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Content Warnings for Chapter 4:
Child Abuse (Physical and Emotional)
Neglect and Abandonment
Drug Abuse Mention
Domestic Violence
Mentions of Poverty and Financial S
trugglesTrauma and PTSD
ThemesMental Health Struggles (Insanity/Breakdowns)
Graphic Descriptions of Injury/AbuseDissociation and Psychological Distress
viewer discretion is advised ⚠️
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My footsteps echoed softly through the unfamiliar halls, each step carrying me closer to a classroom I had never entered before. There was no sense of certainty about what awaited me beyond its door, only a quiet apprehension that lingered in my chest. After signing a consent form handed to me at the entrance, something unexpected happened—the paper itself shimmered faintly, folding and twisting until it transformed into a mask resting delicately in my hands.
I recognized its shape almost instantly, though only from the books I had devoured back at the facility. It was a kitsune mask, a relic often associated with spirits and tricksters from old tales. Traditionally, these masks covered the entire face, which struck me as suffocating and isolating—perhaps a personal bias formed from my own sensory sensitivities. To my relief, however, this mask was only a half-mask, designed to shield my eyes rather than my whole face. A practical adjustment, I assumed, meant to make it less overwhelming to wear.
Ms. Tess, who had been silently observing my reaction, stepped forward and explained the mask's true purpose. It was not simply an ornament or a ceremonial object—it was a tool. A containment device meant to dampen the constant flood of visions and fractured moments that relentlessly played across my mind like a broken film reel. With the mask in place, the overwhelming torrent of future flashes would ease, granting me at least a fleeting sense of normalcy.
She also gently suggested that I visit her every Friday—a standing invitation to what she called 'sensory moments.' These were designed to ground me, a time dedicated to unraveling the tension knotted inside my mind. Apparently, my powers were not only fueled by external triggers but also amplified by my own relentless overthinking, the constant hum of unease I carried with me. It was this internal chaos, she explained, that kept my abilities flaring wildly out of control, leaving me drained and vulnerable.
Those fleeting thoughts, fragile as fallen leaves beneath my feet, crumbled the moment I stood before the door. Room 206—a name so ordinary for a place that felt anything but.
My knuckles rapped softly against the wood, and with a breath caught between hesitation and resolve, I pushed the door open.
"As predicted, here she is."
The voice belonged to the professor, whose gaze flickered toward me with the faintest trace of expectation. I lifted my eyes to meet theirs, offering a plain, almost weightless, "Good morning," before stepping fully into the room—a presence without fanfare, yet not without gravity.
My gaze drifted over the room, tracing each unfamiliar face. Eleven students. Only eleven.
So, they weren't exaggerating after all. Those who walk the uncertain paths tied to time itself—our kind—are rare as cracks in the sky. From what I see, they all have unique different objects they wear to help them control their powers, which is quite amazing to think that there's this one girl who have her eyes blindfolded.
"Please introduce yourself." The professor said as I nodded. "Good morning. I am Tachibana Hagarin..."
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Curious gazes devoured my presence the moment I settled into my seat. I suppose I couldn't blame them—a new face in a room so small was bound to attract attention. The silence that followed pressed against my skin like a second atmosphere, thick and unrelenting.
"For the continuation of our lesson," the professor's voice cut through the hush like a knife against glass, "we begin at Chapter 5."
A pause—deliberate, heavy.
"Dark Triad."
The words slithered into the air, curling like smoke around the edges of my mind.
"The Dark Triad refers to Narcissism, Machiavellianism, and Psychopathy—three personality traits bound together by manipulation, absence of empathy, and an insatiable hunger for control."
The professor's voice echoed within the hollow of my thoughts, and for once, the clarity of it felt almost indulgent. My mind had been left unclouded for days, all thanks to the mask resting against my face — a fragile shield between my sanity and the endless unraveling of time.
Even so, I couldn't help but wonder why we were treading the waters of psychology in the first place.
This was supposed to be a class for those who twist time itself — so why did this feel like an autopsy for the mind?
