In a southeast sanctum...

"What was his name?"

"Rokah."

"Oh," the vapor waltzed above. The water boiled, bubbles of heat jumped over the surface, fleeing the unbearable heat: "Hum, that was the name I have used to introduce myself to the Crocotta black star."

The dried Mint leaves collapsed inside the pot, their essence melted within the water. Gradually, the visible pot bottom vanished into a dark green shade: "This isn't a coincidence."

Two cups of hot mint drink were placed on the stone table.

The big man held one to his lips, blowing off the vapor: "Certainly not." He threw a reprimanding look at the other party.

"…."

"But, that, just, I do not understand."

"What you don't understand?" Isidore slammed the cup down, only one sip reached his tongue: "I have warned you million times to never provoke the Crocotta clan, especially their women, and here looks what you have done? As if we are in dire need for more enemies."

Without severing the eye contact. Odd-colored eyes swung with the movement as his body claimed the site before the big man. He said a flavor of manipulation mingled with genuine concern: "I am glad that you are alive."

Like a magic trick, those words served their purpose. The Kerit's angry wrinkles softened, then melted into an uncontained coolness. His big hand extended, patting the white hair: "I am also glad that you have survived."

The white eyelashes, melancholically, lowered. Wandering the sea of reminiscence. Flashed pictures run in a row, all grey and dim of lost abode in ash.

"Can you tell me what happened? First." Clément demanded, the vapor of the mint drink concealed half of his face. In contrast to the pleading tone he used, the other visible half radiated a hardly tamed ferocity, an unwillingly oozing rage. A mouthful of the hot mint drink lubricated his bloodless lips.

The bandaged hand supported the eager chin, the other hand tightly gripping the miserable cup. Waiting…

He craved Isidore's version of the story. The version of how Mt.Ninurta succumbed to ash…

The Kerit, despite his disability, somehow smelled the burning invisible fire. Even suffocated by the unnoticeable smoke. After much contemplation, he finally resigned to confirm: "Yudha…, then, Yudha is dead?"

He got brushed aside by Clément's closed eyes. The latter gulped the hot drink, avoiding the confrontation, fleeing the hard confession. Under his suppressed breath, between his tightened lips, fainted words of confirmation flew to the big man's ears.

The Next passing seconds, the silence ruled the slow, unbearable progress. Their interactions were limited to a mute conversation, mourning a gone soul.

Lost hopelessness, grief. Attempting to escape this gluttonous whirlpool of chaotic emotions, Clément was the first to move. "I have collected much information about the said event. Most were cut narrations or deductions based on incomplete facts." He inhaled, clearing his thoughts, glaring: "I want to know what truly did happen from the perspective of a real eyewitness."

This statement, as innocent as it, appeared as desperate as it seemed. It gave Isidore the impression that he was stuck behind the bars of blames.

Like thunder, Clément's gaze rained unspeakable questions, heavy and grim; how did you manage to survive while Yudha is dead, while Mt. Ninurta turned into ruin? Where were you in this tragedy? Where were you till this time, till this moment?

The big man index stroked the base of the cup, mincing the assumption inside his throat. He articulated after much choosing and refining :

"I am certain now..." His eyes jiggled, watching the cold pale outline for an expression: "Whoever was the mastermind behind the attack on Mt. Ninurta, their motive wasn't to blunder its wealth but to take master Yudha's life."

An undisturbed surface, Clément's face didn't flinch. Like icy water, he radiated a chilly tune. It was then when Isidore apprehended the shadows of remorse, the ghosts of regret swimming underneath.

"Do not submerge yourself into blame," he said, cooling down the accumulated ice: "It wasn't your fault or the fault of any of us… It's just…" The taste of mint drink lubricated his dried mouth, it took him far more sobriety to assert: "The attack was masterfully elaborated, unexpectedly quick and destructive." He gazed at Clément's lowered eyelashes, continuing forcibly: "Till today, I am still stuck in the nightmares of that night... Certainly, it was the work of a master strategist who outwitted Yudha even in one move."

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

The upcoming silent minutes hanged the bitterness of the confession, slowly, heavily… The guise of defeat breached:

"Then it must be an old grudge." Clément's face finally broadcasted modest emotions, albeit that was of anger and hate.

"Maybe?"

"What do you think?"

A sigh escaped Isidore's chest. He closed his eyes, reviving the memories of that day: "They used fire to attract my attention. When I finally arrived to check, my lucidity started to waver, and I probably entered the transformation state. I vaguely remember what happened after, but I am certain there were Simia laagers and they were burning incense. The next thing I recall was waking up in a farm village that belongs to the Crocotta."

The side of Clèment's index slid over his lips, nestled on his chin. For an instant, he appeared as if he was going to bite it in the middle. A gesture, the Kerit was very familiar with its dark meaning.

