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.”