When the class ended after 2 hours, I finally reached the schedule of vacant time. I was quietly thinking of what to do with the given 2 hours of vacant but suddenly...
A pen rolled near my shoe, its faint clatter against the cold floor somehow louder than it should have been. I leaned forward, fingers poised to grasp it—
"No!"
The word cracked like a whip through the air, sharp enough to slice through my hesitation. I looked up to see a girl, panic carved into every step she took as she nearly stumbled toward me, her shoe sending the pen skittering across the room.
"You shouldn't touch it," she whispered, her voice low and urgent, as if the walls themselves had ears.
I followed the flicker of her gaze to a boy slouched near the back, his grin stitched too wide across his face, a glint in his eye that spoke of cruelty reserved for those who knew no limits.
"Why?" My voice was calm, but curiosity curled beneath it like smoke.
"That pen," Clara murmured, fingers trembling as they curled into her sleeves, "has been laced with someone's twisted magic. If you touched it, you would've been swallowed whole — into a room stitched from riddles and silence. A place where you could scream until your voice breaks, and still no one would hear you."
Her words tasted like truth, bitter and lingering.
"But you kicked it," I pointed out, my voice softer now. "Wouldn't that count as contact?"
She shook her head, strands of hair sticking to the sweat gathering at her temple. "No... It needs skin. It craves warmth. Bone, flesh, the pulse beneath your fingertips. Shoes are just leather and rubber. They hold no soul."
Her eyes drifted back to the boy — the architect of this sick game — who merely offered a laugh that sounded more like something choking on itself.
"Just be careful," Clara said, voice dipping lower. "You're new. You don't want to end up... you know... a plaything."
I offered a nod, the weight of her words settling across my shoulders like a damp cloak. "Thank you for the warning."
There was silence, then her hand stretched toward me, trembling just slightly. "I'm Clara."
I took her hand — cold skin against mine — and held it for a breath longer than I meant to. "Hagarin."
A pause, then: "Can I ask... more about this place? This department?"
Clara sighed, her expression caught somewhere between pity and exhaustion, before she sank into the seat beside me.
"I'll tell you everything I can," she said, her voice no louder than a prayer, "in hopes it makes you feel a little less like prey."
When Clara settled beside me, I let my gaze linger on her — a habit born from survival rather than curiosity. Her hair, a shade too soft for this place, was braided into a bun plait, too delicate for a room that reeked of fear. The strands twisted like a noose, and at its center, her monocle gleamed like an artificial eye — an elegant restraint to a power I knew she could barely hold back.
"Where would you like to start?" Her voice cut through my observation like a scalpel, precise and clinical.
I averted my gaze, as though looking too long would unravel me. "I suppose... we could start with the culture here. What do people do in a place like this?"
Clara's smile was thin, barely there, like a ghost caught between walls. "Culture," she repeated, as though the word was foreign, a relic long buried beneath dust and rot.
She folded her hands in her lap, knuckles pale. "This building breathes silence. Not by design, but by consequence. We are few — a species on the verge of extinction, clinging to corridors stained with the mistakes of those who came before us. But we all share the same disease."
Her voice dropped into something brittle. "The disease of seeing too much."
I felt my stomach twist. "And the subjects you study?"
"Psychology, History, Philosophy, Sociology, Politics," she listed them like names on gravestones.
"Why?" I asked, though I already knew the answer would taste bitter.
"Because if you lose your mind, your power will devour you." Her words carried the weight of a funeral prayer. "This place is a coffin for those who couldn't hold their own sanity together — their powers grew wild, untethered, until they swallowed them whole. If you can't control your mind, you can't control the time."
Clara scratched at her temple, the skin red and irritated, as though her own thoughts were a splinter beneath the flesh.
"These subjects aren't about learning — they're about survival. You study history so you don't repeat your own mistakes. You study psychology so you understand the voices crawling inside your head. Philosophy teaches you to question your reality before it eats you alive. Sociology reminds you that you aren't the only monster walking these halls. And politics..."