"I can draw four conclusions from your story." Clément reshaped the atmosphere yet again. "Firstly, the Crocotta clan is involved in the affair. Secondly, the burning incensed must be the blue royale Ood, since it induced a forced transformation. Thirdly, the mastermind was highly informed of the extent of your disability. That leads us to the fourth conclusion: a mole had successfully infiltrated our ranks."

"That's exactly my thoughts. However,... "

"However?" Clément reverberated in anticipation, pupils of his eyes narrowed as in hunger and thirst. He monitored the big man's gestures every inch. Up till the last drops of the mint, the drink was swallowed dry.

"I investigated my situation when I was trapped there…" Isidore moved his cup so Clément would refill it, "It's not strange for a farm-village to be surrounded by a barrier to prevent livestock evasion, but the one who was in control was a Simia magus."

"Well, that's also not strange, maybe the Simia magus was delegated by the Crocotta in first place in exchange for protection, wealth, and women," Clément stated, yet his thoughts wandered far deep than this superficial justification.

"The thing is…" The Kerit big finger tapped on the cup edge, inducing a ripple: "I am certain that this Semia was the same one that I saw maneuvering the burning incense." Isidore lifted his eyes. They fell directly on Clément's. "Do you think a mere Simia could handle me alone in my raging status?"

"You are dancing around the same point. It must be the Crocotta doing."

A big hand hit the table. "Do not rush conclusions and let me continue."

"..."

"Later, I confirmed that the Simia magus was under the protection of a blood-sucking demon. Actually, the whole farm village was between this demon's hands. He even created an army of undead."

"..."

Clément proceeded to comment, yet he turned silently under Isidore's stern gaze.

"Before the end of winter, the Crocotta sent an animated puppet that exactly resembled how you look at the moment. After, Savannah, the void ambassador, and Esere Akila make an entrance. I do not know the details, but the Esere managed to retrieve the farm without significant casualties."

The big man paused, indicating to the other party that he could talk. What a pity, Clément wasn't the expressive type. If not, his jew would be dropped by now.

"There is more," He watched the odd colored eyes nailing him with daggers of interest and puzzlement, urging him for a continuation: " I tested the puppet several times, Oh boy, it was as nasty as disturbing as you. I do not doubt that it was created after your person. But this is not all..."

"Uh oh… What more?"

"The puppet was accompanied by a gravely injured Amarok, who mysteriously knows you, and claims that you are the one who saved his life." Isidore toughened his voice; "That's also not all," He scowled at Clément, "Why in hell Savannah searching your whereabouts like her life and death pending at your hands?"

The small room, drained from the vitality of life, succumbed behind the clouds of quietness. The kerit visage demanded an answer.

"I may have an explanation for this minor matter." Clément confessed, guiltless, landing his gaze on the big man's frowned eyebrows: "This matter has no relation to Mt. Ninurta attack or this…. major… huge conspiracy. As a matter of fact, this affair is something personal."

"I have guessed so far,... But let's not rule out the possibility of you being used unknowingly." The Kerit, unimpressed, rather mad. The hidden meaning tucked amidst his modest syllables stemmed from an admonition. Nonetheless, it was as discernible as a candle in the bleak night.

Back in the day, the one who took upon himself the responsibility of teaching Clèment, the laws that govern the gives and takes between the shapeshifters, was this humble Kerit.

He always warned him to not offend the Crocotta. For their innate nature to never forget or forgive those who arrogantly crossed their road.

From this statement, Clément conceived two notions: the first, Isidore has yet to exclude the Crocotta's invisible hand in the matter of Mt. Ninurta. The second one, he needed to save face. Given being used without one's knowledge, it was synonymous with being stupid.

In a quest to provide his irrefutable reasons, Clément hastily left the room. When he returned, a plain wooden box was set on the table.

Two individuals looked one to the other. Each carried his own convection. An awkward moment of stillness with unspoken questions moved slowly.

Skillful fingers tempered with the box, opening it. The other man watched, the curiosity crawled his skin.

What he upheld, a precious gemstone, multi-colored, the size of an eyeball. It ornamented the middle section of a circle.

"What is this?" Isidore asked. He actually meant did you steal this jewelry piece from one of them?

A face possessed beyond arrogance dripped with an affirmation: "Do you remember my opal stone?" A tone, all smug: "I have found it, and retrieved it…" Not yet satisfied, he added: "From someone with the most dangerous reputation in Innyana's range."

Clément, high, traveled into a realm of his own. He didn't notice the other party pulling something from his clothes.

Only the blinding glitter of the second gemstone was able to slap him back into the real world. Actually, the slap was so powerful that it sent him down to the hell doors.

Confused, he demanded: "Why are there two opal stones that are identical?"