Good all stretches of the morning sunrise give off the light after the window, there glow shields of blue and black before coming forth of the ceiling.

Good all stretches of the morning sunrise give off the light after the window, there glow shields of blue and black before coming forth of the ceiling [https://img.wattpad.com/5067fbc17b5bd267f9a2e38ef34938b816fd2b4e/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f546c68752d7430445449713473513d3d2d313131383732323432392e313639643937656338323965386236643439383237373236323233392e6a7067?s=fit&w=1280&h=1280]

Crowded the expansion of the cold stone room, multiple wooden coffers, core of the armaments. The Black spiked armor were made by her father, Nigel Caract of the Blacksmith. A portrait of her Grandfather atop her mother's empty bed, Rogar 'The lost one' Ominar is the effigy so early she can see. Her mother, the daughter of the man on the portrait, loved her so much that she even painted and placed him in the room above her bed, replacing the clocks that her husband gave her. Always at her favorite drawing table, at night she painted after every dinner, paint by the night of five severally before the result always finer.

She was the only one of four beds she sees, one by her spot where she sleeps. Garred is gone, and so are her parents. Not losing sight of the fact, they will be gone by seven for sweating one's brow loaded at the town, steel or the crops, either the two, three of them are brought into being.

A window by her left and the beds by right, ceiling clean of logs and not a single dirty fog, a solitary window lit up by either the daylight or the dead of night for hours, an afternoon where feverishness never shutting by the time. She got up from her bed wobbling, scratching her eyes for gounds. White nightdress crumbled across her body, from collar to legs well launder that the sunlight reaches it, twinkle the light and fragrant of the well-washed fabric become strong.

As always, I woke up late.

Sit or go down to eat, she thinks. Must be she's hungry so she chose to go down, as she steps one by one the stairs, she remembered the stars of nebulousness it stares. Dark, unseen, stygian crypt of never-ending. Not again, cannot explain what happened. Him, the thing, who is he? Not by every kin part, they have noticed, they ate, they talk, they sleep, they walk. From Evening and after the morrow, she still grasps it by her blade case, as deep as it borrows. She gazes at it, smiled, she wonders where he got it.

The day before she felt rushed, she chases for her mother, at the crypt encountered the Jester, then she bumps the concrete like feather thus going back to her legislative chamber.

Luminesce of blue in the dagger steer like an aura around the sharp edges, she put it out to make a little peak while she's home alone. Feels cold when she touches it by slight, heavy when she clutches it on a fight, instant death when it gashes with might. The Jester, her name she wonders, told her that it was not a weapon to kill at all, an asset, a key. The presence itself is a key, if it breaks, the core essence never ceases to exist. Break of the fast is usually not an important meal for peasants unless it's a time of an event, but at her home is a breakfast of overwhelming at the moment, enormous looking like it is for only one morning breaker.

Break of the fast is usually not an important meal for peasants unless it's a time of an event, but at her home is a breakfast of overwhelming at the moment, enormous looking like it is for only one morning breaker [https://img.wattpad.com/1ede65e9b9419d6d0a7eedf65dcfe51867d57e27/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f72616f4243304f4a714243662d513d3d2d313131383732323432392e313639643937663565323635313831613338383134383534373439332e6a7067?s=fit&w=1280&h=1280]

Fresh rye bread steaming smoke, a wooden bowl full of cooked sliced pork and a whole turkey beside a basket rich of fruits, the aroma of the meat made Glena mouth watery and so is the bread newly baked. A pleasant surprise that pork is served for breakfast, the sun is glamorous by the time of nine, and so is the unexpected serving of nutriment, cheerful but addled she feels at the same time. As it happened to be a turn up for the books, she talks without hesitation, talking badly behaved by her own little home.

Breakfast is going to be hella good!

