“We’ve been expecting your arrival, Lord Sitri.” The azure-cladded watcher guarding the gate to the colossal institute bowed his head.
“Yes, yes. I’m here now. Open the gate already.” Sitri shouted from within his carriage. He had lingered outside the ramparts for hours – the boys in blue never failed to waste as much time as possible to search his coach, as if he was wagoning weapons of mass destruction.
Though the wagon was reasonably spacious – after hours of planting his buttocks firmly in one spot, even the air would feel stuffy and rancid despite the window being opened. The white cloak whom he adored so much has all but drenched in waters of his makings – and the crew of Sentinels accompanying him to safeguard his journey has all sunken into their seats, even Sitri would not want to wear such thick and heavy dark garments under the scorching heat.
There are few things that Sitri hated more than leaving his office at Newspecs to merely frolic under the wet sky and on the muddy ground – unlike his father and sister; he was never the fondest of sweating his back. The only reason he even made his journey towards the Ironmount Institution was for its abundant assortments of test subjects – and the Watch Warden of the vast prison claimed that he had important matters to confer with Sitri.
“Open the gate!” the watcher called to his comrades beyond the other side of the walls, and before long, the massive gate began to unbolt and allowed the carriage to make way within.
Sitri stepped off his wagon and marched towards the centre of the giant courtyard. The Ironmount Institute had little to its worth aside from its sheer width that spanned along a third of the mighty mountain range that the fortress neighboured. It earned its scope and size from erecting its dark, stony towers and ramparts over the harsh and remote patch of lands by the foot of the Centum Alps – where no common folks would dare to dwell, lest they wish to earn the ire of nature.
The view of the vast Centum Alps mightily looming their pointy peaks over the institute was a fearsome sight to behold – yet perhaps it was for the best that the mountain range that pierced the clouds has casted its shadow over the outlandish sight lying hidden behind the prison’s veils.
Hundreds of chained men lined up in the square, stripped bare of their garments and subjected to endless lashes from their watchdroid captors – with a few tied to wooden crosses while others bounded to pillories. Ecliants, steelborns, and humans alike – their brittle skin coated in dust and sand, with limbs missing from their sunken torsos and colours faded from their hollow eyes. Though the prisoners in the courtyard alone outnumbered the entirety of the watchers stationed in the Ironmount – the brainwashed husks no longer housed the valour to defy their captors and instead spent their days wielding pickaxes and chisels in the dark caverns within the many mounts of the Centum Alps.
The Ironmount Institute served as the office keep for the watchdroids and the largest prison in all of Xearth, yet it has always focused less on condemning scoundrels and more on sentencing abled men to the mines of the Centum Alps – though Sitri was never one to oppose their practices. The ground they stepped upon quaked at times as if a colossal beast was housed beneath the bedrock – but Sitri did not mind the rumbling soil, but more so to the mounts reaching high in the air, for he knew it was housed elsewhere but here.
“We meet again, Lord Sitri.”
The sound of coarse yet coordinated bootsteps could be heard marching behind the Head of Newspecs. The voice was rough and grave, as if his gorge was swollen and bruised.
Sitri twisted his frail body around and greeted the master of the grand keep. “Yes, yes. Nice meeting you again, too, Lord Dovanka.” Sitri bowed half-heartedly, for his stiffed back would not allow him to descend any lower despite being in the presence of the Watch Warden himself.
The well-kempt and righteous commander-in-chief of all watchers, Ronquiotte Dovanka, coughed into his gloved hand as if to disregard Sitri’s poor act of conduct. “I pray to Ark that your journey from Sentry to here was without any hitches,” the Watch Warden bowed deeply – as expected of a man burdened by solemn duties such as him.
Ronquiotte was a rather young lad that Sitri had not had the pleasure of meeting often afore – he ought to be no older than Sitri was. He was only promoted to the helm of the Watch Warden recently when his predecessor, whom Sitri was far more acquainted with, retired from his post. He dressed far less befitting of a Watch Warden than the former head – merely adorning a standard dark navy garment over his tanned skin, one that any common watcher would wear.
“It was alright…” Sitri stuttered, the surly silver orbs of a man who was practically a stranger to him were not terribly pleasant.
“How fare are the Aces and His Heavenlier?” asked Ronquiotte as he scratched his long, snowy mane.
“They’re good…” Sitri answered feebly. His throat was rather parched after spending so much time on the Steelroad.
