He stepped into the dimly lit foyer, the air thick with stagnant dust and isolation. The walls held images of himself progressing, years gone since he had been labelled a new recruit.
The shadows clung to the corners, reluctant to reveal their truth.
Above them, he hung his mask.
A relic of clandestine meetings and veiled intentions. This welded metal of black and green, had seen atrocities the world over, and it found its way to him.
His newfound cross to bear.
It stood a shield against the world—a barrier between his true self and the harsh reality he had defended. But here, within the sanctuary of his home, he shed that armour.
The kitchen beckoned; its worn tiles cooling beneath his bare feet. The old gas stove sat as a surviving sentinel of his past. Its burners scarred by countless midnight concoctions. He rarely needed sustenance these days, yet the ritual of preparing his own meals remained. Perhaps the familiarity—the alchemical dance of spices, the sizzle of onions in olive oil, every ingredient having a part to play—it anchored him.
As he stirred the pot, memories surfaced, with bubbles shimmering in the broth. The taste of his mother’s meaty soups, the care in her smile as she ladled it into his bowl. The laughter from his many siblings in the kitchen symbolised comfort and safety. But those days were two decades dead, swallowed by the North’s consuming decay.
His home, its streets made labyrinths of foul play. Cobblestone paths worn smooth by the passage of time, a cake of dust and grime overlay its beauty. Each turn, a trip deeper into the slowing heartbeat of the place he was once proud to call home. Secrets festered as those above left an open wound.
For years, he played in those alleys.
Running errands of forbidden knowledge and glimpses of familial techniques past down.
The blood river was a stain in this nation’s history, and yet many cities, just as his own, celebrated the massacre as one of Astra's greatest victories. But he and people just like him remember, and they lay silent just long enough to seize opportunity.
Today, though, in his copse of faded wallpaper and lecherous shadows, he could rest.
He looked up from his pot, the reflection that of a stranger—lined, weary, yet alive with purpose. He caught sight of the mask on the wall. The metal is lightly rusting at the sharper edges.
It was needed now, more than ever.
Garig’s retribution drew close, and he held himself ready.
He took a sip of his broth, its warmth linking together hooks of regret and appreciation for his experience. As he closed his eyes, the growing chain of vengeance latched itself to reason, reigniting the passion that he held dear.
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Relik lived as one of the marked.
From a young age, his skin was marred with streams of black seals.
Seals that prevented him and those just like him from communicating with the Astras, the gods of his people.
For this, they were granted status, more than slave but less than citizen. Their decisions were made for them, and their tasks were simplistic. Drones in the Army of the North were cared for by their community but missed by no one.
In a strange twist of destiny, the curses preventing his thoughts from being heard, were the very things that gave him a voice worth being heard by the council.
Now he stood in the Temple of a faraway city, holding an audience to their Shiear—the holder of immense power, the voice of the people. The room, with its walls adorned with tapestries of memory, held echoes of centuries past. The air tasted of Iké and steel, wrapped neatly in politics.
Relik’s only distraction was a piece of seafood lodged between his molars. The focus necessary to hide his attempts were a wall erected to distract from an ever-growing urge to panic.
The Shiear of Remu, the Lance Lady Jabaani, sat central of those gathered.
Her eyes seemed to slip further away the more Relik closed the distance. She offered a smirk that proved to be a vehicle for further discomfort. At the head of a curved marble table, her three advisors—warriors adorned by spotless armour—whispered mostly to themselves as Relik entered the room. Sparing him a glance, but their words went uninterrupted.
There, sitting among them, was a Shahari who greeted him with closed eyes and a lifted mug.
His eyes dropped to his own feet, dusty from his journey in the square, and he felt out of place.
He looked over at Wyva who seemed to be far in mind.
Relik sighed.
They gathered for him and for the truth that he held. The unravelling could upturn both his country and his race alike. Yet among the officials of the state, it felt insignificant.
Lady Jabaani leaned forward, her smile a masked blade, “Ah, Relik?” she said, glancing at Wyva who waved her off, “Our mysterious stranger is finally awake. My hands informed me that there’s some wisdom that you’d like to bring to the court.”
Relik pulled at the coat, his hands damp, “I---praise the gods. I bring impertinent news from the south of the border. During my soul trial I stumbled upon a conversation between a citizen of the Astran Empire and our enemies. It is without doubt that the Ankh-Ra have secured a spy, who appears more than happy to conspire against the people of the North.”
The whispers halted.
