Welcome to Babel, the megalopolis of legends, where the time flows slower, sometimes faster than it's supposed to be.

The outer walls of the city are graced by a green outfit woven under the climbing plant's orders. Few specific corners were ornamented by blooming flowers, dyeing them with spring flavor.

The vast ground inside meant for agricultural activities, other fields intended prairies for animals, tamed or wild.

Some villages scattered here and there, and the population grew denser with each phase near the heart of the city.

Infatuated by every inch, the land that looked so familiar yet tantalizing new, had its kind of allure, compared to the snowy mountains of Innyana or the smoky forests of Ea. Rokah led the carriage in a self-contained, nonchalant facade. Though his face betrayed him, the moment he snatched glimpses of the erected structures materializing from afar.

The inner walls of the city roared through the lofty clouds. Immense blue glazed bricks mounted each other in an awing pattern. A sculptural relief depicted winged lions, dragons, and other flying beasts in precise intervals. Majestic, dreadful, mesmerizing to the newcomers, honorary to its inhabitants.

But nothing set higher than the lustrous wonder, Babel tower. Partially destroyed, partially under construction, yet unraveled.

The smell of torrential freshwater transcended the fragrance of flora. Moisture and pure humidity. Its soothing rhythm calmed the most tenacious spirits.

The drowsy Naya lifted the curtain in her glassy eyes. She confounded the glazed blue with the color of the sky. The realization slapped her awake, pulling the bridle in Rokah's hands, yelling: "Where are you going?"

She hastily took control before directing the carriage farther to the east. "Are you nut? Do you think commoners can use the sacred blue gate whenever they want?"

Without protest, Rokah let her fulfill the primary aim behind bringing her with him. It's also allowed him the freedom to scrutinize the area. To be fascinated, marveled over the creative divinity.

The carriage was guided marginally with the inner walls. The wind exposed caps of guardians atop. Armed, agile.

The prickling sensation of intermittent glimpses, the pent-up curious attention, tumbled Rokah's jaw. Snow-white eyelashes lowered rhythmically with the ups and downs of the wheels.

"One question against one." He declared to the interrogative look of the woman. Her regard was like needles tormenting his neck.

Without further persuasion, she asked: "Why do you need the Crocotta permit?"

"To pass through their territory."

"No, this is not what I meant."

"It's my turn." He protested, refusing to face her: "Who is that horned man?"

"Megalomaniac jerk." She superficially answered, dropping vengeance stars at him.

Rokah adjusted his position, denoting seriousness. "Fair enough. What have you meant?"

The floppy road got busier when the public gate tottered in the air.

"Not everybody needs a permit of passage to get through the Crocotta lands." She was focusing on the path as the traffic increased.

Interest tainted Rokah's vague eyes, dyeing them into a shade akin to doubt. "No, everyone needs a permit to pass through their lands." A false confirmative sentence. Rokah's common trap is to instigate people's self-protective instinct to veil their statements, their beliefs. The urge to be right turned people into a marionette that offers explanations for free.

Witnessing the frowns building between her eyebrows, a victorious sweetness stuffed the inside of his mouth.

"Obviously you are ignorant about the Permit of passage aim." She started with an insult, the second clue of Rokah's successful provocation.

"In reality, the permits are monitoring tools. Only those who need to show their good intentions are obligated to carry them." She smugly looked at the terrified albino next to her. "The permits are a tracking device. In another word, the Crocottas use them to locate those untrustworthy people's whereabouts. Those who refuse to carry them. Naturally, it shows their ill intentions towards the Crocottas."

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Hastily, the horrible realization in Rokah's chest spoke loud. "How far is their range?"

This question drew her absurd mockery. The scorn of wonder replaced the frowns; Was he mocking her? Who doesn't know that the divinities are divinities because of their link to the heavenly bodies, to the bright star formations of the sky?

Range?

Their range is the sky.

Nayara's intuition propped a superficial answer about this strange man. Perhaps he was a victim to a severe process of brainwashing, crawled in a long false indoctrination. It decoded his lack of sensuality, the handful of uncorrelated memories, and the sense of fulfilling a precise mission.

As Rokah bared his inner turmoil in an instant of fragility, letting himself mercilessly gauged, dissected, judged by the dangerous, glamorous woman beside him. His entire world spiraled around the memories of Mr. Hendrickson's words, gestures, gazes. The twist of his lips, the satisfaction of his breaths. The perfect elaborated plan he prepared to kill the butler, conjuring it in such a narrow time. Suddenly, all of Rokah's previous observations fall in their right spot.

