“Say, Myra, do you have a mirror? All this time I don’t know what I look like.”

“Mm.” She hummed, leaving him to rummage through wherever she went…

It was another morning, a few days after he first came to. He awoke with a small push from Myra. She must love lazing around the only wounded in the entire fortress… She brought him another small meal, fresh from the kitchen. Well, not too fresh, after all, she told him it was the leftovers from the rations given to Path Finders as they went on to another expedition two days ago. But he didn’t mind, it was still too generous to him anyway.

Though… it did remind him of the times Kiran would wake him, and through his yawns and stretches, he’d wipe his eyes from the remnants of his slumber as he’d find a giant slab of meat cooking atop an open flame.

He smiled a little before Myra returned with a mirror.

“What’re you smiling about?”

“Memories. They’re coming back a little.” He responded, keeping up his loose guise.

“Of what?” She asked as she handed him a small hand-held mirror, probably from her own belongings he thought.

“My family.” He said as he looked at his face. But then he frowned as he saw what was revealed in the small mirror.

A ghastly pale face, still in need of color and vigor. Aged, yet not as much as… his dream. Far from it.

His face wasn’t unrecognizable, it just seemed more… worn. It reminded him of how aged and weary Kiran’s face looked. Youthful, yet hidden behind a dark scowl of aged woes. Perhaps they’ve gotten even more similar despite the years apart.

He let out a quiet, but grim laugh to himself.

“Say, can I cut your nails and hair? If that’ll stop you laughing so weirdly.” Myra asked, recoiling at the sight of him.

‘Ah. She's still here.’ He sheepishly thought.

“Please. Sorr— thank you.” He corrected himself before earning another scolding from her. It was something he picked up on over the few days.

Myra ran off to get what she needed, while he continued to lay there, staring outside his window.

‘Kassia…’

The selections for Garm’s tattoos needed the bodies most capable of accommodating the dreadful ink. Even now, Osias only had suspicions of what made the ink — A profane blend of Garm’s Ordeal Ability along with the blood of countless powerful Path Beasts or Path Finders. Children were all tested with a small etching, yet many failed already by then.

By the first selection, it had narrowed to simply ten. Ten children who were then locked within the dark chambers deep within the hollow Great Mountain.

Screams and wails sounded from each room, and then they were let out to eat, drink, and train with what little time they had together before returning to acclimating with the ink once more, further narrowing down the selection.

Because the Red Sky couldn’t allow all the children to die merely from the very first inking, Garm’s method intensely elevated the moment upon those who passed the first selection, disregarding even their deaths.

If he couldn’t risk killing thousands, then he’ll concede to the ten who’ve shown themselves capable.

In the end, only Osias and two others completed their tattoos. The other two he didn’t care much of, besides, they died all the same through the inheritance ritual.

But there was supposed to be a fourth — Kassia, the girl Myra reminded him of all that time ago. Bright, keen, and talkative.

“Here, I got a pair of spring scissors from a handmaid,” Myra said, coming inside once more.

“Can you stand?” She asked.

He nodded, using his hands to lift himself up and toward the end of the bed frame. He stood on his feet and made his way to the pale wooden chair Myra directed him to.

“You’re tall, you know that? You’ll make for a good shieldman if you weren't so skinny.”

“A shieldman?” He echoed as he plopped himself heavily onto the chair.

“Mm. Tall and large enough to carry those massive tower shields.” She continued, bringing out a bone-like comb from her pockets.

“Or maybe a skinny mountain brigand.” She laughed.

She brushed his long tangled her down neatly as he sat a little uneasy. He told himself to play a guise until he could leave and find Kiran once more, but this girl was so forward in bringing him into… unfamiliar settings.

‘She's gentle.’ He noticed, stifling himself from shaking his head as he pushed down his thoughts.

Then she hummed a question as she parted the hair behind him.

“You were tattooed here as well?” She asked with a small shiver.

Osias reached over behind his head and sighed a little in remembrance.

“Mm. My family was thorough in their practices.”

She voiced out loud her opinion as he grimaced at her comments of how peculiar it was to have such practices, from his own family no less.

