’re ill, man. That definitely was not a dog!”

Just then, something fell. Mikar yelped and jumped behind his elder. “There’s a ghost! There’s a ghost!”

“Quiet or you’ll land us both in trouble!” Rucks scolded and stepped down the staircase to see the commotion. Only a broken vase, water and flowers spilling out met at his toes. He peered through the window; the afternoon wind must have blown it over. Timidly he shut the opening and returned to the frightened man cowering under a tapestry.

“It was just the wind, you fool!” He dragged Mikar up. “Come on, let’s have dinner before you cause any more of a spectacle.”

Seryale watched the two climb down stairs as he slipped from the shadows. He looked at the vase that he had made fallen. It was a necessary diversion. He still hadn’t any real strength to become invisible or float above ground. If he had just appeared, questions would arise and despite his persuasiveness, he knew they would bring him to whoever was in charge. The clanking of his crutch and his obstacle of weakness was already holding trouble for him as is.

He waved his hand in a circular motion and the vase came up, its fragments holding place and it returned to its original position displaying its pristine crystal. The water and the flowers soon followed and with that, he continued on his way.

He knew that the summoning had occurred inside the castle but it had taken him all morning to follow the spiritual traces of an altar. He had run into five abandoned temples along the way but he still hadn’t found neither Stryphus or Hisheme. He knew he was in the correct place however seeing down the hall, two large scarlet doors were beckoning him with the symbols of his god. Dragons adorned the arches, a ruby moon gleaming from a mysterious source of light and the etching of fire and demons affirmed that it was the temple entrance. All was silent and the energy flowing from it was strong. It fueled his strength only a little but it was enough to stop him from limping. Still, his cane led him where the windows became distant and less, the light was dimmer and he was consumed in the grey mass.

As he stood before the entrance, he placed his hand on the door to pass through. Instead he drew his hand back quickly and hissed at the burning sensation that had come from the barrier. The summoning residue was still strong, the hate was still there and a shield was put up to prevent any other magic to be committed. Seryale rubbed his hands gingerly and drew them into his cloak, wrapping the fabric around his fingers and palms. He pushed again, the entrance slowly opening from its weight. He paused, drew another breath and heaved again, giving away even more. It was just enough to slip in and he uncovered his hands and slid in.

The first thing that struck him was the stillness of the temple. It was dark with the exception of the opening above him. The red walls and artifacts reflected unto everything in its wake. Black drapes hung on the walls, grey velvet aligning the main altar. He took another step but stopped. Looking at his feet, he saw a body. It was drawn to his attention that there were many of them. The stench of corpse lifted into his nose defining death was very much alive in his presence. He walked over the priests, slightly disgusted at their horrified expressions still clear on their masks. It was clear they weren’t very powerful nor blessed more over; they were acolytes still in training.

A true priest of Stryphus would be gratified to die in the god’s honor. But even so, their calls were in vain.

Seryale continued to take the room in, glancing at everything he could see. He made his way to the altar on the very opposite side of the temple, its black marble causing his eyes to be played tricks on although the shapes on the stands were moving. He stared at the statue of the dragon, its eyes made of golden diamonds, with a fond curiosity. He brought his right hand up, caressing the scales on the statue. Slowly he kneeled and touched its radiant eyes. “Bestow unto to me your sight, my god,” he prayed, bowing his head.

In his mind a flash of light and there he was at the ceremony. He watched transfixed as they brought the babe. He flinched when it was wounded, his pains from the night before returning. The shrike drank. They called. And so his god appeared in cruel demeanor being demanded as a slave. But he wasn’t focusing too much on that as he had already figured the clues out already. He was now looking at the babe who still wept and was the silenced. He wasn’t much of a person who liked children though he wished to have some of his own one day. But innocence inflicted and sacrificed was one of the most mortal sins one could commit, even more so grave when it is one who has been blessed into the world.

Above him was an echo of wings which broke off the connection. Seryale opened his eyes and turned, his eyes now focused on the pool.

There was the silent child, floating, blood drained and eyes still open. His heart pained. Another memory of long ago rushed into his mind remembering when he first met his young love, only to have experience her mother’s death. The look of both his memory and the babe inflicted his emotions. Dropping his cane, he stood and forgetting all his weaknesses, he rushed to the pool. Quickly he undid his cloak, set it aside and stepped into the icy black water, wading through. He took the child into his bosom and climbed out.

He looked down on the fragile pale figure. She was only so new into this world. It was with regret that he wondered of what the life she would’ve lived if it weren’t for the act. Gently he closed her eyes with his palm and wrapped the child into his cloak, the bundle held close to his heart.

He must now find the Hisheme temple.

Taking the steps outside and climbing over the bodies, he prayed silently, his words sharp and whispered. He rocked the still cradle in his arms never looking behind him. The child may have been dead but her soul remained trapped by the curse. If it continued to linger, the soul would become entrapped in the temple, haunting with miserable piety. It must be let free in hopes to be reincarnated into a better, promising life.

“No one is supposed to be in here,” a voice quivered behind him.

Seryale stopped and turned. A hunch shape sitting next to a pillar was trembling. This must be the head priest, he thought, watching intent as it stood up.

“No one is supposed to be in here,” he repeated. “Only the priests and the shrike.”

“As I last recalled, temples are to be welcomed to anyone despite status. It is law of religion,” Seryale muttered, still holding the child to his chest.

“How are you to know?” the man questioned never looking to him. “You are not one of Stryphus yourself. You are corrupted.”

“You have no position to say,” the sorcerer said, never raising his voice. “For you too are in not highest position.”