Jumping around the table full of her own feast mouthing the goodness over and over. Taking a seat and ate her way directly to the dish bowl. Filling herself with freshly cooked meat, grease running out of her mouth and her hand as well, sopping up the flavor, not tough in every bite and juicy. Fruits shine and bloomy, freshly-picked like emanated from her aunt's trees.

Keeping up the feast but, she put the blade whereas she's alone by a sudden, nobody can see it. Whispered by herself, from joy to no laughing matters she talks.

Glena: I shouldn't just take it, I mean, why would I? Is this some curse or something? My father knows better about things like this, I'm pretty sure he knows this. It's just a freakin' little blue smoldered blade, I don't want to kill people.

Grasping its frosty, over the pommel feels rigged rounded metal, the winds of southern winter tend to summon the chills even more. Talking to herself still, but all of a sudden, something caught her eyes. Fixing one's gaze, her eyes seemingly closed by half, a symbol she perceives. Dropping it by fright, sealed burn without flames within the blade but knowledge concealed inside her brain.

Unascertained and puzzled, a score radix from the central ridge of the glowing steel, a twist or curve within the fuller that she can't describe, ending at the rain guard a direct. At the tip to the end perfectly straight, without any deflection. Resting beside the plate of which she's eating, radiant by her. Without any shock dealt and giving the impression of not being maleficent, it showed once face again. a purple plume of smoke in the vicinity of her eyes exploded. w

Jester: How stand the hour Glena? The end of the line that we have in mind is waiting for you, you're literally not following the truth as it already speaks to you.

Familiar it is the voice. A tall man with a black pourpoint with a gray belt on his waist, skinny black breeches, and white boots. Mask as shiny as a bar of silver, pervasive before the morning sunlight. The man which she listened to throughout the little trip by the dark, sounds familiar, giving her the frozen cursed munition that little while without giving specified whys and wherefores. A deep man's voice like the borrow of the grave, unsure if her speculation is unpretending.

A deep man's voice like the borrow of the grave, unsure if her speculation is unpretending [https://img.wattpad.com/81851c44cdd4587f17f149f426d6b9d85d83d8e7/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f43654243444854724735466a75513d3d2d313131383732323432392e313639643937666331303838643961363536353933343935313234382e6a7067?s=fit&w=1280&h=1280]

In shock and given her a turn to get up from her chair a feet nippy. Dropping the eaten by the shivers, eyes wide off the latch and at grasp by her hand the glowing dagger resting above the table.

Glena: WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE!? WHO ARE YOU!?

Her crossness calefaction is turning over the odds, pointing the end of the dagger on the air facing the man in the first place, being on one's feet.

Jester: Oh! What an ungracious surprise from a young girl who knows how to turn the air blue. Is that what your one's old man and a woman told you to say in front of people?

Raising one's brow appears from the right eyelet of the mask, a mouth impolite rises one of its eyes.

Glena: I apologi~

Jester: Remember when I told you... a little girl? now I know you're weak at casting your mind back to the cases that happened to you. Well, it may be a little but no less than there is something, at least you remember me as the stupid-looking man down the starless crypt of Lordaeral.

Glena: Yes, I saw you, you scared me, you're a witch? I...I don't know. I don't know your actual name but I know you gave me this...shining blade. How can you teleport yourself since you teleported me back to our house?

Her eyes make plain of high spirit to some degree in such like a whirlwind, how fast she gone from fright to delight serenity she hardly worth mentioning.

The jester ignored the question, looked fixedly, eyes bind unshaking. Nods with respect, revealing his clean backside orange hair at the front, the hat hiding it bygone as far as one can see. He looked formal but sudden coming into a smoke purple bomb, he scared Glena stiff. As luck would have it, at least not from his muppet disguise it'll be made the girl throw into a blue funk.

Jester: No need to know my real name. he chuckled, I'm still the same man with a different clothing. Jester is fine for me, a fool armorer of Castle Lordaeral. Continue your breakfast, I'm happy to speak with you.