“Say, is it alright for me to ask you of your family? You think of them a lot, but I remember what I heard from the clan head those days ago.” She said a little sadly as her words trailed off.

But Osias stifled himself from shaking his head.

“It’s fine. It feels… distant — after all that time has passed. Besides, old stories are like old friends, you have to visit them from time to time.”

Her frown slowly curled upwards upon hearing his words. Then she brought her cutting hand and began to work away. But from behind his head, he heard a quiet complaint and a small groan that left her lips.

His ears perked, but he said nothing.

This continued for a few seconds, but then he got anxiously tired of hearing her like this and he begrudgingly asked:

“Are you fine?”

“Yes… it's just that it seems the scissors are dull. It’s hard to cut. My arms are already a little sore.”

‘Ah— my essence reservoir!’ He quickly recalled.

He had continuously grown stronger all this time despite being enchained by the Fettered Bournewood. He didn’t even realize it. His body has grown stronger as well. Seven years…

“Here, I’m feeling stronger today, I’ll cut it. Can you hold the mirror?” He quickly said, pointing to the mirror he left atop his bed.

“I’m the one who's supposed to be caring for you.” She protested… but she was already headed for the mirror.

‘Empty words.’ He thought to himself, suppressing a laugh.

Osias looked down on himself with cold eyes once more. His reflection was ghastly, but really, he was stronger. Taller and growing into his new frame. In time he’ll be quite large, not to the extent of Kiran, but he was already taller than someone like Aeron.

However, that led to him feeling quite remorseful when he asked the small Myra to cut his hair. It was a little embarrassing as he thought of how the scene looked from another view.

Shaking his head, he focused on cutting his hair as he carefully studied the reflection Myra held in front of him.

“That short?” She interrupted with a little suprise.

But he continued to cut away. He disliked his hair. Any longer and he’ll be reminded of… his dream.

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“Mm. I don’t like seeing myself like this.” He said sullenly.

Myra seemed to sense his brooding as she didn’t ask further… Slowly, Myra intently watched as he cut his hair down tightly against his head, leaving enough to brush back neatly.

Long greyish hair fell to the rough-hewn floorboards. Strands continued to fall, yet just before he finished, his eyes lifted slightly to catch a part of his reflection but he noticed a smile from the corners of his eyes.

He raised a small eyebrow and asked:

“Did I cut too short somewhere?”

He quickly turned his head all over to check if it looked odd, but his hair returned close to how it was when he was traveling with Kiran.

But Myra shook her head, before responding:

“You look younger. And lighter. Like you’re cutting away more than hair.”

His face twitched slightly and maybe his ears turned a little red as she said something like that. ‘Does she not feel any shame?’

But she wasn’t wrong. He felt… comfortable. Like he was himself once more. As he thought this, he brought the scissors to his nails, cutting them with a stiff cracking sound. He cut them close enough until he could tear them shorter comfortably later.

When he finished, Myra toured around him as she checked all already and ruffled his head. She took her time as she tousled the hair on the back of his head, tracing to where the tattoo ended. He noticed her gaze focusing on his back, extending past the nape and back of the head, stretching into a curve to his right temple. Through the hair beneath she could see the same etchings.

“Osias, did you know that the ink isn’t black?” She asked him as her hand parted the hair above his ear to see better.

“It has a touch of red in there, a deep one.”

“Is something off?” Osias asked. He didn’t know what face she was making from behind him.

She paused as she continued to trace them. Then with a small giggle, she answered:

“No, I was trying to imagine you with a shaved head.”

Osias face twitched. There was that too back then… he forgot about having to keep a shaved head as Garm moved onto his nape and scalp.

With a nod of approval, she extended her hands to retrieve her tools.

“Thank you for bringing me these. I feel better.” He said, setting the scissors and comb down into her open palm before adding:

“Do you want me to clean up?”

But Myra simply shook her head and pointed to the bed once more.

“I’ll clean. Wait on the bed, I’ll take you out to the courtyard later. You need more than just stuffy air.”

He didn’t need to hear anymore as he obliged and quietly waited, watching her brush and clean the mess of hair on the rough-hewn floorboards. But quickly realizing that he shouldn’t be staring so intently, he shook his head and looked out the window until she was finished.

