AS MAZE APPROACHED the tavern, a sudden roar of voices and the clatter of wood erupted from behind the heavy doors. When they swung open, a sea of figures turned their gaze upon him at once. Vaelstrom, offering nothing but a weary yawn, abandoned him to the approaching crowd. Maze found no route of escape as the senior Orphans swarmed him with a flurry of greetings.
"Maze, you are finally leaving here for the Camp tomorrow!"
"Our newest Orphan, care to tell about your newfound abilities?"
"The word has spread of your hundred leaves. Truly gifted!"
Amidst the overwhelming tide of voices, Mistletoe appeared, draped an arm over Maze's shoulders, and laughed. "Easy there, dear siblings! Restrain yourselves, would you? Do not stifle the junior." The cook chuckled as a few playful complaints rose from the crowd. Maze mouthed a silent thank you, to which Mistletoe responded with a quick wink. He led Maze toward a table positioned near the elevated platform at the front, and as the others returned to their benches, the tavern resumed its boisterous rhythm.
"It will be a long while before we hear from you again," Mistletoe said, pulling out a chair for him. "Are you prepared, brother?"
"A bit," Maze admitted, finding his seat. "I suppose I must be."
"That is the spirit!"
Maze could only shake his head at Mistletoe's relentless cheer. He watched as the cook moved toward the bar, where another Orphan served him a cup of deep, crimson liquid. Maze had never seen such a drink. Mistletoe returned to the table and set the cup before him.
"Here. This is for you."
Maze took a moment to observe the tavern.
Here, the chamber was a bastion of warmth. Dozens of candelabras hung from the ceiling, their flames dancing in the draft, while hanging lanterns suspended by white ropes cast a soft, golden glow over the long tables. On the other hand, the fireplaces roared at the sides of the room, the scent of burning cedar. Near the platform, an Orphan sat with a harp, the live strings weaving a lively melody that filled the gaps in the conversation.
"Are you searching for Sir Azaniel and Miss Olivia?" Mistletoe asked, noting Maze's wandering eyes.
"Where are they?"
"They shall be here within the hour," Mistletoe replied, leaning back.
"What do you expect of the Camp, Maze?" Mistletoe asked, his eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight of the tavern.
Maze had no clear idea, yet he offered an answer regardless.
"Learnings, senior. But then, the lesser the knowledge, the more knowledge it truly is?" He recalled the words Vaelstrom had once spoken to him.
"Well, such is the way of wisdom, brother," Mistletoe replied, leaning back as he fell into thought. "I remember my own time at the Camp. I was there with Sir Azaniel and Miss Olivia, among others. Our group of Orphans was perhaps the most crowded — not that we outnumbered the other types of Children, but there were enough of us that we were never truly alone. All in all, it is a grand experience, though it is filled with discrimination. We were the subjects of bullying and ridicule, not to dispirit us, but to ensure we were prepared. I know you have reached the age of a young adult, but many Children there are not of the same years. Some are far younger, and so the likes of us must strive to understand."
Maze grew quiet. He remembered that a certain age was required during the Selection of Children, but if they were so young, how would he ever belong? He imagined himself an old man adrift in a sea of youth. How in the world would he face such a majority? Creasing his brow, Maze found no way to answer back.
"Brother, do not bother yourself with such thoughts," Mistletoe joked, attempting to cheer him. "You possess a flower-face, as you appear much younger than your years. I beckon you will not be so discriminated; some may even find reason to admire you."
How about you, senior? You said you were discriminated, even with your charms. Maze lifted the cup and drank the wine Mistletoe had provided.
It was his first experience with such a draught. The liquid was thick and clung to his palate with a heavy, velvet sweetness that soon gave way to a sharp, fermented tang. According to Mistletoe, it was a vintage pressed from dark grapes, prepared by the bartender, Demeter, for every special occasion and stored in the depths of the wine cellar behind the tavern. Mistletoe leaned in, whispering stories regarding the musician, Harper, but the words were lost to the boisterous buzz of the room. Maze consumed three more cups in quick succession before Mistletoe fell into a companionable silence beside him.
"The book . . . may I ask of it?" Maze inquired, his voice slightly steadier from the warmth of the wine.
Mistletoe's lips twitched. "Would it not be more fitting to experience it yourself, brother?"
It was then that Maze saw a slender figure approaching, clutching a scroll. It was Miss Olivia. Behind her followed Sir Azaniel, who offered a sparse nod to the harpist. In response, Harper vacated the stage, and Sir Azaniel turned his gaze upon the crowd. The tavern fell into a sudden, expectant hush.
"For our newcomer Orphan, I shall do the honor and congratulate you for refining your path." Sir Azaniel surveyed the assembly. When his gaze met Maze's, the man felt the familiar burden return. "In this moment, you will be a subject of change, not only in your present and future, but in your very self. Your three-fold existence: body, soul, and spirit.
