Surveen received Akila's admission as if the latter were partially accountable for her daughter's fault and recklessness.

The Esere's eyelashes lowered toward the notebook, then to Kanari's listless figure. Regrets conquered any feelings of vexation that dwelt in her heart. A rare sight of Akila's wild, serene demeanor.

Unlike Savannah, the renowned black star, the genius void ambassador, whom she was at best cordial in family settings, formally considering the clan affairs. Kanari was Surveen's dear little sister. Hard-working, sedulous, often bashful, sometimes hesitant, and stubborn. Albeit not capable or famous, like her big sister, there was something to her that set her apart and paralleled her name with her mother. More importantly, she was unbearably talented at it.

Kanari, as defined by norms, a born animator, a person capable of granting life. Though not natural, it was neither related to the filthy, sinister art of necromancy.

A unique, rare gift in the realm of divinities. Sole the god able to create life.

Hmm, A banned technique…

All techniques, small or big, governed a form of retribution. Kind of wage.

Banned techniques ruled dear retributions and a soaring price.

Surveen was clueless about the art of animation, its functions, its laws. She required Esere Akila's explanations.

The tenebrous consequences that towered over Kanari's well-being if the said indiscernible link between her and the object of her art wasn't severed…

"An indefinite transaction." Akila declared: "It is amidst the most hazardous outcome that animator fears and trains mastering."

"An amateur mistake?" Akila's lofty mien darkened.

"Indefinite transaction risks are lower when performing a standard animation, however, it grows unavoidable in cases of complex ones." Akila's intense regret burst; for her leniency upon discovering Kanari's animation attempt and not severing it personally, her self-inculpatory hammered any bit of wrath directed against the young heedless exploitation.

She said, describing the entailed hazard's

" It's a profound coma, a state between life and death. It began slowly with the animator losing a great deal of his agility, the performance of his basic senses will decline, the ability to think, concentrate and move will follow after, then, a coma… All in favor of the object of his animation."

"Then we should…"

"Destroy the said animated object."

"That's an easy task."

"Yes." Akila's eyes flickered as she waited for Surveen's enlightenment. It pleased her that her motive remained indiscernible. Quite rare from an individual of Surveen caliber. She must really sympathize with Kanari. " I have sent Savannah a letter from Lord Shiva, ordering her to destroy the animated object."

"Lord shiva..." Wasn't he giving Hendrickson a ride to Babel...

A flash of light struck Surveen.

"Savannah is in Babel?" She clearly remembered that she had informed Savannah when she had met her in the forest to present herself in front of the control committee in Ashur for an interrogation.

When her report on the Mt. Ninurta affair will be submitted, Savannah's absence will be considered as an act of disobedience. Her punishment will be severe, and without doubts, rumors about her intentional involvement will flame the general opinion.

Impetuous… What is Savannah aiming to accomplish with this illogical series of actions?

No wonder Esere Akila's trouble never ends.

The only way Surveen found fit to help solve Akila's family troubles was by delaying her submission of the Mt. Ninurta report.

Hesitant to give her words, Surveen strode near the bed, gazing at Kanari's lifeless face. Inside her chest, an uprising clashed, her sympathy against her responsibilities…

Laws were a set of stones, blind and frigid. They existed to ensure orders, made to prevent anarchy. However, on occasions, they produce disorders, ignite ambiguous paths to cruelty.

Retarding the report delivery for a few more days, the weight of someone's life at the stake, in Surveen's heart, the balance set crystal clear. Enkindling righteous predicaments.

This was how the Esere of the Crocotta’s clan obtained both of her desired objectives. Delivering Kanari out from the consequences of her reckless practice. And savoring enough time to explore Savannah's late strange behavior.

Praise to her patience, bravado, and accurate timing to delay amputating Kanari's link with her animation in prospect to save both girls by throwing one stone.

"Esere, what about your upcoming meeting with the master of Mt. Enlil?" Surveen's voice carried a pitch of liberation after she made her mind.

"I don't have much choice with an eccentric man like him. I must go, no matter what." she nodded. "I will leave the farm and Kanari in your hands. I hope it won't multiply your workload."

"Rather, it will make a logical excuse for the control committee." Surveen walked near the door. There was just one last inkling: "Did Hendrickson tell you how he lost the farm? How that Hématophage found his way inside."

"Yes."

"Do you believe him?"

"Hmm... Maybe half of it."

***

Oblivious to all her mother's worries and struggle to buy time, Savannah invested a great deal of effort in shaping a piece of wood into a scythe embodiment.

Sculpturing crusty wood oozed out of the era of her skills.