“Ready?”

“Mm.”

Then he began to leave the room he’d spent weeks in, finally able to test his unfamiliar body…

He had to grow used to the change. Again… it felt as though he went from his usual self at the age of fourteen moons, then to an old frail man in his dreams, then to now.

‘I wonder what happened to my short sword and the vial…’ He thought as his free hand fondled his side where his only two belongings were once fastened against.

“Myra, how long have you been at this fortress?” He said, breaking her melodious humming.

She paused pensively before responding:

“I joined the clan head for his call to this outward fortress. That must’ve been three years ago. My father and uncle are warriors of the clan and I wanted to follow them to help.”

“Your father and uncle?”

“Mm. They’re Path Finders. First Ordeals under Henrik’s unit.” She said as she guided him down a flight of stone stairs.

“Strong?”

“Very.” She said, twirling to face him with a smile as he stepped out into the fortress’s courtyard.

He looked around and found many people. Some were forgers. Some were dismantling a particularly powerful-looking remains of a Path Beast. Ordinaries were working and bustling down and through towards different places. Another held dozens of Ordinaries and Path Finders both training for battle — some sparring whilst others trained in battle forms and other different methods.

“Well?” Myra asked.

“Well, what?”

“The clan! There is a lot of people here, but many have left for another outing. How do you like it outside?”

Osias paused as he took in the view. It was… warm. It reminded him of the few times he was let outside the dark chamber within the Great Mountain, traveling through the bustling areas below. A smile unknowingly touched his lips before he responded:

“It's busy.” He said bluntly.

“Of course it is… it is a fortress after all. We have to take apart many materials from Path Beasts for the inland. Keep ourselves safe and strong too.” She said, before pointing to the training clansmen.

“Do you want to watch closer? You must like to fight.”

The comment caught him off guard, he asked:

“Do I look like the kind to?”

“Mm. You look like the brigands I hear from the clan warrior’s tales.”

He frowned, but he relented. It was his guise after all. However, it did make him a little glum from how she thought of him.

“Maybe another day. This is enough for me.”

“Really? Do you know the way up to your room?”

“A little, but are you leaving?”

“The others are going to scold me now that they’ve seen how well you are. Lazing around and leaving the other duties to them… all that.” She said as she wandered blithely further away, as though she was waiting for him to follow. She paced painfully slow… and then he realized.

Osias sighed deeply before giving in.

“I’ll tour with you.”

He followed her lead, as he watched her bundle of brown hair bounce, loosening under the hairpin as they headed towards the other side of the courtyard — towards the training clansmen.

Closer, he found a mix of men and women straining themselves, honing their weapons and essence techniques. Fiercely sparring with one another, and he watched as he presumed the Path Finders able to heal others were standing aside, ready for bloody blows to result from the spars.

They all fought slightly differently from one another, but they all had a common… sharpness. Patient, and precise. They were stalwart, despite some being more fierce in their movements.

Defensive as well, something he wasn’t that accustomed to back in the Red Sky. A wide assortment of weapons too — spears, polearms, swords, and shields as well.

‘The weapon techniques of… Clan Grimm perhaps? Parts of their War Art?’

Osias was thankful that he and Myra weren’t the only ones watching them train, many Ordinaries and Path Finders alike intently watched.

In the next moment, he caught a pair of Path Finders sparring a little too fervently as one of their blades caught the bare side of the other, cutting deep into their ribs.

“Enough!” A commanding voice sounded. “Darrian, again?”

Then, Osias found the source of the commanding voice — a man of the Second Ordeal. A steely gaze and dark rugged armor that looked to be a mismatch of different parts of different beasts. But he was armed to the teeth. Daggers lined the outside of his thigh in a thick strap of odd-colored leather. A giant baleful polearm reminiscent of Kiran’s was mounted on his back.

The man directed a healer to the wounded, and the red flowing wound was stemmed of its bleeding. It didn’t close and looked quite odd to Osias’s eye, but the relieved face of the wounded man was enough to know that it was dealt with.