The masked fool stands behind the Kitchen count in graters and iron ladles, hanging metal pans of chains and dusted waste of charcoal. There where he stands by the length of time, hands at his rear while he speaks, but the other hand missing.

Dropped off the exciting pace of eating, unanticipated at the seat and hand now to the bone atop of savory meat. Breaking the fast again while the luminary still apparent along the east. Not tropical by the time of the morning, yet freezing air regardless of the sun. She stares while she eats thus far sensible. Occupying one's mind, helping thoughts coupled the inner mouth of her.

He might harm me, I don't even know him that well.

Jester: I will do no harm child I swear it. An idiot-looking mentalist I am last day, a man of direction now, then maybe I was another tomorrow. If you want to say something you don't need to seal it on your head darling, curiosity must be away from your head until you find the answer for it.

He heard her straight away, the eyes seemingly speak to her mind. An exchange of words coming out of a calm jester that's behind a mask, at the present moment, words going round in circles while he stands and during the time she eats.

Glena: What are you talking about last time? You said I'm going somewhere, where else I'm going to besides the clouds of the dead?

Jester: Put the turkey down first and bring me the dagger.

The Jester told Glena and lending her a hand for the weapon key. On his hand, the glowing dagger, nothing of a further simplifaction the Jester tell her, until now.

Glena: That is magnificent.

The Jester added in a heckle. Flipping the blade finger by finger on the spine, tilting it and not bothering the symbol carved lionizing from a tip than before the crossguard.

Jester: You, little girl, this is not a toy to play with I will tell you again. A key to the south, all men of the blacksmith knew about it, only them knew about it.

Glitter up the delight on her eyes, swaying the sunshine shines through her bare teeth seen casting back its light.

Glena: My father was the Grandmaster of Selizel Blacksmith!

Glena: That is perfect, but this is not the time to put smile while you listen to me alright? This is nothing to kill a person free of sin, it's never necessary to shed blood of a living who is beyond the guilt. But, if they deserve to enter their one last resting place then, you will decide.

Upside down the tip false front the wooden deck, which eyes to the eye of the man extended the hand clutched the handle, the pommel lit like the sun bouncing back. As sharp as a blade he talks to a young girl with a stern, a teacher of a hardened mind front liner, by the moment of strap and chained heart to heart, the heart of a stranger she picked out a day ago.

You hold the blade, so you will decide which route is their fate.

Glena appends a leer, having the air of every word he said. Dispel the Jester's doubts on the way of talking and the way he dressed, the way he shows the dark artistry he lay to possess.

Glena: Umm...going back, where am I supposed to go, I trust you, sir.

Wend a way for himself to taper off mind numb on the discussion

Jester: It's always up to you if you wanted to, if I told you the journey, there is no turning back. Child, you're about to make vows to the man who belongs to the southernmost, do not break it. I will give you a map and I'll dictate where before I go."

She never heard of him, even if he chooses one, he or she is the only one to see the particular figure obscured to the vision of many. Single out an individual who knows is responsible to lay a distinct element of his appellation, everywhere settle beaming up on a corner or an open, not coming down in favor of a time to be at the spot he wish for.

He goes where he wanted to go, unless it's the south, he risks a vouchsafe.

Jester: Glena, your tongue is still intact not showing restrain of speaking.

Not walking, not facing another way resembles a statue which he stays. Sensible as the girl focuses on her mind, the doubt of something like an oath of a high man's word chasing her.

Glena: I apologize for my bad mouth, I would never do it again. Your appearance scares me, your magic thingy scares me. Even more scared of you, you look like a castle assassin, not anymore a jester.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Sways one's feet below the table as she ate away.

Jester: I'm no assassin child, I'm not a killer on stealth nor a killer of anyone. This mask hides my identity, yes, but I'll never kill.

He took a slow stroll to bisect the opposite of the table where she sat, now being sited his long-legged figure before the wooden door of the Caract's house.