Weighed, the breast pocket in which Rokah secured the permit in fear of its loss. His rib cage burst under the suffocating heaviness.

The big picture, now, is fogless.

In the end, Hendrickson was playing a chess game, not against the Crocotta but against the magus who played the role of a butler.

Rokah allowed himself to be the man's pawn in exchange for answers, truths, freedom. Yet he got used, manipulated, for what?… To allow himself to be effortlessly tracked down by the Crocotta under the blessing of Hendrickson…

A spout of blood rushed pursuing relief. Explosions rocked all over his body.

This must be Hendrickson's ultimate ploy from the beginning. Disguised behind membranes of fragility. And an envelope of compassion.

The perception of betrayal Rokah thought he grew immune to it, ripped his soul into shreds.

Is there a thing akin to compassion in this world?

That man, much like the Crocotta, intended to use him, then sell him back when his desires got fulfilled.

Glaring at the isotoxal octagram seal. The black ink. What is he going to do with this tracking device?

Tear it?

Burn it?

Rokah seized Naya's wrist, stopping the carriage. The force he applied reflected the chaos boiling inside. Her protesting cries withered along with the breeze. He jumped, the dust encircled his boots. Quickly, he disappeared into the crowds.

Mr. Hendrickson's entire plan must have progressed like this;

He somehow forecasted the carriage the butler was going to ride. He tempered with its wheels as well as he tucked the permit between the butler's things. Then he lied to Rokah, telling him that the butler stole his permit while offering it in exchange for the butler's life.

Forcefully gasping the air, the crowds departing the city, like a stormy ocean, trapped the stray lamps in its current.

It was one win, risky, designed situation. No matter the outcome, Hendrickson will receive the Crocottas' blessing by offering them to the two rebels.

If the butler killed Rokah, the Crocotta will track the butler down

If Rokah killed the butler, the Crocotta will successfully track him down.

Rokah skilfully tucked the permit between the luggage of some travelers.

Exiting the strong waves of passengers, he followed them with his eyes, till they vanished in the distance.

In the end, he couldn't decide, being enraged by this physically crippled man or awed by his unparalleled wit.

No need for dramatic breakdowns, no need for regrets. He only had to outsmart the man.

"Where were you?" The bored Naya, at the side of the road, exclaimed.

"Just looking around," he surveyed the carriage. "Thank you for waiting."

She, as well, noticed the contrast change in temper, before he went and after he came.

He would be a very interesting fellow, if not for the emptiness in his soul.

As he took place next to her, the friendliness outshone his cold previous appearance." I noted something momentous when I approached the main path." The leather bridle throbbed under the firm yet unsettled hands.

The off-road carriage joined the noise of the main paved path. "See… Each and every individual entering or departing the city is in a perfect humanoid form as if they were humans themselves." He articulated, slightly raising his voice, guaranteeing that the hubbub won't be able to surpass it.

"Yes," Nayara yelled, "This is the law of the civilization. "A fling of discontent knotted Naya's eyebrows; that's not fair, why she was the only one giving answers…

After, the carriage dived into silence. Only the noise from the outside came cracking the wall of stillness.

Rokah anticipated malevolence. Eyeing the profile of the woman. Peril transpired through her skin. She possibly guessed what had Rokah done with the permit.

"The Crocotta didn't give me the permit, I found it in a carriage debris." He declared, eagerly waiting for a reaction, a sign of her inner thoughts.

The carriage stopped in a long queue. The identity confirmation and registration routine will take time. The security at the entrance of the city, as severe as the circulating rumors tell.

" What a fair lady in your caliber was doing in a harsh land?" Allowing this woman's agenda sagging smoothly, a hazard, Rokah refused to let pass.

After all, this woman had some kind of connection with Lady Savannah. A chance meeting between the two and his sacrifice will be meaningless.

When he settled on giving up the permit, the odds of him entering the city, the effortless way, scattered into a thin air. Or so he thought. Little did he know about the real actual strife between the Babel elites and the northern cities.

Securing Naya eternal silence, a wish impossible to achieve. Demons are tricky beings. A complex manifestation. You can interact with them, feel them, sometimes see them. But touching them was a whole another story.

How can Rokah exterminate something he couldn't even touch?

She avoided looking at him. "I was searching for someone." Her voice distorted into the neighboring jabbers. The timber of sadness, yearning, tailored amid the indistinct syllables. Her focus strayed, skimming everything, refusing to surrender.

Rokah gaping at her, imbued. He identified a tuft of beauty and a flood of an invisible danger.

She didn't wait for him; she ratted him out.