There was a pause when the priest finally looked up, angered and was about to strike back when he noticed the markings on Seryale’s visible eye. He closed his mouth and faltered back, shaking his head. “Apologies, my lord. A thousand apologies.”

His eyebrow rose. “You will answer to this in the after life, priest. Our god will not fall back on his mercy for what you have done.” Seryale walked away from him, now close to the exit. “Be sure of that and no word will you speak of my appearance. If you do so, I will strike you when it is least expected.”

The priest never responded and Seryale slipped out, the door automatically shutting behind him. Imbecile, he thought. You have angered Stryphus and with that you will pay a thousand pains before death.

And so it was night when he finally reached the Hisheme temple. It was dusty, antique and all the while abandoned. But the moons brightly filled the chamber with light. He looked up into the sky with the child still in his embrace, the stars twinkling and the Hisheme moon brightly in the distance. With the softest grace, he set the child on the altar and took one of the remaining living roses not too far from where he stood. Taking a petal, he placed it on the babe’s forehead and knelt, bowing in position of the utter most reverence that one could show.

He recalled the scriptures that he had been taught. Stryphus and Hisheme were of the most powerful gods and although they conflicted in morality, it was this that they were forbidden lovers. And all through out their reign they still pursue the hope of union. From Stryphus’ love for Hisheme, passion bloomed. Life and death were created from intimacy and so they still desire for each other in the shape of moons. And from Hisheme’s love for Stryphus, mercy rippled. Today their convents are segregated but only the most sacred scarce temples, Stryphus and Hisheme are together. Priests of Stryphus could never marry unless it was for a servant of Hisheme and peace was profound when these individuals were united. It was the same for him.

Seryale opened his eyes, a blinding light filling the open temple. He rose, singing a hymn as a light surrounded the child. He concentrated, his soul quaking in verse as his heart, filled with mysterious intense joy, directed his emotions for the child. The light became intense and his eyes shut in response.

When the light was gone, the blissful atmosphere had subdued, his eyes accepted reality again. His cloak remained but where the child once was, only a bouquet of bright, sweetly fragrant flowers remained.

And prayed against endurance.

Slowly her body became calm again in response to the panicked beating that was thrumming against her forehead. Her eyes opened to the sound of muffled weeping but all was a blur. From the corner was a weak ray of light behind the tan shadow that rocked her and continued to cry. Nothing was at sense for the moment. She closed her eyes again, warm tears dropping into her hair trying to remember what had happened. But still nothing came. Another tear flew and landed on her cheek. She responded, moving her head up to the light like a child who had just been borne into the world.

“Shhhh,” she hushed, her eyes still shut from the world. “Shhhh.” She brought up her hand weakly and rested it on his wet cheek, reassuring that things were fine not knowing what had happened. She knew it was Tic from his octaves and the warmth was radiating from his aura. She continued to hush him calmly when all his trembles had subdued and he became silent.

It was with this she opened her eyes, his now closed and a pang of worry still clear on his features. She wiped away the remaining tears spilling from the corners of his lidded globes, still issuing a hush as quietly as she could. She stared up at him when he finally accepted reality as well, both sharing an emotional connection in doing so.

Finally she sat up, taking the covers and wrapping them around her cold body. She turned away from him, staring out the window, morning now preparing to begin. Slowly the focus returned and with that a flurry of scenes came rushing into her conscious. She was on a cliff. She was being touched. She frowned to herself. That was a dream. That was a horrible nightmare and a vision of things to cone. From what she had learned, dreams that take place into a specific form full of symbols meant only the gods were called. She saw herself falling mangled into the blood sea as she retraced the mind images when-

“What happened?” Tic asked, whispering in an unsure tone. “You were… you were shaking,” he said, his voice cracking as though another cry was to be let out.

Miraye moved her head very slightly, her face still not seen but signaling she was listening. Her shoulders hunched at the thought. Was that why he was crying earlier? Was that the reason he was frantic and holding her? Her words came out slow and deep. “I don’t know.”

There was a moment of silence where neither spoke or breathed. But a sudden revelation occurred behind her, taking air and moving slowly. “Was it a dream?” he inquired, stress filling his throat.

She did not answer but only leant forward from his view as a huddled mass of covers. She shrugged in response. Away from him she was deep in thought, questioning and linking the clues together. But still, there were things unanswered and her mind clicked in rapid pace trying to answer each riddle. She closed her eyes again, tightly, watching the images play out like a fairytale storybook with narratives of each move. The wound over her heart burned when the scene came. She hissed, placing her right hand over it applying pressure trying to make the sore stop. She could feel her heart beat. Her skin was a paper wall and each thrum was stronger than the last.

“I had a dream too,” he mumbled. His voice was frightened and hoarse.

“I don’t know,” she repeated, clutching the sheets around her even tighter. She curled her legs into the covers, burying her head into her arms. An awkward sense of failure swept through them, disconnecting anything they had shared earlier. An eternity seemed to pass, each filled with thoughts unwilling to share. The moons continued to rise from their caves while the silence lingered. Each minute that ticked somewhere in the town clock meant another thought stirred in her mind. A dull sting found its way underneath her skin in the form of an invisible stigma. Yes, something was going on not too far from where they sat. Even more so, there were three individual identities that connected with her foreboding as she continued to meditate.

Finally after many moments, she stood.

“There was a summoning last night. Someone called to the gods, particularly Stryphus.” Miraye crossed over to the bathroom. “We have been cursed.”

The door closed and she left Tic alone in the unwelcoming prophecy.

Proclaim thy warrior song.

Archine Tuolo was old, very old. His hair no longer grew and what teeth he had were fake. The fingernails on his frail hands periodically fell off. And did not grow again. His back had weakened and become a hump; to walk he used a cane. Around his feeble neck, he wore one large tooth strung on a strand of gold. It bothered Larkin’s eyes to have to look at this disgusting exhibit of age.

