STAVROS LEAPED between the fleshy trunks of the limbs, his boots barely grazing the scaled surface before a tentacle whipped through the space he had occupied a heartbeat before. He could not find a foothold, and he dared not. Every time his skin pressed too long against the creature, he felt a sickening tug at his core, as if his very Essence were a liquid being siphoned through a straw.
He caught a glimpse of the underside of a reaching limb earlier. There, tucked within the pulsing orifices, were rows of needle-thin teeth set in concentric circles. When Stavros observed them, they did not gnash or snap, and when time went on, he stumbled upon such revelation. They were . . . simply waiting for a frame to be pinned still so they could begin their reap.
Truth be told, he lunged for the head of red hay, but the Eidolon was no longer the sluggish beast it had been.
It was learning.
Every time Stavros ascended, a tentacle anticipated his trajectory, forcing him into a desperate, mid-air pivot. He was trapped in an exhausting cycle: surging forward only to be repelled, falling back only to climb again. Even his spear, once a biting extension of his will, was now being parried. The tentacles no longer offered their soft centers to be pierced. It turned out to baffle him, as they slapped the shaft of his weapon over and over, shattering his very momentum before the tip could even taste the head of hay.
Gritting his teeth, Stavros chose retreat, his chest heaving as he sought the blind Child to reset the lure. But as his gaze swept the boat where the Orphan had stood, his eyes widened with a sharp, stinging disappointment. The Orphan was gone.
At the moment, the barge was empty, save for the bloodied water seeping through the cracks.
"Where did he go?"
He could merely ask himself.
The Eidolon relieved itself with a crying wail, as the crimson swamp created ripples after ripples, with each of its limbs sinking into the endless pit of sanguine. Until its head was the only frame that peeked above the surface, thence, a sunken Father Darkness without any sign of terror above. The swamp calmed down, and the crows feasting in the air had ceased cawing, yet persisted on roaming the heavens as if an omen was still about to reveal itself.
Stavros mischievously smirked. "Damn, and here I thought, I would get the chance to pave my Path with glory."
As it turned out, the only way to kill it was to somehow lure it out through the one whom it was destined to devour.
That Orphan.
He might be gone in its territory, but there was still a possibility for it to resurface for the second time it sensed him.
Stavros looked up and saw how the blue sky was getting purple by the hour with the sun slowly losing its light.
"I still have time to play around and find honor."
Honor . . .
But at what cost?
⠀
THE GRATEFUL MAZE had finally triumphed in seizing the opportunity when an opening revealed itself, like a maneuver born from the unwitting sacrifice of the Child of Sufferance. He swore that once the Eidolon finally hid itself, he was safe. At least, for now.
But the problem remained: Maze had not yet grasped the nature of the land into which he had drifted. When that certain Heir of the Crown of Thorns bought him the time to sneak away, there was no way he could know which place this was, nor was he truly alone. There were a few other Heirs he had carefully avoided as he took cover from one tree to another.
Here, the ground was carpeted in diverse shrooms and flowers; the trees were swathed in moss and vines that bore blossoms of their own. The scent was floral, as if the very moisture were perfumed, and several bunkers and ponds could be sought within the glades. Even as the sky began its descent into darkness, Maze felt no strange or dangerous sensation lingering about. The atmosphere was peaceful, reminiscent of the pastures or the ridgelines where he once guided and herded his several sheep in a flock.
Maze felt the leaves of his Soul Tree finally returning, though it required a quarter-glass for each leaf to be restored. Even with his roots at the third level, it would take many hours to regain his full hundred. Perhaps being a Fertile Child offered no grand perks for recovery — save for food. A mere bite would ease his growling stomach. For him, this was a necessity after enduring the persistent presence of the Eidolon of the Swamp.
Not that he could not endure a day of not filling himself from hunger, but it would still make a big difference had there be one.
Maze could hand himself a hundred swords, as each sword would be a manifestation of a question to cut through a veil of a secret that was being kept. One of those was a specific subject, a lone Heir who might hold several more veils that his swords had not yet cut through. The veils she held, unluckily, was layered in thick wools each, and perhaps, it would take three swords to even reveal what was inside them.
Maze had cogitated for some time.
He let his body rest as he loitered around his Soul Tree.
When he had done so, he had climbed a tree and used his cropped leather jacket to tie himself on the tree trunk and not fall down when he dozed off.
Eventually, it was only a matter of an hour, more or so, before he took a leap and wandered deeper into the sanctuary.
Two hours later, as several lanterns descended from the heavens, Maze, deep within the forest, leaning against a trunk with his lower half resting on a field of marigolds, encountered one. It landed softly upon his legs, carrying a small sack. Upon opening it, he found a loaf of bread and a bottle of milk. He was profoundly thankful for such a blessing.
This alone would suffice to quiet the hunger within.
⠀
BESIDE THE DOOR, Gareth and Stavros were loitering as the former guided the others toward the threshold. Those who had obtained their keys passed through, but these two remained reluctant to enter. As Gareth guided them, he meticulously counted each Heir, hoping to determine the number of keys remaining in the trial.
He had guided a total of three from Time, two from Sufferance, and four from Death. Apart from the five who had entered a short while ago, among whom were Quintin and Hesperia of his own Heritage, no other Children of Hope had appeared. With each passing minute, his worry deepened into a heavy lump in his chest.
Eventually, when the rations finally arrived, Stavros could only scoff at the sight of simple bread and milk. He threw the loaf aside and drank only the milk, while Gareth reached down to retrieve the discarded food.
"If you do not want it, you could have given it to me," Gareth said, breaking the bread in two and taking a bite. "Do not waste such precious sustenance."
"Never act pathetic in front of me." Stavros cast a sneering gaze at the Heir before crushing the glass bottle with the raw strength of his hand. "You eat that filthy bread. Those corrupted Directors . . . why did they provide us with a beggar's meal?"
"Do you know . . ." Gareth swallowed hard, "this is worth a fill to sustain our daily Essence?"
"Deepshit, chew your food first."
Gareth hissed as he took another bite. "Why did you not enter the Door?"
Stavros wandered into his own dark thoughts for a moment.
"You could have just gone forth and rested in the Camp."
"I deem the Camp boring," Stavros sneered. "Look, this is an opportunity for me to attain glory for my Heritage. A star is only deserving of such, like you." He shook his head dismissively. "Whether I enter the Door is none of your business."
"Do you even think that Orphan is still alive?" When Gareth finished the first loaf, he opened his own sack, broke his bread, and continued eating. "He might be dead, which is likely the reason the Eidolon calmed down."
"And if I miss the fun?"
"Screw the fun, you idiot," Gareth sighed. "Glory this, honor that — you always spew words like a big shot. Why do you not ever care for those Siblings of yours?"
"We are not the same, Gareth." Stavros slid a hand into his pocket, his other hand gripping the spear still pierced into the ground. "I am not a damn saint."
"Did I ever say that I was?" Gareth raised an eyebrow as he finished his bread and drank the milk. "I might say that I am a greedy one. If I could only hoard all those keys and let my Siblings have them all, I would probably do so."
"Now, now, they are probably dead." Stavros looked at Gareth hideously, a glance that only served to increase the Heir's anxiety.
"Do not say that."
But Gareth remained silent after that. In fact, as time passed, no one else revealed themselves. Beneath the silent crows in the heavens, the wind did not even whisper, and even the grass remained mute.
This silence . . . bothered Gareth most.