She trailed off, but another voice filled the void.
"Politics teaches you the rules of power. Knowing when to kneel — and when to slit a throat."
The footsteps were soft, measured, each one deliberate like the ticking of a clock. A boy stood before us, the air around him heavy with calculation. His uniform was too neat, his posture too perfect, like he belonged in a portrait rather than this crumbling room.
His smile was polite, but his eyes were scalpel-sharp, stripping me bare in a single glance. "Sanity is currency here," he said. "If you lose it, your power consumes you from the inside out. So, we sharpen our minds until they're blades — because the only way to survive this place is to cut first."
The room felt colder.
The boy offered no introduction but just a polite smile. "Right, no need to sound like a walking thesis just to make us feel stupid, Clarence," Clara shot back, her voice light, but her eyes rolling with enough force to tilt the earth off its axis.
Clarence chuckled — a low, deliberate sound that somehow felt like it belonged to someone who knew exactly how and when you would die. "Just doing my civic duty. Our new little time anomaly deserves the full orientation package, doesn't she?" His gaze flickered to me, sharp but amused.
I rested my chin in my palm, already exhausted. "If we're supposed to be trained into functional, sane people, why's that guy..." —my finger lazily pointed at the slumped figure drooling onto his desk, the one who rolled the pen towards me— "acting like he's escaped from a psychological horror film?"
Clara snorted. "Oh, him? That's Ezra. He's new, like you. Except he skipped the 'gradual breakdown' part and just speed ran straight into 'hopelessly unhinged.'"
Clarence leaned against the desk, his expression darkening into something more serious — the kind of look you'd wear at a eulogy. "He's a walking cautionary tale. His sanity wasn't just fractured — it was pried apart, piece by piece, until the light itself showed him everything he couldn't bear to see."
He paused, his fingers tracing patterns on the desk absentmindedly. "You see, for some of us, the power doesn't break us. It shows us how broken we already were. And once the mind is exposed to too much truth, it shatters like glass."
I didn't respond. There wasn't much to say when someone described a fate you could practically feel breathing down your neck.
Clara, mercifully, broke the silence. "Anyway!" she clapped her hands together, trying to inject some life back into the room. "Moral of the story — don't touch random objects, don't stare too long at the void, and for god's sake, never trust the vending machine on the third floor."
"Why the vending machine?" I blinked, confused by the sudden shift.
Clarence just smiled. "It eats more than your money."
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Several days have passed, and I suppose I've begun to adapt to the peculiar rhythm of this place. The atmosphere here is unlike the main building, which was constantly alive with noise and bustling students. In stark contrast, this department feels almost isolated, its silence only interrupted by the occasional conversation or the faint hum of distant footsteps.
Throughout these days, I've found myself gravitating toward Clara and Clarence. They seem to have taken it upon themselves to ensure I don't entirely lose my mind in this strange environment. When they're occupied, however, Ezra tends to appear — often without warning. His presence alone is unnerving, considering our first encounter involved him casually rolling a cursed pen in my direction. A pen, mind you, capable of trapping me within a labyrinth of riddles until I somehow managed to solve my way out. To put it lightly, Ezra's existence leaves me with an enduring sense of wariness.
At the moment, our class is gathered in the gymnasium. Today's exercise focuses on building connections — not through casual conversation, but through direct access to each other's memories. The process is simple in theory: remove any object that dampens our abilities, select a partner, and lock eyes until the walls around their past begin to collapse, allowing us a glimpse into their personal history. It is, apparently, a foundational technique for understanding time travel. For some reason, the moment I removed my mask, nothing happened. No sudden flood of memories, no overwhelming rush of visions — just the ordinary sight of the gymnasium and my classmates. It was almost unsettling how quiet my mind remained, like a static screen where chaos should have been.
