NEARBY, TOWARD the horizon, the sun began its ascent from the east. Little by little, the once-pitch heavens surrendered to a pale, fading hue. With the crows dispersing, the high skies turned serene, as if the danger had at last passed. Yet, that serenity did not alter the truth: Westershire remained without a ring.
When the Orphan fell from the heights, he was caught by the boat and the very arms of the Child of Hope, Gareth. In truth, Westershire could not fathom why he had chosen to act so. Of all the choices before him, why save this one?
To him, it was sheer delirium. What if Gareth had simply let him plummet into the swamp, to be swallowed by it? For it was the Orphan, after all, who had vanquished the Eidolon.
"We saw the same thing, did we not?" asked a Child of Hope among the gathering of keyless Heirs. "Aided by Stavros, saved by Gareth. Heirs, lending an Orphan — a mere Orphan — a hand?"
"Never!" cried a boy in white. "Stavros would not dare to help. His own Siblings could attest to that, could they not?" He offered a sneer. "He thirsts for honor and glory. Why would he do such a thing?"
"Nevertheless, it does not change the fact that an Orphan defeated the Eidolon. A behemoth in size. BEHEMOTH! Yet he split it down the center!" The Child of Hope nodded. "I scarce believe it. Truly! But . . . he was like the wind. The whispers I gathered were true. I mean, think! His swift beyond measure. Someone like a master of the blade."
"But how is this possible?!" fumed a boy from Sufferance. "Stavros was raised in a district where his lineage was bred to war. They were a house of knights!"
"When I wonder about it, Gareth is the same." A boy from Hope muttered, scratching the back of his head. "It is no doubt for his father was of a lineage of giants, and his ancestor? I remember they bore the blood of giants. He was once Gareth of the House of Denovan."
"Oh, Sir Denovan . . . was he not the right hand of the last Archon from the Order of the Capitol? The one who ruled all of Welfanshelm?" The face of an Heir in grey lit with recognition. "Hmm, I remember . . . I remember! Sir Denovan is a living legend!"
"Need I remind you this is no time for tales?" another voice interjected, though Westershire knew not the speaker; he only continued to hearken to the discourse.
The crowd fell silent at that, as if a sudden sobriety had washed over them. As for Westershire, the history of Gareth, Stavros, or any other held no weight now. And so, in that brief interval of peace, the cold gust only brought back the conscious dread of the Heirs.
Westershire remained not believing it. He was an utter failure at the moment. Since he had been outmatched repeatedly by an Orphan, it felt degrading to his status as an Heir of his pestilent Heritage. He was a true disappointment.
Kraa!
But what could he do when he had nothing left to manifest? He had already given his ace to Gareth. He had blurted out the conversation between a lone Heir and the Orphan. In truth, what he had overheard felt like nothing more than a conspiracy.
The shoulders of Westershire felt incredibly heavy. The instance those with keys entered the Door, the keyless would be left behind in this opening trial because they lacked a pass. They were useless, for all intents and purposes. If the conspiracy he had heard were true and those like him were merely pawns . . .
Kraa!
. . . it simply meant he was a weak Heir, unworthy of possessing a key.
He had failed to please the higher-ups once . . . not even his own Highness within the sect. The weight of what he felt made his chest tighten — his ego had been trampled. No matter how tightly he clenched his fist, nothing would change.
Hopeless.
Deathful.
Kraa!
With eyes filled with malice, his attention turned toward a boat near the edge. From there, a crow stared back at him, hopping slightly on the hem as if trying to get the attention of Westershire.
Click, croak, caw!
Scowling, he moved closer, speaking as if he had lost his mind: "Oi, what do you want, huh?" He tried to shoo it away, "Shoo!" He gestured as if driving it off, but the crow only watched him.
With flushed cheeks, he kicked out slightly to scare the bird, but it remained unmoved.
Click, croak, caw!
"The other crows are gone. What are you still doing here?" He must be crazy to talk to it, knowing it would not reply. It seemed he was losing his wits, given that the trial had yielded nothing good.
This boy from Death was simply stupefied.
The crow would not budge . . . it stared at the boy as if it were the wind itself.