By his side, the shield that was carried by Nigel Caract the child's father, hardened and forged at the desensitized anvil [https://img.wattpad.com/882b4a6dad3930994377a57a53e638e22d9b0d6e/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f7a74776244426a5a6678315452413d3d2d313131383732323432392e3136396439383064636463323562323934313934303632323937322e6a7067?s=fit&w=1280&h=1280]

By his side, the shield that was carried by Nigel Caract the child's father, hardened and forged at the desensitized anvil. The landscapes Lana Caract painted with pigments and charcoal for all sorts of different shades of every color. Riding every single day, not a wasted moment by the day, work on a masterpiece from her journey's perspective.

The Sash atop of the door is made of stone, not a speck of dirt can be seen on it. The small banner of House Caract drapes the yellow background of a black pot that boils the magic of the family. Stood still as if he's watching closely behind his sinister mask, no light come across his face, no door window for it to escape.

Glena noticed him, staring blankly on their House sigil making her in a state of agitation,

Glena: That's our Family Sigil, Sir Jester, what's wrong with it?

From facing the banner a small, slowly turning his head soft to the girl, like a wheel without its frigid stretch. His eyes, even at the mask, she saw it bowed down of weighted of hanging unhappiness.

Jester: Not full of holes child, I'm just stunned. The Caracts of Althea, I remembered. One of the most astounding Houses of the realm, but not seated upon the majesty and no banners called because of telling honesty. People...deny the truth of the world, the disgusting world it is. Making fool on sole veracity that they even made a tale about it.

Close to her seat, halted the savor of every meat and freshness of the rye. Affix like glaring stone with eyes and listen as if it hears. One step at a time as slow as a wolf meets its prey, lift a finger on the girl's chin, leaning forward to talk in front of her face.

Glena talked in silence as if she's whispering with fright

Glena: Wha~why?

Jester: I see you as the one, I used you to fight without a sword, but a tongue as a weapon.

Like his face, and dress, sinister but a word worthy of trust. Sunlight hours span open to the elements of the season, the bright going high, the people's been busy still. Selizel is noisy by the distant far, market noises every single day innumerable. Drawn the window at the front leaving the table again, the front concrete she sees stepping and bumping into the day ago. Starting with the scheme of a garden to a busy steady people working in between erected inn, warehouses, cowshed, prodigious farmland, and the high town hall of white and blue.

Bells of the City rang, marking the hours of daytime labor to be the end of it in a short period of given rest. Gaze open-mouthed to him a rush of desperation, desperation, and a secret of a little well-intentioned untruth.

Glena: The blacksmith is viable just now by the town hall, so I need to g~ go...

Turning her head onto the face of the kitchen he stood, now he's gone.

On the verge of the edge of confusion, she made a pursue him in every corner of the first room to the end. The bell distracted her, for all she knows is used to make an excuse for the man wearing black and a mask, also known for her as the man of truth. Disappear completely in a way that is fast as a finger snap and in the way of its mystery, the jester, vanished into thin air.

Clearing the way for her feet again to the wooden supper table of six chairs, there lay upon the timber, the map as big as six of her eating plate. Jester of Black, he left the blade, she saw beside the paper generously cut. The key she has sworn to keep in a blaze without a flame, bright light glows the same as the sky ceaselessly within reach of broad daylight. What he promised is what he kept, a trust acquired from her heart.

The map of the entire Aluthea, her magisterial country of origin, magnificent master figure despite it's covered with a stain and discoloration. A crunchy wide paper furnished nobility of spirit within the land and the bloody golden olden days within the ocean. Encircled at the lowest point with red dark color like blood, I'll dictate where before I go.

She whispered, the light of the day keeping the moment of radiance before noon, illuminating the whole room like a spot of light at the map, clear coming into view of the mark of one's end journey. At the tip of Queenever Castle, the frozen, bridge of one hundred and forty-eight kilometers requires a trail, and there form a ring around it, the camp after the grand bridge, a steady journey betake oneself to whatever comes to her way.