Perhaps it's this building itself — designed to keep us on edge, to suppress what we rely on most. I couldn't help but wonder what kind of subtle tricks they embedded into these walls. A spell? A mechanism? Or maybe something much simpler, like the weight of constant observation. Whatever it was, the absence of noise in my head felt louder than any commotion ever could.
"I'll be assigning partners," our proctor announced, glancing down at the clipboard in his hands. A collective groan rippled through the room, though none of us were particularly surprised. Of course, we couldn't choose for ourselves — not here.
"Hagarin and Ezra."
Ah, yes. The radiant beacon of my existence. How fortunate I am.
From behind me, I heard the unmistakable twin reactions of Clara and Clarence — a synchronized oh that carried both sympathy and amusement. I turned to them, silently pleading for some form of rescue, but all they offered in return were sheepish smiles and helpless shrugs.
Before I could plot my escape, a hand clamped down on my shoulder, spinning me around with unnecessary enthusiasm. "Aren't you the luckiest? Partnered with me!" Ezra's grin stretched ear to ear, radiating the kind of chaotic energy that could set off a fire alarm just by existing.
"More like a curse," I replied, shaking my head. "You cling like a wasp that refuses to die."
"And you," he said, utterly unfazed, "are the honey — all sweet and easy to mess with."
"Dear god..." I muttered with a cringed reaction etched on my face, turning to walk away, only for him to seize my wrist and pull me back into his orbit, cackling like a villain in a low-budget play.
He's going to be the death of me someday — that much I'm certain of.
The proctor continued announcing the other pairs, though his voice felt distant, like a soft hum beneath the weight of my own thoughts. Soon enough, it was time to begin.
We were instructed to sit across from our assigned partners, knees barely apart, eyes locked. No masks, no objects to soften the edges of our abilities. Just direct eye contact, until the world around us dissolved into memory.
The rules were clear, spoken with the sternness of someone who had undoubtedly witnessed the consequences of disobedience: Do not touch anything. Do not move anything. Do not allow yourself to be seen. Do not speak to anyone. Observe, nothing more. A quiet ghost in the river of time.
I met his gaze, and for a brief moment, I forgot how to breathe.
His eyes — mismatched and striking — were a story in themselves. One a rich amber, warm like sunlight spilling through ancient windows; the other a deep, stormy blue, like the sky moments before thunder shatters the silence. They pulled me in, gently at first, then all at once, like falling into a trance where the edges between past and present began to blur.
Somehow, without meaning to, I found myself wondering — if eyes could hold someone's entire history, what kind of story would his tell me?
A blur crawled into my mind, cold and relentless — like fingers dragging me under the surface of a frozen lake.
The flood of memories didn't arrive gently, nor did it feel like a tender unveiling of his past. It was violence wrapped in silence, the kind of silence that pulses against your ears when screams are too hoarse to escape. Whispers slithered through the cracks in my consciousness, fragmented mutterings, desperate pleas, the sound of skin hitting skin, the begging — oh god, the begging to live.
And that is the story of Ezra.
A boy born into the middle ground — not poor enough to be pitied, not wealthy enough to be spared. His life was average in the cruelest sense, hovering just above ruin, surrounded by people too broken to love him properly. Those smiles and bursts of manic energy were a carefully crafted mask, because the truth was too ugly to show.
Deliberately ignored by the very hands meant to protect him, Ezra learned survival the hard way. His mother — the woman meant to fill his stomach and soothe his fears — turned to drugs instead, letting substances take the place of responsibility. The house became a prison, the walls soaked with the stench of neglect. And when she wasn't a ghost, she was a monster.
She made sure his body bore the weight of her frustrations. Bruises blooming like rotting flowers, bones learning to break before they could fully grow. There were nights he couldn't walk, mornings he woke up wondering if his legs would ever carry him again.
And yet, here he sits — bright-eyed, loud-mouthed, and relentlessly alive.
But now I know the truth.
Every smile is a desperate defiance. Every laugh is a scream buried under his tongue. Every careless act of chaos is a child daring the world to break him again.
And in this flood of someone else's pain, I realized: some people aren't born survivors — they're made into them.