She obtained a chunk of satisfaction by managing a simple approach by impersonating the scythe by using two sticks. One straight, the other slightly curved, and fixing them together in precise point with a strap.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

The time peeled quickly, the orange sunlight projected between the earth and the sky in a majestic scene akin to an apocalypse.

Two figures emerged, unscratched. Impossible tall shadows quivered on the ground, approaching at a steady pace.

She waited agile as her hunt loomed through the horizon.

It was past the new moon.

The wooden-like scythe twirled up and down as Savannah blocked the two travelers' road.

Wearing the humble manners, the wooden scythe danced formally in front of her, lowered head down, eyes closed, she murmured: "You were late."

The silence ate away Isidore's surprising features. Aloofness mastered the mutual exchange.

Savannah spayed over one half-opened eye, testing the water. The humble act dropped. "I guess you saw through my ploy."

"It was too good to be true."

That night, when she handed down the permits to the Kerit, instructing him to bring the Amarok along…

It was a calculated move that came with a high stake.

If the Kerit chose to flee alone, he would have bypassed the Clan territory by now.

If he followed her instruction, the non-recovered Amarok will slow the Kerit down.

Savannah bet triumphed. Not because of sheer luck, but because she based it on a logical judgment.

The mysterious doctor cared for the Amarok, attended to his health.

The Kerit recognized the doctor's identity, he rather seemed concerned about the doctor's fate and what had happened to him. Thus, he will probably leave the Amarok to his fate.

"If you have figured out my ploy, why insist on bringing the Amarok with you?" Savannah, all smiles and drunk over her victory.

The Kerit helped boast it to the sky: "You outsmarted me, I didn't figure it, till the night of the new moon."

Just arrived, the Amarok emerged from behind the big man. "I told you, do not believe them."

"Should he leave you in the forest?"

"Should I leave you in the forest?"

Both answered him at the same time.

The silence hovered again. It resembled the first time they had met, yet the atmosphere pressed for more wickedness and threat.

The strand of sunlight withdrew under the cloak of night. It was a moonless blackness. Sinister glow reflected on three pairs of eyes. One was pale yellow, the second painted in gold, and the third marked with an aurora of crimson blood.

Facing the obscure risks of nature, the normal range of different senses inflates. Superior predators summon their esoteric perceptions to hunt or to fight.

The red gleam sealed under eyelids, Isidore breathing firm, watchful. The pale yellow that jammed his path shone with resolve and determination. Nobody shall move away unless blood muddied the ground's thirst, or hidden secrets shall be unsheltered.

"What is your story with him? What did he do to you?" Isidore scratched the ice.

"I am the one who asks questions?"

The wooden scythe rolled the air before clattering the earth by the tip. Flutter climbed Isidore's solid legs and paused there. He felt the shaking in his Lycan companion as the other hand held onto his arm, searching for support.

Savannah's pale yellow narrowed, intensified: "Who is Rokah? What is his true identity?"

"A born healer…" Isidore said apathetically.

Fluster and fear dominated Uriah's words, how not when he experimented with the degrading effects of the Crocotta’s black star. "I told you, I do know nothing about him. I was half-conscious. He treated me like he treated any other patient of his."

"We mythical creatures, a mere beast without a consciousness, mere humans without our empyrean form." Isidore's eyes flared a light of reminiscence: "After roaming Ea's forest for decades, a doctor managed to cure my condition."

Savannah observed him. Her sensitive eyes could trace his figure. Pity touched her heart. Animal sanity was one of the two conditions the mythical creatures feared the most.

Isidore added, contemplating, "If you have met him, then it must be in a context of a serious injury or an illness."

The bulky man hit the nail and missed it. This wasn't why Savannah absorbed the heed of the doctor. She didn't suffer physical injuries or have that kind of illness. Or so...

Were they even talking about the same person?

"He often likes to temper with his appearance. It sprang from his desire of wanting to be wrongly judged by others or that what he had told me."

Savannah swallowed air, listening hungrily: "Now, I think he was to a certain level right. Most people grounded their judgment on superficial miens."

Savannah's focus whirled, "You mean, neither I got his name right nor I know how he looks." Her awareness weathered under the recollection of fleeing memory:

Dissatisfaction, rage, loss, an acute state of agony… She dragged her heavy feet.

The legions of people come and go. The market resembled a house of bees, berserk and restless. Infuriating whirs flooding the sensitive and insensitive ears, ferociously.

A stranger walked near her… seemed unnoticed by others but her. Jarring, distinct features, devoid of colors. Spotless white, maybe an angel. Odd-hued eyes plugged her path.

A hamming akin to a dying person's last wish:

"My Lady, would you grant me the honor to draw you?"

The screaming cries of Babel market swallowed under the harmonious stillness. Nonchalantly accepting this unusual request, Savannah's life would never be the same.