Westershire snorted. Since shooing it was useless, he decided to turn his back and ignore it. Which the boy did without any hesitation.
But he had only taken a few steps when he heard a voice . . . raspy, inhuman, uncanny, and dull. In short, it made all the hair on the body of Westershire stand on end.
"Watched, kraa! We watched," another caw, "you."
Westershire slowly turned back. That little black omen was still staring at him. A peck here, a peck there, then another caw. He realized it had spoken, but why was he the only one who seemed to hear it?
Impossible.
When he looked around, the other Heirs were busy in the distance. Could they really not hear this crow? Westershire would want to confirm, but the crow caught his attention again.
"You are," it cawed, "the only," cawed again, "one."
What it said was vague, but he understood the intent. It meant he truly was the only one hearing it. There was no one else.
The mystery: why him?
Westershire leaned closer. He bent a single knee to meet the crow eye-to-eye. The bird hopped and stretched its head forward, as if to close the distance between them.
"What are you?" The eyes of Westershire narrowed, scrutinizing the black omen to discern its intent.
Since the trial was not yet concluded, remaining active until the stroke of noon, he considered the possibility of a final task. Perhaps a pass to the Camp was still within reach. Though it felt far-fetched, the boy chose to entertain the thought.
It cawed. "Crow."
Westershire shook his head at the response, yet he could not prove the creature lied. If so, it surely harbored a secret or an ill-intent. A wicked soul, after all, recognizes its own kin. There was Westershire, a bitter weed in a garden of stars.
"Then," he smirked mischievously, "who are you, and who sent you?"
Click, croak, caw!
The bird offered a strange side-eye before glancing toward the heavens. It spoke: "Does . . . kraa . . . it matter?"
Westershire paused to think. The crow was playing a cunning, mysterious game. He could not decipher its purpose or its role in approaching him, especially since it mentioned that they had watched him. Did the they refer to the murder of crows? If so, were they truly the ones observing the entire Ceremony?
He was reminded of the parchment containing the rules and objectives of the trial. It had stated that 'the eyes are watching,' and the phrasing was somewhat identical.
He nodded to his own thoughts, while the crow seemed to wait for the boy of Death to respond.
"Very well then," Westershire cleared his throat, "what do you want?"
The crow croaked. "You."
He pointed at his own chest.
The bird paced back and forth upon the wood. "Yes . . . kraa! If you . . . kraa . . . do this . . . kraa!" It pecked once more. "You . . . will . . . " it scratched its beak before it let out a final croak, "surely . . . pass."
'If he performed a certain act, he would surely pass.' That was how Westershire understood the appearing omen, yet he did not know what it alluded to, nor the manner in which it must be done. Such a necessity, what would be the forfeit? Perhaps he would gain entry, but what would be lost? While he could admit that his intentions were often evil, he always sought to justify them. Like the death of the Sibling who had slapped him — that girl deserved her fate, and he felt no need to deepen the explanation. But where would this task lead him, and by what motive must he be the one to execute it?
"Pray tell, how?" Many thoughts raced through the mind of Westershire, and from them, a conclusion began to form, though he did not yet wish to give it his full attention.
"Kill," the crow croaked.
"Who?"
Its beak pointed toward a specific direction, and when Westershire followed that gaze, he was startled by the realization.
"Why did you think that I would follow the plot you desire?"
Kraa!
"I do not even know who you are or what your purpose is in this plot to slay the Orphan." He hissed at the words of the crow. "And the objectives clearly said that you could only harm a Child."
The crow hopped once more. "Precisely."
It seemed as though Westershire had reached an enlightenment. He only needed to harm the Orphan, yet the crow alluded to a killing — that was what he had gleaned, but was there a hidden meaning in those words? No matter, it remained impossible.
The gaze of the boy dimmed as he let out a slight laugh. "I must say you almost had me." He heaved a sigh. "The offer is fair, however," he placed a hand in his pocket, "I do not desire such a thing. Task someone else with it." He turned his back.
A pawn?
He nearly seethed with rage.
He did not want to hear that sound.
He loathed that word.
"Whether the Orphan survives," he uttered at last, "blame your flawed system."
The crow croaked for the last time.
It then leaped and flew away.