I wanted to help him.
It wasn't a fleeting thought, nor some heroic impulse — it was instinct, primal and unforgiving. My bones screamed at me to reach out, to shatter the rules, to tear through the veil that separated my reality from his.
But I couldn't.
Because the rules are absolute.
Do not touch. Remain unseen. Just watch.
So I watched. I watched as he collapsed onto the cold, filthy ground, limbs trembling from the weight of bruises layered over bones too fragile for this kind of life. His breathing was shallow, the kind of breath that doesn't expect to last.
And when I thought that was the end — that this was where his story would end in a puddle of blood and neglect — she came.
An old woman with shaking hands and kindness carved into every line on her face. She scooped him up like he was something fragile and precious, like broken things were meant to be cared for, not discarded.
She gave him warmth, food, and clothes that didn't hang off him like skin he was waiting to shed. She gave him a home, not just a house. And for the first time, he tasted love. Real love — the kind without conditions, without fists hiding behind smiles.
"What's a wife?" young Ezra asked one day, small fingers tugging at her sleeve as they sat by a hearth that crackled softly — the only sound that didn't hurt his ears.
The old woman smiled, gentle and sad. "A wife is someone you'll love — someone you'll never turn your back on. She's like a seed you plant, one that grows into something beautiful if you care for it properly. Promise me, Ezra. When you find someone, treat her right. Be the kind of man your father never was."
And for a while, it seemed like fate would be kinder to him.
But trauma doesn't disappear — it festers. It finds ways to seep into every crack, even when you think you've sealed them shut.
So Ezra grew up with kindness in his heart, but madness wrapped around his mind like a second skin.
He became a man who laughed too loudly and too often, because silence was where the ghosts lived. He turned himself into a living spectacle — an insane clown wearing tragedy like face paint. But beneath the chaos, beneath the theatrics, he was still that little boy asking what love was, praying someone would show him how not to break it.
Ezra is a good man.
Just one who was built from broken things. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 3,743 words
Next Chapter
Tw: mentions of abuse, and violence. Dead dove, do not eat.
There are countless ways to avoid violence. But avoidance doesn't mean survival.
Violence is stitched into the seams of existence — a pulse running beneath every century, every age. It thrives, adapts, becomes more creative, more cruel. We like to pretend we are better than our past, but reality doesn't flinch under the weight of our illusions. Even in a world infused with magic, people are still monsters. And monsters don't need fangs or claws. Sometimes, they wear the faces of your neighbors. Or your own family.
Hagarin was not the victim that day.
She was the witness.
A child, too young to spell her own name properly, stood paralyzed in the doorway as her mother's body became a canvas for violence. A fist to the ribs, a boot to the spine. Blood, spit, sobs. The kind of sounds that become permanent residents in your skull. Hagarin clamped her small hands over her eyes, praying that darkness would protect her, but the sharp metallic click of a pistol tore through the air.
"Watch."
A command. Not a plea. A curse.
She was forced to see it all — her mother's skin bruised into unrecognizable shades, her breath turned into shallow gasps until there was no breath left to take.
Hagarin's mother died that night, leaving behind three little girls and a silence too loud to bear.
In a world glutted with magic, you'd think there would be a spell for justice. But magic didn't save her. Magic was a luxury — one used more often to destroy than to heal. Power and violence walk hand in hand like childhood friends, both feeding off each other's hunger. Hagarin understood this at an age when most children only understand fairy tales.
Those who crave chaos? They are not misguided souls. They are predators, drunk on their own sense of invincibility, poisoning everything they touch. They rip the seams of peace just to see what spills out.
And Hagarin? She learned young that survival is not a right — it's a skill.
At seven years old, she became a mother, a protector, a builder of shelters, a scavenger of scraps. She wasn't good at any of it. But no one else was left to try.