"You have noted the mention of the three-fold often, for this philosophy has lived with you during your stay. Regardless, I have the privilege of welcoming you in advance. I shall do so until you obtain your own Tower, for your feat is . . . indeed something to celebrate. It is truly wonderful that your time has now come."
At that moment, Maze could only listen, for such words were meant to be cherished.
He was about to step into unfamiliar ground.
The Camp.
Then, the trials.
Yet, a thought lingered in him somehow.
Did I hear correctly? A Tower of my own? Perhaps he was mistaken.
Sir Azaniel placed a palm over his chest. "So, I, as the Highness, speak to you to survive and live your life as you dedicate yourself to the Builders, and even to the Widower. I want you to remember your roots while treasuring the new life given to you. In this matter, I, Highness Azaniel, am opening the Oath-Taking of the Orphan."
He gestured for Maze to stand, as Miss Olivia walked toward him and led him at the center of the tavern, in front of the stage. When he was situated already, Miss Olivia presented a scroll to him, that in turn, he accepted.
"Would you please read the parchment loudly as you perform the Threefold Sign? Speak without lies, with your heart, body, and soul, in service and gratitude for your new life."
Sir Azaniel stepped back.
Meanwhile, Maze opened the scroll.
The title was written in stark black:
THE THREE-FOLD VOW OF THE ORPHAN (UNDER CODE OF CHILDREN: ORPHAN'S ACT; OATH-TAKER'S ACT)
Holding the upper rim of the scroll, Maze raised his right hand. His pinky and thumb were folded, while the ring, middle, and index fingers were lifted straight. He began to read aloud.
「I accept the path I shall take as a descent. By this Path shall I descend the tower, and by it shall I be a subject of ascension through the Ascension Path that opens before me. I bow to the Path of Selfhood. I bow to the Path of Orphanhood. I shall take the road alone and tread the Paths to a single path ahead of me as Singularity.」
"I accept . . ." Maze heard the sound of his own voice echoing. "I bow to the Path of Selfhood. I bow to the Path of Orphanhood. I shall take the road alone and tread the Paths to a single path ahead of me as Singularity."
「I was once without Blessedness, a drifting essence in a former life now severed. I leave that past, that self, and that memory behind. I undergo the Metanoia — the turning of my soul — to become a new being with a new identity. I shall be a Child of the Tower, and be an Orphan, as I step forward to ascend the trials I call Sequences. Let the Tower, the Builders, and the god that support me known as the Widower bear witness upon this oath.」
". . . I leave that past, that self, and that memory . . ." He felt the thud of his heart as it seemed to contract; his mind throbbed. It was a perceptible effect of the vow, though not severe. ". . . Let the Tower, the Builders, and the god that support me known as the Widower bear witness upon this oath."
He continued to the final paragraph.
"By the Builders, by the God of Widows," Maze paused, his voice lowering as he heard others in the room falter and tremble, "and by my own Metanoia, I shall descend. I am the Child, the very Orphan, and so shall the Sequences begin."
The scroll flared with a pale radiance before dissolving into a cluster of cool, blue butterflies. They fluttered with a ghostly grace, piercing his chest and evaporating into his skin before Maze could offer any reaction. He stood rooted, statued by the sudden intake of the vow.
It took but a moment before an Orphan emerged from behind the stage, pushing a flat-topped table of polished wood. Atop it lay a heavy tome, flanked by a quill and a well of dark ink.
Sir Azaniel gestured for Maze to ascend the platform, leading him toward the furniture with a silent, guiding hand. There, the open page revealed a lineage of names etched in deliberate script:
「Vaelstrom, the Whirlwind」
「Havoc, the Clueless」
「Omen, the Quiet」
「Verity, the Zealot」
「Primrose, the Ethereal」
But were they here in the crowd, alive and well?
For now, the truth remained veiled.
Sir Azaniel dipped the quill into the ink and offered it to him. Maze accepted the instrument without any reluctance nor fear of the unknown. He set the nib to the vellum.
「Maze」
He paused, his mind searching for the words that might best define his existence, just as the others had done. He read his name once more before committing the final stroke to the page.
「Maze, the Blind」
As he surrendered the quill, the tavern erupted. Hands clapped as if thunder after thunder, and whistles pierced the warm air of the chamber.
"Go and forge a name for yourself, Maze!"
"Maze, carry our legacy!"
The jests and shouts rose to dispel the tension that had lingered like a ghost in the room. Sir Azaniel was the first to take his hand, offering a firm shake that many others followed, each congratulating him for finally having his name inscribed within the Book of the Orphans.
Truly, the night was still young.
And so, the celebration continued long into the dark — a night that Maze realized, with the warmth of the wine and the weight of the vow, was truly something to cherish.