THE EYES were watching.
As she watched, she was also being watched. She almost lost her grip on such a verity, for that was the entire nature of the Ceremony of Patrimony. They were Children being taken care of by adults in appearance, but these mere adults harboured only harm. Their care was a chameleon, a facade put to trial for further analysis.
As the murder of crows chased after her, she was reminded of the moment a griffin had hunted her — when she was supposed to be slumbering in her precious room, only for the windows to shatter. She had been whisked away without resistance to the Towers Yonder, forced to drink from the cup and vowed to praise the one who had chosen her. Hailed as a Lone Heir, the sole practitioner of her Heritage, she was a sect of her own, without faction and without Siblings. It was not different from her love of books, but the volumes she read before and after her arrival at the Tower of Time had never been the same.
She tried to run, leap, and hide in the deep of the forest filled with thin mists, but she had no way to defy such crows. Athelstan could only get away so far, her mind recollecting the moments with her Highness.
"You have the choice to choose between two needles and into which hole you should put the thread."
Athelstan clenched her jaws as the crows cawed after her, her throat drying as her heart raced.
". . . Whether you opt to help the Orphan, or whether you want to let him die, it is up to you . . ."
She did not fail a single step, forcing her strength even through the evidence of beading sweat.
". . . Dearest, your path is not as difficult as it may seem. You could grasp knowledge at once, and be of help even to yourself . . . "
With every rustle, with every creak of boots, there was the silence in between the shadows and the damned.
". . . But you can only be pawned if you make a wrong move . . . Only then, could I intervene . . ."
But she came to a halt.
The swamp sprawled before her, its humid breath had this thick iron pungency clinging to her skin as the treeline tightened like a noose. When she turned her back, high in the twisted branches, a murder of crows waited. Their frantic, twitching eyes were cold glass beads that bore into her with a starving intensity, and whatever hunger that might be was the mystery not reveled.
These black birds had not perched by chance. Along the lower boughs, they huddled wing to wing, their ink-black bodies curving into a sharp crescent moon. Above them, another cluster clung to the wood in a wide lidless oval. This formed a massive feathered eye that stared back at her from the canopy, as if the eye sat nestled within the curve of the moon. For Athelstan, these were animals acting beyond instinct. They were a choir of crows that appeared singular in thought, steered by a malice that did not belong to the natural world — not that she was in such world anymore.
A crow cawed from the center of the eye, and then spoke: "Why," then another crow, "did," then another, "you," alas, another, "run?"
She hideously grinned before she sighed with relief. She had only meant to draw them farther from the man, to diverge their attention toward her. Whether it had truly worked, what mattered was that she had walked the path she chose, the needle she had threaded. She had chosen to lend the Orphan a hand.
Would her Highness be relieved of such a path?
Perhaps he would be disappointed.
"I thought you were going to slaughter me," she offered a response born of sarcasm.
"Why . . ." ". . . did . . ." ". . . you . . . " ". . . help . . ." ". . . the . . . " " . . . Orphan?"
"Why but to show fairness that you have not showed him?" Athelstan raised her chin. "I only did what he really wants."
Kraa!
"Your . . . " ". . . work . . . " ". . . here . . . " ". . . is . . . " " . . . done."
She could only look back.
⠀
THE CHILD OF SUFFERANCE, leaning on his spear as he sat beside the Door, had his arms entwined, as his eyes were closed. His breathing was a calm trance, as if he had been napping for a while, without disturbance, or a single figure to mess with his rest. While his body was hiding between the needles of grass, as his slump made some take rest beneath him, certain ones had kissed his skin, but without itch, they helped him with their hissing lullaby, in the depths of the night.
However, various boots approached, and some had already opened the Door and passed through, their uniforms of white, while others were gold, grey, and red. Soon, two pairs of boots were standing still . . . the other one tapping, as the other walked near the sleeping Child . . . and kicked him on his legs.
Stavros flinched and cursed at the air, and glared to some slender figure, her hair straight and black as the night, with her uniform white.
"Idiot, come with us." This girl had fair skin and a slim face, and Stavros knew her as a Child of Death, who answered to the name Adelaide. "What are you even doing here taking a nap? You have the ring. Instead of this uncomfy place, you could have rested on a comfortable bed."
He stretched his arms before he looked behind. "I thought you two had already egressed this trial?"
The girl behind, wearing a grey uniform, her hair white as a cloud, and her eyes topaz, twitched her luscious lips. "We assembled every Heir who found a ring."
She bore the name Veronica.
Stavros sneered. "Deepshit, why bother and waste time?"
"Tell that to the god of my tower, since you seemed much more caring of time." Veronica snorted, before she asked, "Where is Gareth, by the way?"
"Looking for the others."
"His Siblings of his sect?"
Stavros smirked mischievously. "I did tell him they might be dead. I never thought they were with you all along. Anyway, how many have breached the threshold?"
Adelaide clicked her tongue. "About ten."
"And the others?"
She averted her gaze at some direction, and so when Stavros looked at where she was staring, he observed that some Children were at the far left near the edge of the central land.
"They do not have rings . . . keys, and I doubt there were any at all available."
"Oi, what are you here for?" asked Veronica in turn.
Stavros fixed his stance and took his spear from the ground. "Glory."
"What glory, you little sass?"
"You will know if you stay."
Veronica raised a brow.
From afar, someone was approaching, who was the giant among the remaining Heirs in this land. When face-to-face with the four, he groaned before he struck his sword into the earth.
"And what happened to this big boy?" Adelaide shook her head at the attitude of the Child of Hope.
But he did not say anything.
"Oi!" Veronica called, but she was only ignored.
Gareth, on the other hand, could only look up.
A pawn . . . such was the word in his head.
By then, he knew the stars had gathered.
But for what price?