‘Ordeal Abilities… true enough they are all different in their own ways.’

“Who is that man over there?” Osias asked Myra.

“Mance. A Second Ordeal. Scary right? But that’s just how he is when he’s training the others.”

‘Mance…’

“I’ve seen enough of this. Anywhere else you want to take me?”

“I would take you to where the other Ordinaries work to keep the fortress running. But, I don’t think they’ll like it if I flaunt my way of dodging the work.” She said brazenly as she began to walk towards the healer’s quarters.

He sighed a little and began to follow, keen on remembering the layout of the fortress.

‘It was a little like this too, back then.’

Osias was amongst the last of the ten who passed the first selection. He was led around the tunnels and chambers of the hollow mountain by Kassia. She was hardheaded, unlike the others who were wary of each other, probably timid from the pain they endured just moments before arriving. The other two who were later able to complete the tattoos from Garm like him were friends before selection even took place. So before Osias came, Kassia was by herself.

They would explore as far as they could within the hollow mountain together — as far as they could go with their small and weak bodies until Garm’s attendants would round them up to undergo more needling. Was it because Kassia wanted to travel her woes and pain away? To at least feel as though she was escaping any more of the torture?

Osias didn’t know. He couldn’t recall asking such things all those years ago. All he knew was that she died miserably almost at the end… her body couldn’t handle any more ink. Garm was especially forceful with her despite her pleas that Osias could hear as he awaited his next session in succession.

Until one day Osias couldn’t hear her wails.

And as Garm’s attendant walked out with Kassia’s body, warped and wrung with just the sight of it, Osias knew that his friend died suffering.

Then, he’ll follow in, brushing sides with the attendant discarding her corpse. He’ll lie down and have limbs and neck bounded by the cold metal — right atop where Kassia died. That was the last he cried.

Osias exhaled deeply. It was a painful memory… but it made him think of how long he’d been in chains in his short life…

It took quite an effort to remember such things from so long ago — deeply burrowed as it was. And it was still hard to believe that everyone he had seen from that time had died. But Osias often found himself longingly reminiscing as he spent his time recovering under Clan Grimm.

‘Vengeance… huh. Enemies’

It never occurred to him again as he and Kiran traveled. Not after the first day.

Revenge…. vengeance. It felt like they were an entire world away from those who brought the Red Sky to its end. Too far away to care. Besides, they had to focus on surviving rather than anything else.

Osias looked forward, his eyes following the playful steps of Myra as they continued to return to his room…

He remembered the seething anger he felt, the indignation that was born when he was torn from his mother's embrace by Kiran — what led him… here, what felt like an entire world away. But it felt all so fleeting. That anger blended into so many different feelings that day, but it all came down to surviving and being of use to Kiran, what was left of the band.

Distant was his word it seemed. He would blink and all his time was gone, waking up to a different him.

He’d blink and he’d wake up to a body of tattoos, finally returning to parents he had so rarely seen.

He’d blink and the world he knew was taken away before he could immerse himself in it.

He’d blink and suddenly he must fight for his life in a land he didn’t know, along side with a brother he once thought was estranged.

He’d blink and he was an old man, miserably dying before a rotting tree.

He’d blink and he found himself atop the bed of a Tailed Brothers’ vassals, his ‘enemies’.

Osias didn’t know what to feel. To do. The first time he was truly alone from everything.

Maybe… he could let go calling the rest of the Wailing Chain his enemies. He didn’t want to see Clan Grimm fall.

But even so, many of his people died. His father and mother. Zevir and the other elders. Kassia. Perhaps even Kiran. If they — as blood-born could just live without the world coming together to back them against the wall, they wouldn’t have died. He wouldn’t have suffered so. Kassia wouldn’t have been forced to endure something she could not handle. He cannot let that go, absolutely not. He’ll just settle for the necks of the Tailed Brothers. Borte of the North. The Crest Master.

That will appease all those who died. From there… he would live freely as he wished. He would have lived and proved his Path. Strong and free. No longer would he feel as though he was drifting along from one death to another.

…In the next moment, he smiled to himself.

‘I sound like Zevir back then.’