There were things only this man could tell him, however. Tuolo claimed to remember the days when Larkin’s castle had not yet been conceived. Larkin estimated this to be six hundred years ago, but history no longer subsisted to him. It was in the minds of the old and dying now. All historical documents had been destroyed. Genealogy, ownership, laws, land lines – nothing but ashes now.

Everything belonged to Larkin. He was the new beginning.

Time had distorted Tuolo’s voice. He wheezed every so often, sounding more and more like his insides were becoming hollow. In his hoarse, dreadfully aged voice, he tried to shout, “you are the prophetic evil of our time!”

“And you,” Larkin smiled, “you fear change.”

They stood facing each other in an empty, vast hallway on the far side of the castle. Windows lined the length of one wall, the moonlight shining directly through onto them. Larkin turned his back to the light, clasped his gloved hands in front of him, and stared down at the man who was barely half his height. That ugly face turned up to him, eyes nearly gone beneath folds of wrinkled skin. But in those tiny black eyes were both hate and fear.

“The stink of death follows you,” hissed Tuolo, “I bow to no serpent.”

Larkin’s hand cupped the side of the old man’s face. The expression there suddenly began to change. The set in Tuolo’s jaw relaxed, his eyes opened from narrowed slits to stare blankly into Larkin’s own.

“Tell me of the tower, Tuolo.”

“What do you want to know?” he wheezed, tears slipping down his cracked and spotted cheeks.

“I already know that He is dead. Every last pathetic one of them is dead. I want to know where it is. The magnificent and legendary castle tower; you will tell me how to reach it. Tell me how to penetrate its walls.”

“He lives,” Tuolo gasped, “over the Perandes, hidden first in the Mists of Her Breath and then inside the twists of his tower.” Tuolo was visibly struggling for control of his body and mind, his feeble arms desperately trying to raise, to knock away Larkin’s hands. He bared silver teeth and hissed, “He will strike you down.”

“Is this so?” Larkin asked, amused, smiling. He stroked the man’s fuzzy cheek with a leather enclosed finger. The light glinted on the tip of that finger, where something deadly peeked out.

“He sees all. He sees you and He knows you will come.”

“Ancient Tuolo, I once believed the very same. Long live our shadowy King, whom has been abandoned in his tower, forgotten and alone.”

A tiny droplet of blood shone red on the side of Tuolo’s face.

“I am King now,” Larkin said, releasing Tuolo from his gaze. The old man stepped back and brought a hand to his cheek. His knees began to buckle.

As Larkin turned away from the old man, Sashin walked toward him from the end of the hallway. There was a reserved expression on his face and he went to both knees in front of Larkin. He did not rise until Larkin gave an exasperated sigh and granted him permission. Still then, Sashin did not look up into his face and kept his head bowed.

Archine Tuolo thumped to the floor a moment later.

“You killed my priesthood,” he said.

Larkin laughed. “You killed your own priesthood with whores and diamonds. I don’t have the desire to replace your men. They were mere servants to you. I am glad you are here, however, so that I may tell you that you belong to me now. Nothing you have is yours any longer. Your robe,” Larkin reached out and pinched the fabric on Sashin’s shoulder, “is mine. Stay in the temple, if you please. I will be needing your services in the future.”

Larkin rubbed the tips of his fingers over his own robe and walked past Sashin, but paused and turn, his eyes set on the crumpled body behind Sashin. “And have someone take care of that mess,” he said.

“She is alive,” Sashin called after him.




Jannika and Aurora sat on the right and left hand of Larkin, Aurora barely picking at her meal. Larkin did the same, but for reasons that he made apparent were due to taste. Talos sat a seat down from Jannika, and a seat down from Aurora sat Elborg.

“The councils have been initiated into the cities,” Talos said. He was generally a quiet man, choosing only to speak when it was necessary. The other two men were much the same, and Aurora had gradually picked up this habit. Now it was Larkin who chose to speak more often. He was preoccupied and did not display concern for what his cadre had been doing for him. The complete renovation of a government was not a simple thing.

But instating himself as dictator – Larkin found himself with little trouble. His health bothered him, however, and he complained about a lack of appetite and feeling often faint.

Jannika was not gullible. He had not seen the often-spoke-of wound in Larkin’s chest, but felt it affected the man little. These small displays of weakness were, to him, and obvious attempt to fool one of them into underestimating the ruler. To the others, the feigning was entirely believable. But Jannika, like Larkin, could rarely be lied to.

It was Aurora that was the weak one. When out of Larkin’s sight, she became angry and nervous, deeply worried and her face became years older than it was. If one of them was to ever betray their King, it would first be Aurora. She did not openly disagree with Larkin’s orders, but unwisely let her disapproval show.

Elborg, who was disgusted by a woman being in such a high position, was conspiring to kill Aurora. Not with his own hands, but politically. The moment she spoke against the King, Elborg would first to Larkin’s ear. In Larkin’s court, there was little difference between political disaster and death. Elborg rarely left Aurora to work alone.

After having the servants take his plate and bring him something fresh, Larkin began to take small bites, staring fixedly out the dining hall windows. The thoughtful look on his face succeeded in gaining the other’s attention. Each time he swallowed, they expected him to speak, but again he took another bite. The moment they decided he wasn’t going to say anything, Larkin spoke.

“You have three days to have everything in order, then we are going to the tower.”

“What?” Aurora looked up.

Larkin was standing from his chair and looked at her sharply. “Your eyes are swollen, Aurora. It looks like you haven’t been sleeping. What is it that keeps you from sleep?”