Relik shuffled under the sudden turn of interest.
The advisors exchanged glances—silent disbelief that there could be such a person in existence. With the blessing of the gods and their ability to hear thoughts, prevent such things from taking place, amongst the common populace.
One advisor, an Alven woman, stifled a laugh while her eyes were glued to Relik’s own.
The fire that convinced him to make this account seemed to dwindle with every passing breath.
“A spy,” the Shiear repeated with a stiff grin, her eyes silently scanning him. “And what does this spy want?”
Relik’s gaze fell to the floor.
He remained unsure. There were a few details he remembered from his scuffle with the stranger. One such detail involved him jumping to action upon suspecting that there was collusion.
The Shahari advisor broke into a fit. His laughter sliced through the tension, spilling his drink as he belted out. No one seemed to pay the drunkard any mind.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Relik had several hours to play this scenario over in his head. Each time he did, the interaction ended with praise and calls for immediate action. By the airs of mockery, a future similar to the one he imagined seemed farfetched.
“Look kid,” the Shiear placed her palms face down in front of herself, “I understand that you’re going through a lot right now—miles away from home and probably starving but it does not excuse ridiculous tales of treachery.”
Relik swallowed, “he was a Shahari.”
This statement gifted the council another round of silent glances. The man laughing before held in shock, but was quicker to recover.
“There’s no way one of our own would do such a thing. Our people have worked too hard to gain this status,” he shot into a stance, “it was more likely an Hurc.”
“What?” the Hurc representative took issue with the statement, “You, Shahari, are the least compliant of all races. If there’s a fractious possibility that there is a spy, then it would be one of you untrustworthy monkeys.”
“You’ve trusted me not to take off the top of your head.”
“Please, Logun you’re intoxicated eleven days a week. The blind could see you stumbling towards them.”
“The blind could see that you’re ugly.”
“You’re both ugly; now shut up!” Lady Jabaani yelled at the two. She then turned her attention to Relik once more.
The two locked eyes and he shifted his posture, unsure of continued eye-contact.
Without warning, she began swivelling her head but held her vision steady as her neck snaked in a strange manner.
Relik felt a soft tapping in his chest, one he felt very few times. Attempts from the past of forceful readings. All of which fell face flat
She stared at the boy some more, her finger finding its way to her lips. Tracing the outline of her mouth, her eyes twitched, never settling on anything in the room.
This triggered restlessness among her advisors, who reverted to whispers and self-discussions while Relik stood in wait.
He threw another glance at Wyva, who in turn nodded at him.
They needed to leave this meeting.
Relik had shot to death a near immortal Ankh-Ra and spent nights wrapped in the airs of darkness. Anyone else would have died from his journey down the river to the coast. He woke up in perfect condition. For this reason, he believed himself immune to discomfort.
“Relik!” the Shiear called with a sudden increase in tone.
The boy in question straightened at the sound of his name.
She paused to construct an acceptable conclusion, each attendee hanging at the edge of her lips as they mimed her statement.
“I do not have the evidence to disregard your claim,” she began.
Relik immediately dropped to his knees and slammed his forehead to the floor in a painful bow. Words of appreciation lifted both to the Shiear and the Astras.
“However, I cannot simply set aside a unit for investigation,” she continued, putting a stop to the bows, “so it’s down to a vote.”
Relik’s head shot up at the council in anticipation, this decision would determine the type of world that he existed in. An experience of servitude all influenced by a crossroad moment.
It was up to these officials whether importance existed as a byproduct of chance or whether life was woven by the gods.
The Hurc cleared his throat and raised his hand, “If this spy had been of any other race, I would have chosen a passive option, but—the Shahari I’ve met are likely to do much worse than espionage, so I can’t place this above them.”
The boy’s shoulders loosened themselves, the released tension taking up his lungs as a new home.
“Well, I still believe in our gods and the patriotism of every race that walks under their light,” the Shahari took to a stance with his mug outstretched, “there may be a day when a traitor arises, but I know humans such as myself would never stoop to such lows.”
“My father called you Shahari, and my father’s father called you Shahari. The word human implies that you are not a jogging ape.”
“Veech I’m going to break your face with this mug.”
“I’m going to suspend you both, if you don’t shut up.”
Relik found himself on his feet once more, the childish bickering lifting him up from a state of gratitude to that of an interested bystander.