She used magic to knock down trees because her hands were too weak. She built a shack with trembling fingers and whispered prayers that the walls would hold for at least one night. Her sisters clung to each other for warmth, while Hagarin stood guard at the entrance, eyes fixed on the sky. The moon was too bright — like it was exposing their helplessness for all the world to see.
That night, her lips moved in silent prayer — not to gods, but to whatever force was out there listening.
"Please. Let me be strong enough. Just for them. Even if it breaks me."
Tears traced down her dirt-streaked face, and for the first time, she allowed herself to feel the weight of what had been taken from her. But grief is a luxury you can't afford when you're responsible for someone else's survival.
They walked for days — blistered feet on broken ground — until the steel skyline of Aloy City appeared like a mirage in the distance. Aloy, the City of Metals. A place where survival was possible, but only if you were useful.
"Are we almost there?" the youngest sister asked, her voice soft from exhaustion.
Hagarin squeezed her hand. "Just five more hours." She wasn't sure if that was true. But hope tastes better when you lie with confidence.
"You're just guessing," Hanari, her twin, muttered.
"Obviously." Hagarin shrugged.
Hanari, loud and bright despite the darkness they carried, was everything Hagarin was not. They bickered like breathing — every argument a strange lifeline that reminded them both they were still alive. Still sisters.
Aloy was both salvation and sentence. A city where children like them became projects — charity cases processed and filed into the system. At the help center, they sat across from a woman who asked too many questions with too soft a voice. What happened to your parents? What did you see? How do you feel?
Hagarin wanted to scream. Instead, she said nothing. Hanari did all the talking — filling the silence with half-truths and protective lies, all while Hagarin's hands dug crescent moons into her palms beneath the table.
When they were placed onto a bus, bound for an orphanage disguised as a "facility," Hagarin didn't cry. She just stared out the window, watching her reflection blur against the world passing by.
Life at the facility was not kind, but it was stable — which was almost the same thing. They were clothed, taught to read, trained to summon spells from nothing but breath and willpower. Time passed, and they grew taller, sharper, harder. But Hanari never lost her brightness. The little sister never lost her innocence.
And Hagarin never lost the weight in her chest — the cold iron reminder that peace is temporary, and safety is always conditional.
She watched from the window as Hanari and their sister chased each other through the grass, laughing like the world hadn't tried to crush them under its boot.
For a moment, Hagarin let herself believe it was possible — that they could outrun the ghosts, the memories, the trauma woven into their bones.
But only for a moment.
Because Hagarin knew better than anyone: The past never stays buried.
And the worst monsters aren't the ones hiding in shadows. They're the ones smiling in the light.
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2,731 words.
Next chapter: Chapter 1: Present time
I'm so sorry to everyone for not posting much recently. My life has been crazy, so obviously, I've been spending all my time looking at lolis and shotas instead of tending to my basic human functions
ALRIGHT!!! Ch. 12 :) i know it's been awhile since the last post, but this is where I've left off since the beginning of the semester! Everything post chapter twelve has yet to be written ajskakksks and may take a while longer... I'm hoping to keep the general motivation going for it though so !!! Wish me luck lmao
May and Oryn have decided it's time to end the siege, when Jonas makes an appearance.
Tags: @skidotto @idonthaveapenname
tw: mentions of death, abuse, murder, war, stabbing, blood, harsh weather
Ch. 12
“Open the doors, Demetrius,” May’s voice was sharp and clear.
“My Lady?”
“Get Alec,” she said, “and open the doors. Send him out in the camps to help gather and shift everyone indoors.” Their steps were in sync as they climb the stairs from the basement.
Demetrius nodded. “Whatever you say, My Lady,” he breathed out a light huff.
May stopped in her tracks on the next step, putting up a hand and turning to face him. “You only ever listen without complaint to my stupid plans when your vehemently against an even worse one I’ve hatched. Out with it.”
He moved past her, continuing up the stairs and gesturing for her to do the same. “It wasn’t smart to leave him down there.”
May’s jaw tightened as she followed, now in his wake. “He needs answers. There’s no one else who can provide them.”