Double edges of all classes which they're all a sky metals from the Gods, War hammers with a block end of two feet to bash and crush heads beneath helms, mace and flail weapon by spikes times of ten like a swinging lifeless porcupine of its bristled backs. Knocking on the metal door, the blacksmith is beside the town hall of an empty chair, an absent or an earl has gone. Despite that, guardsmen plated of red helms and armor, a grasp of pike are on be a vertical before the wooden massive threshold.

Bygone the other day, a few armored guardsmen strolling to keep the village out of harm. Wooden Carts of goods are slowly roved by peasants for selling, either a man or a woman, even a child helped families livelihoods. Peace as it is, tents for people on the streets. Hooded or Cloaked, Gown or Skirt, they roam for a living without taking care of the dirt.

Zoren Hirino, her friend called her while running around with her youth companions, smiled before her she smell like a tar [https://img.wattpad.com/d43694c468e610c36090cd9c77a579b677237b5f/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f647735616133674e6931633662773d3d2d313131383732323432392e313639643938323133303534393631393535373738393737353438342e6a7067?s=fit&w=1280&h=1280]

Zoren Hirino, her friend called her while running around with her youth companions, smiled before her she smell like a tar. In a brown faded skirt over her skinny body of a slope shoulder, eyes like a lion of blue and brown of hair.

All it is to know by now is to have fun, a youth whose minds wonder what song will it sing when they stomp, run, and catch birds, behind every struggles came along way to their fantasy land. With a look of anger, one way or the other track for the man he never loved in a way of affection, she made her way to the blacksmith gates. It seems that she listened to the Jester very well, understood and followed his world's rules.

Ting and ring, the fire of forging are all it is to hear, no more birds chirp and peasant voices swarming around it. The black jot or tittle of smoke spew out of the chimney, smell is it of metal and shields past one's prime.

The Black gates of the blacksmith as such a person got wolfed down to nothing before setting foot unto it, forgetting everything that the world gave them, sunlight leads to zero and the gust of air are outside the pile where it's cunning. Smoke steams besiege multiple smiths, hammers shut close with a crush onto the anvils blow the heat of searing cinders. All it is to work is such sending all their strength, honor, and centuries of wisdom to the men and women of arms.

The door opened for her by a Lady, she never expected women to be on the chains of an ironsmith. From Sabatons to Visor it anchors the armor stand, settled and arranged over the place. Lyumila of the Black, a tough girl making her capable of withstanding strong physical hits of any weapon without protective covering. Spreading legs but not for a strike of one's manhood, but the battle of swords in front of her and grievance of life by which they're already feeling the guilt of being a female.

She remembered what her father once said to her.

I want to be a knight!

No, serve a knight.

A gorgeous one of the house, but still not accepted for the title she wanted. Lyumila of orange of hair and an alluring body by the power of her beddable breasts and rear cheeks right on the money.

The only female swordsmith of Selizel from the House Ragburn [https://img.wattpad.com/79ec2ba1db7c1faca0a9a93698eda4428b817aed/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f762d58753272556d594a795265513d3d2d313131383732323432392e313639643938326466646561636331303730323736333939373738372e6a7067?s=fit&w=1280&h=1280]

The only female swordsmith of Selizel from the House Ragburn. Not a single care of her dirty clothes, a love for weapons she intended to be whether surrounded by men with the same wish as she; a dream to hand a sword and hand the calls of battle.

She stares at her affixed

Lyumila: Hey! What are you looking for?

Glena: Hi? I am looking for my father, my lady.

An awkward complexion between them. Five of them are men, one woman of orders, but not the master lay working at the underground room or the other opposite. She walks towards the girl while sweating her clothes and makes dirt off boots and waist mantle. Lyumila with a strong tone of voice despite her beauty talks like she got influenced by men. Rusted hammer in hands, charcoal stained her bare.