Aurora lowered her eyes to her plate. She was not defeated, only angry. Despite years of hiding her emotion, she lost all ability to control her features and they revealed all the King. He dabbed his mouth with a napkin while staring at her, then said, “Each one of you may leave someone in your place to keep order here. I will have a communication line spread from here to the tower for emergencies.

Jannika?”

“Yes, sire?”

“There is a fine multitude of trained soldiers, I presume?”

Jannika nodded. Unlike Aurora, he was not surprised Larkin opted for them to approach the tower. He had, in fact, expected it sooner. “An excess, your majesty.”

“Good. I have a map for you. It’s in my office. Would you like to join me?”

There was a glint in Larkin’s eyes that pleased Jannika. Something told him Larkin’s visions were beginning to reveal themselves. The mystery with which Larkin spoke to them and evaded their questions would finally dissipate.




After giving Jannika his instructions, Larkin went to see Stelon. Every time he chose to see the girl, he felt as if the decision had been made by someone else. Somewhere, inside of him, his voice of reason was reprimanding, telling him this was all a waste of his precious time, but he could barely hear it. He opened the door to her room, found the room lit only by candles, and sweetly called her name.

The Games We've Played Are Now At an End

Seryale watched as she accepted his title sink in, swearing he heard a click in her brain as though it had been processed and stored. He wasn’t too satisfied with the fact his tongue slipped over his otherwise hesitant objections in his mind. His weak state was the cause of the informalities and he knew he would regret it later on. With his right eye twitching for hating what he had just revealed, he took a breath and looked back down on the wet form too anxious and alarmed from what had just happened. He didn’t like the fact she was just staring at him with bewilderment, almost as though she wanted to hear an apology or a comforting term. The long silence was also vexing him at a rate where he felt his temper slowly boiling in his throat. He flexed his fingers.

“Seryale,” she repeated slowly, her gaze now reaching the floor. She understood it but it was obvious from his view she thought it foreign.

She became silent again. He hated that. He hated that pregnant pause.

“I’m sorry? I believe I was trying to converse with someone who was capable of speech and hearing. Clearly I was wrong and have been presented with a mute,” he hissed quickly. He watched her shoulders flinch in his bitter tone.

The girl raised herself and looked him with determination in her eyes. “Why have you saved me? Why have you come?” She had calmed down from the representation only a few moments ago. Her voice cracked somewhat. She was intimidated.

“Do you not think that you are in danger?” he inquired, standing feebly and leaning unto his support. His legs buckled from his weight. “Do you not even question of why you are here?” He slowly paced himself towards the grand window. He stared outside, the moons now in rise in the crisp grey sky. “Do you not question your very existence in this world and what lies for you in the next?”

He turned his head to look at her, she now sitting on the corner of her bed post hanging to his every word. “The gods have put us here for a greater use than to amuse their needs. There is a greater connection where we are all intertwined. Nothing happens by accident. It is fate. It is destiny. And it is of a bigger resolve far complex than even the most advanced will ever understand.”

Seryale limped back towards her. “For why did I bring you up from the dungeons? It was a calling and I am not sure of what the stars will reveal. But it was necessary to follow the instructions intended for this chapter of an eternity.” He stood before her again, staring down with his fingers tightly gripping his clutch. “Believe me when I say that if it was left to me, I would have ignored the call so you may have become forgotten and corrupted of dirt. I would have let you rot and decease where you have belonged.”

The words hurt. She looked away from him, new tears forming but filled with anger. “So, I am just your toy! I am dirt to you?! If anything here that is pathetic in this room it would be you for pulling me down just because you think you are of higher than me!”

Seryale grabbed her chin and pulled it towards him, his face fuming with offense. “You have already meddled with my affairs and those of others!” he spat, his nails digging into her pale skin. “It is you who has helped the murder of what was and you who have displeased the gods!” He clenched her jaw, his heart hurting. “I am higher, far superior and more powerful than you’ll ever be! And if you dare speak to me with that tone to your own savior, then I will have to retreat into violence!”

He shook her face before pushing it away. “You have best be afraid of me, young one.”

She whimpered and held her face, tears streaming down her rosy cheeks. She stifled a sob but he felt her courage still fueled on despite the hurt she was given.

“Now, I will continue of what I have begun only if you halt such foolish tears and not interrupt me with a childish voice.” He brushed his bangs out of his right eye. “Do we understand that?”

She nodded.

He waited for her tears to stop despite his temper had just broken seconds before. Even if he was cruel and harsh, Seryale was a gentleman but was cold towards many other women. It took a few minutes where she wiped her eyes, sniffled and was ready to force herself to look up at him showing she was not terrified. If she only knew.

“Tell me,” he intruded, swooping over her sitting form. “Did you see the moons last night?”

“Briefly,” she answered quietly.

“Did you notice that Stryphus was high in the night sky? Higher than it ever was and that it collided with another, causing an eclipse as it shadowed Hisheme?”

“I saw it rise. But not entirely. I was distracted by a servant.”

“Daniel?”

Her eyes widened, shocked. “How do you know?” she asked. But as she blinked, he was gone before her vision and was greeted by warm air breathing down her back. Seryale leaned forward and whispered menacingly, his fingers pushing away her wet tangled hair where his nails scratched into the back of her swan like neck.

“Believe me, little girl, I know what you’ve been up to.”

It sent a chill down her spine, the hairs on her skin standing up at the few words he had murmured. Seryale smirked, scratching even deeper into her neck. She flinched at the thought of what he had seen, what he had heard. He had violated her space and her privacy. He could read the running thoughts in her mind, each filled with shame and embarrassment. “Because I do need something to amuse me as I sit and wait, don’t I?”