The Alven advisor cut in her tone, shallow and easy, “I unfortunately agree with Logun on this one. This boy appeared out of nowhere, he’s marked, and he failed the soul trial. He is obviously seeking restitution. So, no!”
His lungs let his breath free, and he immediately pulled on another.
“So that’s two to one,” the Shiear said as she looked around the room, the strictness in her eyes far different from the welcoming gaze they provided on entry. “I count as a tiebreaker, so you're lucky, kid. Go find that spy for me.”
“What?” the Shahari yelled, slamming his mug down.
“Yes, and Veech, you’re assigned to be the leader of this operation,” she continued, rushing her words.
“But he’s obviously going to plant evidence against every Shahari North of the border. He’s a mad man, who only cares about his own.”
“And you’re right, we need balance in this unit—someone that will only allow cold facts, before we bring unease to the general public,” The Shiear smiled, her eyes trained on the drunkard.
His face sank as he realised the direction that this statement lead.
“So,” the Shiear nodded, “you are also assigned to this mission.”
“I just got back here twelve hours ago; you’re already trying to kill me,” he argued, flits of spit spraying about the top of the metal table.
“If you care so passionately about your people, you must be willing to protect them. Before we set out for the whole continent, I want to make sure that these claims are valid. Bring me evidence, and that’s it.”
The Shahari sighed and took a seat. His head turned to the side as he muttered words of displeasure to himself.
Relik swallowed as everyone else turned their attention to him.
With his words, he secured for himself a pyrrhic victory.
He, as a marked soul, found that even a being of his curse could be heard when necessary. Even though they were condemned to not hear the songs of the Astras or be able to weave Ikè in a meaningful way, If the time ever came for inclusion, they would be welcomed.
Then there was the second part of this treachery, the Shahari would be held under scrutiny.
As a marked soul, he was used to this, but there were many Shahari whose remaining semblance of privacy would be sacrificed all in the name of justice. All in hopes that they could locate the traitor.
He wanted to uproot darkness, but was this a cost he lived willing to pay.
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Wyva perched himself on the rooftop, the rough concrete pressing against his bare palms. The sun, a radiating fire, descended towards the horizon, casting long, arching shadows across the cityscape. The sky bled hues of crimson and gold, like a canvas painted by the gods themselves.
His mind drifted, tracing the contours of his day—the mundane and the extraordinary woven together.
He had clocked out of the office two hours prior, but the disappointment lingered with a bitter aftertaste.
Relik, a reluctant charge made his responsibility, had unwittingly thrust him into the heart of his convoluted drama. The meeting had gone much beyond Wyva’s expectations, up until the end, when Lady Jabaani seemed to assign roles to whoever looked at her funny.
And now, he himself has been made part of the counter espionage task force, without extra pay. He had spent years gaining respect as a hand, and it took one Shahari to derail him into being a pawn. One with far less range.
Immediately, he was reassured that fate would bring him benefit. With this responsibility, he unknowingly set himself on a path of destiny. He would love to believe that, but from this view, the journey resembled more eternal punishment than that of universal peace.
Yet he yielded to them—the inexorable pull of destiny—and the twisted cruelty of his reality.
The sunset deepened, bleeding indigo into the lines of dawn. His eyes followed the marvel of Temple's main building. Its bridges and balconies extended further than the lengths of the streets below. The distant spires and the etched silhouettes in the dying light.
He thinks of the city and the part everyone had to play in it.
Just twenty years prior, Remu was south of the border. Seized by the likes of Shiear, Lady Aisha, the blood river. Once it was swept clean the beauty of his home was born.
For his first twelve years of life, this city looked after him, and he would repay that debt with his soul. Wyva had seen too much, lost too much, to allow this city or cities just like his own to be flattened due to treachery.
Though there was nothing to enjoy about the task at hand, he would not leave them to believe that there would be a more qualified candidate. He hated applying extra effort, but the urge for perseverance nullified all excuses.
One could see the coming days of joyless investigation and clarity of duty, all while he waited for moments to prove himself.
Wyva chuckled to himself.
That thought would also describe his past and present.
So, it was safe to say that this change brought nothing different.
Wyva leaned back, and the wind ruffled his hair. The city sprawled below; its history buried in the shadowed crevices. Its future plays haplessly into nightfall. Both innocence and fear danced together in Remu. A waltz of patience, reason, and unrelenting passion, choreographed by a being of chaos.
That’s why he loved this city.
He was Remu and Remu was him.
The sun would rise again in his home, and he would ensure that it did until the last day he drew breath.