Glena said, gasping for air arising out of another run to the village.

Lyumila: What is the name of your father in the blacksmith?

Glena: Nigel Caract.

Lyumila: I see. If you think you're the man of the House conveys the mastery, takes a look inside. Follow me.

She raised a brow of surprise and curiosity. Boots pounded on the dark stone flooring, Glena saw many of three, working on anvils forging blunt steels. Topless men full of sweat, muscle naked all the from chiseled chest to rounded shoulders, wonder why Lyumila got some as well too in a shape of another gender.

Lyumila: What sigil is House Caract?

Banners of different vivid colors behind sigils, many Families of Reviathan, those hangs are just some. House Mirikan of Blue, the sigil of closed fist covered with searing fire. House Godfrey sigil comes second of the row, a cruel blue cloud spews lightning of bright white behind a black background. The Third by the middle of the ceiling hangs the Purple backdrop in front of a pouncing red fox, House Feriel. Fourth-placed for House Venalia, Raven just sitting, still sitting on a branch of the tree in front of the Gray scheme. The last and the Fifth is what...

Glena: The pot with a boiling liquid in yellow, that is our sigil, House Caract my lady.

Lyumila: Alright. Where and who that Nigel part of an allegiance? Name one.

Glena: He served King Agarino the second and Lord Miras Smithen of Aluthea. My Father Nigel forged the Mithril and Shineguard Armors for them, as well as the mystic blades that is used by the Assassins, he told me the strongest steel by the current age is forged right here.

Glena Remembered the blade she was carrying, is just right attached her belt. An immediate call, slowly touched the covered weapon, it was still there. Lyumila turned around and raised a hand to follow. Sway her mantle above the skinny trousers as she turns his back from Glena.

Making way to the end before the stairs gone down to something secret they seem to kept loyal to be hidden. Light of fire from the forge and torch of the wall is the only light to see, not a window or a hole, never a chandelier to get hold of the fire, but a chimney, the lone way to make contact with the air they needed.

She glimpses of seems to be a hot dungeon full of steel shields at the walls hanging, the swarm of burning torches screwed on the column stone shafts. Helmet of red, white, and silver pure and shine smoking aligned at one of the tables. Chains, never knew the purpose of, attached on the ceiling of every perimeter.

The smell of rust, iron, and the feel of heat is immense [https://img.wattpad.com/d0b05b35b713ebb09af8809cbf36269249025e3b/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f4555713441566d687349693556513d3d2d313131383732323432392e313639643938333861663433386630363133363039393432313639382e6a7067?s=fit&w=1280&h=1280]

The smell of rust, iron, and the feel of heat is immense. Metal scraps, Iron rods are scattered across the dark stone floor, dark like stained by charcoal.

Never a hundred it may seem to open, by years the blacksmith kept hidden by days, before the main steel door, a portcullis looking gate is before it, secured in the way for people which not in need to take a peak. The carriage which in convoys the armaments for the knights, shakars, bullhead and even fly through or sail for Kingdom Sicaris, Dragon Riders in need of armor.

The Nightlight is the only fear for seeing them.

Starless long stairs they both descended, it's a bit fetid compared to castle dungeons. Dark and gloom, the smell is not in the essential touch of garden bloom. Fixing and arranging the set of armors by two columns of wooden armor stand, nine per side. The Room extended eighteen meters and it's the same meters as the height. Dark all moonless gaze like it's nighttime, no windows nor doors.

Chained and dangle a steel chandelier of fire torches alight the whole massive basement. Prodigious room for only one worker of swords and chain mails, her father. Nigel Caract, Blacksmith master of Selizel, clothed with black hooded doublet exposing his stained arms, breeches fastened on his red boots, and armlet, leglet of soft steel.