She quickened, ready to push him off but he was gone and had somehow managed to sits casually in the lounging chair situated on the foot of her bed. He kept a gaze on her. It was cat-like, evil and yet unusually seductive. Was he not threatening her mere minutes ago? And now what was he up to? Was he seeking a reward? For all that, she would not even dare to go beyond those limits of one whose mood changed rapidly-

“If you think I would be tempted even to touch you lustfully, you are completely wrong.” He yawned, his palm cupping over his mouth. “Even if I was forced to, the thought itself makes me disgusted. I’d rather kill myself.”

“Enough with the games, Seryale!” she managed to shout. Her fingers intertwined with the sheets, fisting and clutching and the silk and velvet. “I asked you a question! Will you get on with it?! Besides, I wouldn’t dream of being lured by you either. I prefer sophisticated men.”

He rolled his eyes. “Sophisticated you say. Know this as I was trying to keep the truth less painful to your deaf little ears. What you think of your precious shrike is in fact juxtaposed to the truth of his masks.”

The curtains flew and closed over the light that was beaming into the large room. Pitch black and cold, his presence enveloped her. Suddenly, a red light appeared in the middle of the room, mist revolving slowly around the orb it had become. She watched transfixed by this magic show but never letting her guard down. From the weak luminosity it had given off, it revealed that her captor was once again gone without a trace.

“Last night the moons had been disarranged where Stryphus was centered. Though it has always been behind and not too far from Hisheme’s shadow, it is usually never held at such a position. Most do not acknowledge the importance of this rotation. Many ignore it. But for the educated and holy, we recognize the sign that the gods have been called.”

The orb flashed and a system of moons came forth, revolving around the room, Seryale in the middle with his back towards the girl. He raised his left arm where the reddest moon waltzed towards his open hand. Gently he motioned it to meet with the ceiling where the rest of the display had disappeared and it was dark again except for the warm glow radiating from the faux moon.

“In the late evening, a summoning occurred.”

The moon became darker and brighter in scarlet, now dripping with liquid.

“In my blood, I felt the burn of what had begun. Someone in this mere radius had issued a ceremony for Stryphus. Simple meditations do not cause an effect to his priests. No, it is only when it is powerful, full of anger and hate that it disrupts the balance.”

A silhouette of a dragon flew over the moon, its growls and cries echoing in the room.

“Even more so, it was shed in innocence where vengeance was demanded. No humility was shown. Though in anger my god was, a strong spiritual chain held him from escaping the mass. He quenched in the glory of all was, the fire in black hearts and listened. Sacrifice was in immediate return and so the war god was pleased.”

The moon became bigger, nearly touching the floor.

“And then it happened.”

A loud roar whisked inside the room causing all objects to trembled. The moon exploded an array of many shades of red floated into mere space. Stelon didn’t know if she was seeing things in reality or in her mind but it disturbed her. There were screams from every corner, flashing images of immaculate white drenched with blood, black clouds forming over the horizon, a heart being torn from its corpse, fire burning structures and wings tearing from the skin among other gruesome unmentionable demonic things. She could feel the pain in each millisecond and it continued, her body quaking in the deep vibrations and pounding in her mind.

“Stop it!” she screamed. “Stop it! I can’t take anymore!”

With that the images became gone, the voices were silenced and white light flooded the room. She flinched at the shock from her eyes. Seryale was now standing before the window again, watching the birds and sprites fly past.

“I fear that a curse was summoned last night,” he explained.

“But, by who?”

“Can you think of no other?” he asked, bitterly.

She paused, staring up at him in disbelief from what he was implying. “No. Not Larkin! He would never do such a thing. He is kind and generous and warm and would never-“

“Never kill anyone?”

“Yes.”

He turned his head towards her, but his eyes never leaving the window. “Then can you explain why there is one dead, two more gone and another alone and confused?” There was pain in his voice from a memory forlorn.

She closed her mouth, confused at why he was prodding her with such statements before making her mind and continuing. “But they were all wrong! I admit that she even led me to believe- She never explained why other than-“

“Friendship. And she too relied on you for loyalties but had chosen to betray her.” He leaned his forehead on the glass. “There are far many secrets that we have yet to learn and visions to interpret. And now with a curse at hand, we are all doomed despite thinking we are safe from harm. But it is the opposite of what we expect.”

She stood, reaching slowly for him. “You knew… Miraye?”

Knock. Knock. Knock. “Ms. Stelon?” a voice emitted behind the door. Knock. Knock. Knock. “Ms. Stelon? Are you in there? May we be of service?”

“I warn you of what may come. Do not believe everything he sweetly whispers to you. Do not accept more than what you are in need of from him. Do not become alone only with him in your presence. It is of you fault and ignorance if you choose not to accept the precautions of what I have given you.” Seryale made his way towards the wall he had come from. “If you choose to trust me, I will be here. Otherwise you will be on your own and I will only look down upon you with empathy.”

He pressed his hand against the wall and passed through.

Makes no sense for you.

Stelon shriekd and splashed up water as she curled into a ball, doing her best to hide her body in a tangle of arms and legs.

"What are you doing?! I'm bathing, I have no CLOTHES!"

Seryale shook his head impatiently.

"And what, do you propose I do about it?"

"LEAVE!"

Seryale rolled his eyes, more annoyed at the delay than anything else.

"I won't leave. I will wait in the main roomyour "lovely" Larkin gave you...We need to talk."

Stelon gasped as the young man appeared to vanish and glanced around the room suspiciously, waiting a little bit just to be sure he was gone. Finally satisfied no one was there, she stpped out of the bath and pulled her nightdress on hurriedly, tying a nice, very warm robe firmly around her body as well. The girl reached out for her hairbrush and began to run it through her newly washed hair, but--

"We have no time for such vanities. Do it later. We need to talk."