“You don’t think he’ll kill the old sot?” Demetrius laughed, opening the hatch that led from the basement back up to the main manor.
May shook her head, rolling her eyes. “What makes you think I don’t already plan on doing that myself? Besides,” The two of them stepped out of the shadows and back into the torch-lit halls of the manor, “He need answers. I’d like some, too.” She pushed in front of him with a slightly faster pace and headed towards her office.
Demetrius nodded, letting the subject drop. “Tell Alec to start bringing in the men, and then what, my lady?”
“Meet me here,” she called down to him, “the siege needs to end. Tonight.”
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“You remember me?”
The room was dank, full of moss that had started to overtake the forever damp stone floor and walls, creeping white vines pushing through the cracks to make homes amongst them. Oryn could swear they heard the scuttle of rats in the rooms beyond, but was too busy with the task at had to force themselves to look further.
“I remember,” they said, circling the man as if they were stalking prey. He sat upon a ratty wooden stool, legs bound to the legs and hands tied behind his back. May had requested that Oryn leave him here when they were done with him: she had her own questions to ask.
“Good, then,” he said, sighing as his posture sunk further in on himself. They had cleaned his wounds and dressed him in slightly cleaner robes, providing a meal of whatever bit of food they could had on hand. “I’m sure you have many questions,” he coughed for a moment before catching his breath, “and I hope to provide some semblance of an answer for you.”
Oryn stopped pacing to look Jonas up and down. With his face washed, feet bandaged, and beard properly braided, they could tell now that he must have been a man of status at one point. Alec had done well in teaching them the ways of local society and religion and they could recognize the symbols they saw floating amongst the books and scrolls; the large eight-point star representing the Siblings of Chaos was embroidered on his tattered undershirt, the same symbol with a circle enclosing it tattooed on the man’s chest. They hadn’t recognized that before, the one time they’d met that Oryn could remember.
“They branded you for making Chaos?” they said, motioning towards the tattoo.
He nodded. “But wouldn’t strip me of my status.” He shrugged his shoulder forward, once again showing off the pin. He’d carefully taken it off of the tattered robes he previously bore and attached it to the new ones provided him.
\ “You wear the High Councilor’s pin of the Sanctum,” they all but verbatim repeated from some thick tome or another.
“The Lady of Ilucia has been teaching you, I assume?” Despite the circumstances, the man laughed once again.
“The witches never told me,” Oryn muttered, eyes becoming slits as their jaw twitched. They didn’t want to defend those who had sheltered them from the world, and yet…
“They never told you much of anything, child,” Jonas said, looking up at Oryn from where he sat. “And yet, here you are. Making your way nonetheless.”
Oryn shook their head. “I’m not going with you.”
Jonas sighed. The look in his eyes suddenly became something dark and heavy, a deep pit holding all the answers anyone could ever seek and the horrors that come with them.
“You can’t change my mind,” Oryn’s voice was calm. They counted their breaths, steadying their heartbeat as it started to rage in their ears.
Jonas’s mouth hung open for a moment, his rotting teeth browning at the gums. “Your mother,” he whispered, his old and quivering skeletal body becoming still as his gaze bore into Oryn’s soul.
They felt the blood draining from their face as they contested his gaze with their own, taking another step further towards the precipice. “I want to know of her.”
He sucked in a fresh breath of air with force. “The Forgotten Princess, to be married to the Forgotten Prince. The stories they tell…”
The text they’d read said nothing about any of that.
Jonas could read the confusion clearly on Oryn’s face. “Not up to recent years in your lessons?” He choked on another short laugh, but his features remined hard and serious, his eyes lacking their jovial grandfatherly nature they’d carried before he’d mentioned…
Oryn shook their head. “Speak plainly.”
He sighed. “I find it a great shame,” he mumbled as he caught his breath once again, “that three women of such intelligence would keep such knowledge from you.” He hummed a bit to himself, scanning the small room he found himself in.
