SUCH PRICE could be a forfeit, a levy, or a tithe.
When Gareth harkened to the hearsay that a Child of Death rattled about, he gleaned it without due, but with a fair consideration of whether the disclosure could be trusted. He veered his thoughts toward opposing sides, only to be trapped in a cycle of realizing that such could be deemed credible. If not, why would everything be like this? A broken directive and fractured precepts. A shift, an upheaval, and a madness, like the wrathful Eidolon chasing after an Orphan who had worn a ring.
"I heard that we are but pawns, and had taken the initiative to fulfill what appeared to be a directive. How absurd is it?"
"Make haste!"
He remembered the mischievous grin, and how the boy played with words.
"It happened to be that there was a conspiracy, and I have assumed therefore that the directive is a facade. This whole premise can be a setup. A damn unworthy Heir like me would only mean that my end is here, to die here without a ring. Ironic. That wench chose to reveal it to an Orphan, and thus helped him get a key, and not the Heirs whom she could treat as Siblings — who could have been of her aid when it was her time to seek help."
And so . . .
If the price were a forfeit, which among those significant to him must be given up? If it were to be a levy, then the requirement might be in accordance with what the Directors deemed worthy as payment. If not among the two, it could be a tithe, and perhaps, all along, a soul was needed to satisfy a god, possibly a higher being, lest it be the God of Hope, or simply the Directors and their pursuit of power and . . . pawning.
But Gareth had to control his emotions. He was from the Heritage of the Anchor. He must learn temperance and return at once to the reality of that feeble moment. Otherwise, a conspiracy would consume him, much like how the Child of Time might have poisoned the mind of the Orphan.
Gareth gripped his sword. "My Siblings," he mentioned, and the three looked at him, "did you happen to see them?"
"I did lead two among the ten I mentioned earlier. From different Heritages that I am not sure of." It was Adelaide who spoke, before she looked at the Heirs from the far edge. "There were sixteen Heirs who are keyless. Others might have crossed already, and the others . . . they might have died."
"Well, from what I know, there were sixty Heirs supposedly, were there not?" Veronica asked out of the blue.
"Uh-uh, and there were fifteen Heirs each. Some among the Heritages had four Children, while some had three." Adelaide clicked her tongue. "Why do you ask?"
"Is it not mentioned that we ought to make sure there must be one Heir in a certain Heritage?"
"And so to speak?"
This Child of Death closed her eyes. "I . . . simply forgot about it."
"They were scattered anyway when this land released some vibration that caused others to be sent flinging into the swamp." Veronica began to think, touching her chin. "From what I remember, there were about nine who were present during our clearing, and only four had found a key."
They looked at the silent Stavros, who was merely observing them.
"I have no need for a Sibling." He sneered. "Let them all die."
Gareth sighed heavily, wavering between his principles. When he scrutinized the flock of keyless Heirs, he could see how they despaired. The ones of Hope became hopeless; those of Death awaited the end; perhaps those of Time had an inkling they were simply running out of it; and the ones of Sufferance knew they were meant to suffer before death. The ways of life . . . even the Towers could glean from them.
The girl in grey held the arm of Adelaide, as they were now walking toward the Door.
"I asked you to wait, you two!" Stavros hissed.
Veronica glanced back and cupped her ear. "Do you hear that?"
Stavros creased his brows. "Hear what?"
"Tick, tock." Veronica smiled. "I do not care whatever it is you want to glorify yourself of." She stepped in front of the Door, her black ring forming itself like a key made of rotting flesh. She placed it in the keyhole and twisted. Then, the key was devoured by the mechanism, and the Door creaked, emitting a glowing light that reflected upon its body while the crows overlooked the land. "Your glory is yours, Stavros." She pulled the Door open and entered the gleaming passage, swallowed by the light.
The Child of Sufferance became mute.
It felt like his Heritage was blasphemed!
Meanwhile, the next to open it was the Child of Death.
Before she entered, she waved her hand.
"See you at Camp, fellow Stars."
The Door then closed on its own.
When the two boys were alone, not one of them dared to say a word. Gareth brushed his hair and sat with a grim expression. It took some time for him to utter a despairing rhetoric.
"What do I do?" he asked himself. "I could not leave my Siblings in this place, not now that they do not have a key."
"That is where you will help me." Stavros crossed his arms as he scrutinized the helpless boy of Hope.
Gareth replied, "Whatever do you mean?"
"Sooner or later, that Orphan will attempt to enter the Door."
"So?"
"We will take him as bait." This Heir of the Crown of Thorns played with his spear, touching its blade and pricking his finger. "If we can defeat that Eidolon, we will be rewarded and come to the Camp with honor, Gareth."
"What does that have to do with my keyless Siblings, you moron?" Gareth was flummoxed by the riddles of the boy, clenching his fists as he thought of something that might help them.
Stavros raised his brow. "If we have honor, we could make a wish."
The other twitched his lips, enlightened by the plan. "And how do you know this honor of defeating some Eidolon would let the higher-ups grant our wish?"
"Come on, the likes of us are Fertile Heirs fighting a tier higher than our phase." He mischievously smirked. "Why would they not?"
It was still far-fetched for Gareth. But if it were true, then his Siblings might get to live.
"Speaking of the devil."
Gareth averted his gaze to where Stavros was staring. To his surprise, a boat rowed into view, steered by a figure in a black uniform, approaching the central land. The figure wore a blindfold, and behind him loomed a silhouette of land shrouded in smoke and wildfire—
Burning.
The trial was burning.
Gareth's chest filled with both rage and hope, and the Child of Hope wavered, torn between accepting the plan to use the Orphan as bait or allowing the Orphan to succumb to his fate.
And so should the stars be.