Stelon yelped, jumped, and promptly dropped her hairbrush. Taking a deep breath, she walked, or rather stormed, into her main room, where the man stood leaning against her bedpost as if he owned it.

"You need to stop doing that! This appearing out of nowhere and scaring me to death is NOT funny. Or polite."

"Nor is your taking your time or trying to scold me when I have made it quite clear we have things to talk about, and in a rather serious manner."

Stelon bit her lip and finally nodded.

"Fine. But who are you? And why do we need to talk?"

Seryale stood back up straight and looked down at her disdainfully.

"I rescued you from the dungeons. I think that's earned me more trust than you are currently giving me."

"Well...yes, but I don't even know why you did! At least give me a name, that's not asking so much, is it?"

The man paused a moment and stared at her, clearly not happy with her suddenly more demanding nature towards him.

"If it will satisfy your questions and curiosities so we can get on with this--"

"Oh, it will!"

He rolled his eyes again at her immaturity.

"My name is Seryale."

What's life like... bleeding on the floor.

Dawn.

For once it was welcoming to see the moons rise climb slowly across the dark sky. From a sheath of morbid blue that grew into a calmer serious violet, the heavens were beckoning the start of a new day. Laying there while a curtain of pink, orange and red pulled back was the covenant that life was still breathing. The night before where the only thought that remained was the increasing shrieks of death. It was driven to the point of insanity of the voices wailing in the souls of all who had felt it.

Seryale lay sprawled on the floor, his eyes finally managed to close a few hours before. He could see the moons dance in a waltz behind the veil. He could fill the dull warmth that started to fill the room. He could see the light that was distant from across. It was numbing. He was still dizzy and everything around him, below him and above him was unstable like the waves of oceans so vast and deep. He was still feeling the after math in a state between consciousness and sleep. He felt drained.

It took him several moments to force himself to see the day. Even so, his grey eyes dilated in shock from the light that sent a wave of pain that throbbed within his mind. He twitched his fingers, trying to curl them in a fist but that too was a task within him. His body had seemed to forget how to function just from minutes of panic.

But what had caused it?

He stared at the ceiling above. There must’ve been a ceremony, a calling to his god. But something that would fill his blood in venom was that of the intention. It was cruel, selfish and poisoned. Stryphus was called in a powerful curse to kill. He felt it. He felt that power and hate. He felt those eyes burn into white skin, their lips brushing against warm and innocent life. He felt the pain throb in service of bitter revenge. And he could taste the horrible after taste of sin. Only the foolish and the most monstrous would call Stryphus to do such a biddy. And now he would feel the connection of all when each curse is rooted.

He felt something more. But still was unsure of whether it was real or not.

Seryale turned his head, his neck cracking. He looked at his wrist blazed with a holy stigma. It had been humming his veins the whole night, spreading to both of his arms and down his back. There left was a fresh scar encrusted with dried blood. In turn they would clear up in a week or so. The small stings within his skin would remain until the curses were done.

Slowly he rose, turning his body unto his chest where he pushed himself up with his arms. His body in response trembled as he tried to stand up. He heaved with a deep breath but fell. He tried and tried, coughing, gasping for air but with each attempt left him weaker. Finally he dragged himself to the foot of his bed and carried himself up, leaning on the mattress. The option of resting was no matter. There was work to be done. With another take of air, he stood, his knees buckling under his own weight. He could feel the healed wounds while his bones and organs still ached from the restless failed flight of his structure.

He turned his head to look out the window. It was full day now.

“Hisheme, help me,” he breathed as his body shook again. “Stryphus, have mercy. Please give me some strength to carry out the tasks endowed in your graces.” He feebly crossed his arms across his chest, bowing his head before the sky. Closing his eyes and ignoring the shocks he whispered incantations in humility and adoration. In seconds he could feel his strength returning. Though not great, it stopped his body from quivering. The nauseous squeeze inside was cast aside and his great migraine turned into a fading ache.

He crossed the room and assembled a temporary crutch out of air. Despite the ability to walk himself, his shins still became stressed as a side effect and the heels of his feet stung with each pressure. He would have to return later to clean up the large bloodstains left on both floor and roof. He was glad he didn’t have to see it happen or the torture would’ve been even more monstrous.

And so he limped on his crutch, walking through walls into each room and catching a glimpse of the people who occupied it without being noticed. Some were still asleep, others only awaking and then the rest were doing their morning routines. Maybe after this commute he’ll walk to the kitchen and take a few rolls and cheese. He was hungry after all.

After the tedious journey to his desired destination, he stopped before crossing any further. She wasn’t in her bed. In fact, it was as though she just came out from the evidence of rustled covers and spreads. Even the pillows still had an imprint of her form. He looked over to the connected, closed door. The splashes of water meant she was in there, taking a bath. The only question now is whether to wait or barge in now. It’s not like he was hesitant to see her naked. He saw it before. He did watch her from the shadows each morning to see if the girl had been moved, hurt or such. There was not much to see. She was shaped nicely though it didn’t cope to his standards or arousal.

The problem is that whether or snot she’d be willing to talk, to listen. And she’d see her nude nevertheless if he waited or not. He was also vulnerable if she threw anything at him. But he figured his chances were better if he just walked in since there weren’t a lot of sharp objects in a bathroom setting.

Seryale sighed and passed through, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror with a pale, sickly version of him staring back. Immediately the moisture of warm steam hit him fogging up his vision for a brief moment. He blinked and looked up, Stelon’s back to him as she washed her arms.