“My… Tutor,” Oryn started, “told me that knowledge is how average men hold power. How they cope with never being allowed to Mend the sewn Chaos.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Not completely,” they said, their gaze hard. “It’s powerful, yes. I am strong in knowing,” they started slowly stalking around Jonas yet again, one slow step being taken after another. “But men are strong in other ways. With swords, axes, bows… they are all so weak when they’re leaking blood.”
“The church,” Jonas mumbled, “the Sanctum. Do you think that’s power? Or the King?”
“It is so easy to die, so easy to kill,” Oryn mumbled, “that it’s hard to look at an old man in a chair far too large for him and decide that’s the image of power.” They shook their head, stopped their pacing.
“Men work in ways only the Gods may understand,” Jonas said, the legs on his stool creaking as he shifted his weight.
Oryn let out a sly laugh under their hot breath. “I am angry with the witches for never teaching me,” she laid a gentle hand on Jonas’s frail and bony shoulder, “And yet grateful to never have known. I can look upon the societies that man has built and see how uncouth it all is; how seemingly barbaric and unestablished.” She shook her head as she lifted her hand from the man’s shoulder and walked to be in front of him, crouching down to meet his gaze with her own. “And your Gods…” they scoffed.
Jonas looked upon Oryn with more than mere anger; the disgust was laid upon them with his unrelenting gaze. “You do not know of what you speak, child.”
Oryn eyes narrowed as they looked deeper into Jonas’s soul, into what he’s done and who he was and where he’s been. They swallowed hard and took a deep breath as the drone started humming at the back of their head.
He started to struggle against his restraints. “You don’t know what made you!”
“Then tell me, old man,” they spat, “for my patience is growing thin.”
His face contorted as the thrumming in his own skull started hammering harder and harder, begging to break free. “Demon!” He screamed, his hoarse voice echoing against the cold stone walls surrounding them while he strained against his restraints.
“What am I, Councilor?” Their skin crawled with the potential of another kill, more blood spilled atop old stones that would forget the death as it was washed away. And yet they continued to hesitate nonetheless. Although this man would never get the pleasure of taking them alive, he was possibly the only person left alive who knew what they were.
“Demon,” he repeated, his eyes still burning hot and wild as he coughed and caught his breath, trying to contain his fear.
Oryn shook their head yet again, standing and resuming their pacing. "I may not have a very deep understanding of your Gods, but I can tell you that if they’re real, they’ve either left your sorry lot or have died.” She scoffed. “I find it horrid how you all can believe in something so… untouchable.”
The man’s features changed, suddenly showing a deep and sudden pity for what must have been someone but a child in his own eyes.
“I hope, dearest Oryn, for your lovely mother’s sake, that the God’s choose to have mercy on your dying soul.”
He stoked the fire burning inside of them even more.
They stood behind the chair he was strapped to, gripping the back of the chair as they watched the wood crack beneath their knuckles. They leaned down, their neck creaking with the strain of their spine shifting inside of them, their skin pulling itself taught as the muscle shifted.
“Tell me of her,” they whispered against the skin of his ear, sending a shiver through his body as he mumbled a prayer, trembling in his seat.
The creak of bone on bone rang through the small room, mixing with the squeaking of dusting rodents and the soft drip of condensation running down the walls. Their breaths created a harmony, Oryn’s staunch snout spouting steam into the air as Jonas’s fear sucked it deep into his lungs.
He whimpered as the ropes dug deep into his wrists while he tried to break free and run from the beast lurking behind him, seeking answers only he could give. His eyes were shut tight as he felt the foul drool drip thick and heavy onto his shoulder.
“Leandra,” he whispered.
Silence.
The crack of a shot from a bow rang out, an arrow piercing Jonas through the heart.
Oryn’s face lifted quickly, standing on two hind legs and stretching themselves to reach against the stone ceiling, flexing against the restraint of their own skin.
May stood in the darkened doorframe, crossbow positioned at her chest, pointing towards the dead man’s body.
“Oryn,” she said, panting and wiping her brow. “We need you.”