Nigel Caract, Blacksmith master of Selizel, clothed with black hooded doublet exposing his stained arms, breeches fastened on his red boots, and armlet, leglet of soft steel [https://img.wattpad.com/51222c67bc81485ee8e70b58ed8346d463db361e/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f43677066416d4a50675a426b6a513d3d2d313131383732323432392e313639643938336266313131383161663634353531353830333235362e6a7067?s=fit&w=1280&h=1280]

Glena: Father.

She saw her while he places charcoal on the mouth like hearth; the forge.

Nigel: Glena, what are you doing here?

He mumbled, his made warm hands touched her hands.

Glena: Father, I have something to say.

Nigel: You shouldn't be here darling, the bells rang already and we are preparing to rest before one.

The air was warm, fiery smoke surfing the darkness of the moonless massive room [https://img.wattpad.com/cd8c14c74227d3c9e2103bc1b720c4ee3c3fffc9/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f6a765f784836584f496f4a6572513d3d2d313131383732323432392e313639643938346362396466346137343137303739313136363133372e6a7067?s=fit&w=1280&h=1280]

The air was warm, fiery smoke surfing the darkness of the moonless massive room. Her father she saw, full of sweat dripping on his forehead and so she is, silently drawn apart. They seated in front of the wooden table full of tools for Hardy, Chisels, Heated glowing tongs and Hammer, huge anvil, and ounces of punches of hot work by the side.

Nigel: Where is Garred?

Glena: Home.

Nigel: Alright, why are you here, what are your concerns? Make it quick darling.

His black hair sweats beneath the hood he tricks up, his brown eyes affix on her daughter's face.

Glena: I found this map at home placed on the table. I look at it and it said go here.

Unfolding the yellow stained map by the oldness. Dark as it is in the dungeon of Nigel, the master dungeon's are lit up with torches, he grabbed one by the stand near the stairs, caught on fire to catch a glimpse of it.

Nigel: The south...Nobody gave you this? Are you sure about what you're telling me?

Glena: Yes Father, I assure you, it's just by the table.

Nigel looked at her, a father's duty to put a safety seal on their children's hearts, he cautioned and the eyes seems to remember something he was uncapable of saying.

Nigel: My sweet girl, you are followed by your uncertainty, the south is dangerous, there is where your grandfather vanished into thin air. Let me tell you, you never know what the world is, you never know what's coming next, you don't even know who gave you this and I assure the guilt would never miss.

She put it out herself, to make the fire of his mind turned into nothing.

Glena: It was given by the Jester, the masked man of Lordaeral.

His father, feeling the irate about the pesky of Glena's mouth and what's going on, on her mind.

Nigel: A jester? Whatever it say, and whatever it dress, it will always fool you. Where did you find him then?

Half of him she can see, the shadow threw between her, the light of the fire where he goes toward it.

Glena: He is after the door, he knocked and told me to go here. He is the tr~

Nigel: Enough! Strangers can manipulate, do you understand that Glena? Use your brain, you're thirteen.

By the light of the forge, it illuminates the safe keeping that his father told her. His anger forced Nigel to grab the map from Glena's hand and threw it on the searing forge, burning it, forget it.

Where he stood to teach his daughter a lesson. On a tone like a whisper in his voice, a strength of a father's word can crush her to make her a better version of the Kin. Never of his words are wasted, used like a golden sword he's forging to kill arrogance which shame the living blood of their family.

A belief that is told by the King himself is better to follow than the lies you can invent. Sadness built upon his daughter's face as she step up the dungeon leaving him alone, not feeling a guilt or feeling sorry, he did not believe what his daughter said.

A jester is known to fool, her daughter never knew him. Glena's mind is confused as if it's floating above the sea, crying after the gates, she never knew what to pick, she never knew who to trust, she never knew if the jester of Lordaeral or the person who keeps in touch of the kin's blood is to follow.

The Horse she's about to mount, returned to its leash. The journey which about to begin, turned into ashes.