“We need to talk,” he interrupted.

Snakes in our blood.

He drew the bath himself. Steam drifted up all around him as he stepped in, sliding down the porcelain to submerge his body. Candlelight flickered off the water, and the bloody stains Larkin left on the sides of the tub reflected on the surface like black snakes. With his eyes closed, Larkin did reflecting of his own while the baby’s blood washed away from his skin.

He had known it was going to happen; Stryphus would come. It tickled him deep in his chest, where the wound went clean through. He had had a feeling that the night would not be an ordinary one. The invocation had worked as he had known it would, if not he would never have given the priest his time. Larkin had known all along. In his mouth was still the taste of infant’s blood and he put his finger on his lips, touching the crusted black substance there. And he mightily believed it all. There was no trick in it. He was no fool. No man could scam The Shrike.

Though the entire day he had tried to convince himself that it was nonsense. His strong disbelief in such things nagged at him, yet his very life was proof that he was wrong. Which bit at him, ever so slightly, that he had never believed. Now he did. He believed very well. In his mind, the liquid wings of a dragon beat. Stryphus, the muscle of all Gods, had given him a very precious thing. No one would stop him now. Not without facing the wrath of his God. Stryphus.

No one.

The first light rose and Larkin was roused by the sounds of servants in his chambers, in the main rooms. He stepped out of the bloody water, now cold, which clung to his skin still and stained him red. It seemed more than it had been. He touched his chest. Perhaps he had bled into the water some of his own. Donning only a robe, he left the bath chamber and went to the comfort of the fireplace, where fresh pine logs burned and filled the room with that sweet smell.

The nervousness of the servants he saw, but it was little to him than it would be under other circumstances. A woman tried to approach him and speak to him of the girl Stelon, but with an annoyed flick of his wrist, she shut her mouth with a snap. Her eyes never lifted to look upon him. Not a single servant dared a glance, even at his back.

“Fetch Joanithyn,” Larkin said, “my neck pains me.”

Joanithyn’s arrival was announced by the jingle and jangle of jewelry. He wore gold and silver from head to toe and the only part of him that was not adorned with jewels were his hands. These were soft, kept smooth as a baby’s downy head by the finest of oils, and reserved only for Larkin. He spread them over the center of Larkin’s back, fingers pressing and smoothing down the muscles up to the neck as the man laid on his bed. Aurora had come to speak with him and sat nearby on a cushioned chair, sipping something that smelled of mint.

With a pillow beneath him, Larkin picked at the purple meat of a round fruit and listened as Aurora spoke.

“I have councils being prepared. There was some trouble with Eestur, but it was taken care of. They are good men, sire, loyal to the core. With the threat of our friend Grub, I’m sure they will have little courage to defy you. Once we climb this mountain, the rest is an easy downward march.” She cleared her throat, “I had to issue an order of execution on Bakur Tilon.”

“Pity,” Larkin murmured, “And his family?”

“Taken care of.” Aurora took a sip from her glass, peering over the rim at Larkin. Joanithyn was engrossed with easing the pain in Larkin’s neck and back, carefully avoiding the gape of Larkin’s undressed wound. Lowering the glass, Aurora took a deep breath and said, “I couldn’t help but notice the movement of troops. They know, sire, everyone knows. Fear has been planted deeply in their hearts. The soldiers, they move in the streets as if waiting. I have seen them in the castle. Your army. These men have caused quite a disruption in our organized chaos. A bird told me the elven villages have been abandoned.”

There was a loud sucking noise as Larkin pulled the fruit away from his mouth, having taken a large chunk of it out, revealing a bright red center of tiny black seeds. He chewed and licked his lips, examining the inside of this delicious, sweet thing, “They were a ball and chain on our economy. May they die in the black forest. The desert. On the seas. Where ever it is they think will give them escape. Fit for little more than grunt work.”

“The insurgents have no distinguishing marks, my lord. They will be harder to get rid of. The usage of brands they’ve given up. I know what step number two is, do not leave me in the dark. I see it on your face. All of this, they are at the heart of it.”

“Aurora, you know otherwise; it is simply my love for the people that drives me.” Larkin’s mouth turned up into a smile, “I saw our empire falling. I saw a dead man who stood as our king. I saw the ruin and the pollution of our people and I alone have the power to make our world right. My confidant , my friend,” Larkin held his hand out for Aurora’s and she placed her fingers in it, eyebrows knitted together, “The rebels weaken us. We must destroy them, take no chances. I will fall on them like fire and plague.”

He kissed the back of her hand, saying to it, “Doubt means death.”

She nodded, pulling her hand away, “I will return to my work, sire.”

I Welcome Your Sweet Six Six Six

The sky was a blinding red. None of the constellations appeared except the Hisheme and Stryphus moons, dancing around each other and revolving gracefully. The sea below reflected the deep red of the chaos above, its waves crashing into the cliffs and shore. It smelt like blood. The only noises echoing were the thunderous breaks of the ocean and the wind soaring through the grass. Everything was equally a scarlet red in many shades. It was menacing to look at. It hurt the eyes. Only the moons were white. The light shining from them presented the soft subtle calm of the landscape offering some comfort in the foreign emptiness of void within and around.

Miraye was standing on the edge of the red cliff, staring out into the ocean and the moons. Her toes curled over the barrier, her body swaying with each breeze and shaking with each new crest of waves. She didn’t know how she got there. More over, she didn’t remember her feet taking her to such a place. She had never felt so at one with her surroundings. The greatest of serenity reverberating through the whispers of distant birds was all too clear. There was no use in leaving now. She had no need to. The area was a living proof that nothing mattered now. The reality of the threat of war was no where to be heard. Tranquility. That was it. That was all that was needed.

There was a sudden tickle at her neck. She knew that presence behind her was there the whole time but she never questioned it. She never looked to see who it was. It was only now it acted. Miraye turned her head slightly to a familiar scent of wild flowers and spring fields. A tinge of pain spread across her skin. He was nibbling at her skin, nipping, sucking, biting, licking… all in the same decisive pattern. She didn’t move. She watched the top of his head move, her eyes hazy and sedated.

She looked back out to the sea. The moons were behind each other, creating an eclipse as their pearl shadows swirled with each pulsating beat in her body. She felt her arms being moved, her right being pushed aside while her left was propped up against him, her hands gliding over his warm cheek. Her breath hitched as his fingers caressed her hips, sliding over the fabric, molding his palms against her waist. He stopped biting, nipping, sucking, licking. He breathed into her ear, heavy, intoxicated with touch. And yet she continued to gaze into the strawberry milking of the sea, Hisheme beating against the enveloping Stryphus.

Her head was being tilted to the side, behind at an angle. He brushed his lips against her, still breathing with deep pleasure. Miraye in instinct began breathing at his pace, her eyes watching his heavy veiled vision as his fingers moved up over her breasts leaving a shudder of anticipation. They inhaled the same air, exhaling with new expiration of physical highs. This is what she wanted a voice whispered inside her thoughts. This is what you have been waiting for. This is what you need. This is everything. This is all that matters now. She couldn’t resist. She fell in, accepting, wanting, needing… slowly lured into a web of only seduction of the body and spirit.

He leant down taking the rapture deeper, soaring in emotions as their lips met. She stood still, her body frozen from reacting while his lips slowly caressed hers into a rhythm of alluring sweetness. His hands moved down holding her against him, his fingers trailing downwards sinking into her folds. Miraye groaned, loosing all grip of senses in the moment. She felt his slender fingers gently dip into her, slowly parting the petals of her existence. He whispered her name, sultry, luscious, continuing to graze her lips with his. His right hand pushed away the covers of her breasts, stroking, kneading, resting on her left bosom. Her knees fell weak and she collapsed against his warm frame, he supporting her up with no effort at all. She fit into his arms perfectly, her cheek against his chest emitting a complex sensation through out her body.

But something was not right. That familiar sound that was renowned for the definition of emotion was not there. The birds in the distance had stopped singing their song. Her eyes full awake, realizing that he had no heartbeat.

At that instant, as though reading the change in mood, reading her thoughts, he slipped his left hand away. Miraye looked down horrified that there was blood dripping from his fingers. It shone with the greatest red she had ever seen before her eyes, reflecting the eclipse above them. She pushed him away, trying to position herself into an attack but he wouldn't let go. She struggled, her mouth opening to scream but no sound resounding in the air. She couldn’t breathe. She gasped again, trying so her lungs could expand and accept the oxygen that had been once there but it strained and squeezed every time she frantically let out a gasp for air.

He held her tight, his leg propping her body against his, her legs open into vulnerability. He quickly forced his bloodied fingers into her mouth, gagging, choking what was needed to survive. She panicked. She could taste it, her blood, his blood, swirling into the concoction, the poison that made her heart spasm. Her head spun, she was loosing grip of the surroundings, the red glowing brighter with menace and fire. She continued to struggle against his arms, trying to flee willing to fall into an ocean of awaiting hell. Her fingers scratched against his skin fiercely, she tried her might to push him off but he held her with a threat that could be sensed from each pulse that echoed inside his skin.

He exerted his hand from her mouth, his fingers now clinging tightly from her neck. She tried to scream again. The memory from long ago that she had forced to forget was coming to her again. She was going to be that helpless victim once more forever tormented by the nightmares that plagued her at night. She tried to shut her eyes, the tears of fear streaming down her face but his presence kept them open. She saw it happen. His right hand that had been resting on her left breast moved slightly revealing the deep wound inflicted by a demon with orange eyes. She stared, idly; her body halted struggling in a deafening madness of preparation that was to come.

His fingers ripped her flesh and dug inside, his whole fist deep into her orifice. Finally she screamed and it was heard. The unknown pain ripped through her body resounding in torturous melody that enveloped the crash of the sea. His fingers forced their way through her heart, scratching at her chamber walls with each push inside. Her organ tried to resist the horrible infliction but it was too late. Everything had stopped, her heart, her pulses, her life. Yet her eyes remained open, testimony to the sea below.

He wasn’t done yet. As he slowly pulled his hand out of her chest, dripping in ebony, he pulled out a sword. Her now damaged heart set as the jewel of the handle, her veins rooting itself on the blades like vines on the garden wall. She watched him, tears continuing to trickle slowly. He examined it before her, her body still in has care as if to show off the glory that had been set inside her. She gazed at the weapon, the Hisheme moon now gone within the shadow of Stryphus, reflecting its immaculate white on her blood. She could hear it, the now deceased heartbeat ringing in her ears. The pain was gone but she longed to feel it again, her corpse begging to fully live in masochistic desire.

“My sweet Miraye,” he whispered into her ear. “I’ve no use for you now.”

And with that, he turned her corpse around so her dead eyes could watch the face of her murderer as she limped in his arms. Seryale smiled softly at her, both sorrow and grace compelling his features. He looked over the cliff, his smile never leaving.

And with that, she was falling, gazing up at the man who had given her ecstasy of pain. But within a shadow, his features had morphed, a demon rising with wings of spinal bones and veins showered the sky with his blood. He laughed at her defeat, his orange eyes peering into the abyss as she fell into the ocean.

Her body trembled and quaked, seizures erupting from her soul.