The Watch Warden coughed faintly once more, with his eyes shifting up and down. “And what of your father? It has been quite a while since I’ve had the chance to greet the Prime Sentinel. He always seems to have duties to deal with.”
“That he does…” Sitri mumbled even thinner, that was hardly a topic he’d like to engage on when his mind and limbs were still sore from the long journey.
The poor Watch Warden scratched upon his neck more anxiously as sweat trickled down from his brows – Sitri doubted that even a man as silver-tongued as Bao would be able to endure such a gloomy exchange. “So what could we help you with today, Lord Sitri?” he inquired Sitri.
“You have any new samples of interest?” Sitri’s tone brightened ever so feebly as his once-parched gorge rejuvenated on its own.
The Watch Warden dropped his arm and quitted his frantic drivel at the mere mention from Sitri. “Samples wouldn’t be the right word. But follow me if you will,” he spoke, his voice gravened further, and his scowl deepened.
It was clear as day to even someone as tone-deaf as Sitri that the new Watch Warden was not quite delighted to heed Sitri’s request – but to uphold the promise and contract of his predecessor was a duty that one must honour.
“Good. Lead the way.” Sitri commanded. With one wave from his hand, he signalled his entourage of Sentinels to stay behind – for the coming matters were not to be privy to the common eyes and ears.
“I will, but under one condition,” Ronquiotte stated.
“Yes?” Sitri blurted – it was the first time that a Watch Warden had the temerity to impose their demand on him.
“No more of what you did last time.” The Watch Warden warned. “Prisoners they may be, but they are still under my watch. They are not puppets and dolls for you to stab and tear as you please.”
“It’s your roof and walls. Who am I to oppose your rules?” Sitri raised his hands to the air as if he was being apprehended by the watchers – though it was not quite far off.
“Very well. Follow me.” The Watch Warden marched afront Sitri as if he was herding a prisoner across the courtyard and to their desolated dungeon, lurking deep inside one of the many shadowy towers of the Ironmount Institution.
As he walked across the vast yard, every man he passed, Sitri could feel glares coated in ire marked at him. Regardless of the colour of their coat and blood, lesser men from all corners of Xearth tend to blame Sitri for the plights that his creations have wreaked upon their lives.
Though his lungs were delicate and his pluck feebler than a mouse, Sitri huffed in a deep breath and spat at the wretched sights of whipped convicts, biddable cowards, and unlucky sops. You cretins brought it upon yourself… Sitri stuck his tongue out at the pitiful prisoners while hiding behind the back of the Watch Warden – his white spotless coat fluttering along the breeze held the sole proof of his virtue.
*
“I yield… I relinquish…” A man – perhaps less than a man and more akin to an empty husk cried out a bloodcurdling bellow while refuging his whole body under the patch of shadow within his lonely dungeon. “My soul… My flesh… To the land first whom walked…” his soulless orbs fixed onto the dirty walls of his cage as he spewed gibberish. The entire dungeon blocks lone housed the shrivelled cage, isolated away from any other bellowing souls – as if the tower was to hide the demented man from depraved convicts, or perhaps it was to shield others from him. Yet, even for such a desolated dungeon, it was merely assigned a priority of two out of three security levels – even Sitri has never been to the third level before, one ought to shudder to think what manners of heinous monsters are confined away in the third level.
“A rather chirpy fellow you have caged up in here,” Sitri glanced at the bald prisoner. His body was littler than even Sitri’s, and his pale skin recessed to his bones – though perhaps it was a stroke of fortune for him as if he was any bigger, Sitri doubted that the small cage he was locked in would be able to contain him. The little human frothed from his mouth while feebly gnawing his decayed teeth onto his thin flesh – as if he was a rabid beast, a rather frail one at that.
The Watch Warden did not heed Sitri’s crude remark, and instead, the dignified chief seemed to be wholly engrossed by the ramble of the maddened man.
“Well, go on. Tell me about him.” Sitri clapped his hands, awaking the aloof warden from his ponderation.
“A human from the Wasteland. He was found drowning in the Sparkling Sea a week ago – perhaps the fool tried to escape into Xearth by raft, but the sea was not so forgiving.” The Watch Warden revealed as he then carefully rolled up the sleeves of his navy shirt. “Though I’m no man of the white cloak and tome, it seems to me that he was stricken with Follium – perhaps now that you’re here, you could sate my curiosity.”
Ronquiotte reached his arm between the many bars of the cell – in his grasp was a morsel of bread, of which he then released his grip and fed the floor with that piece of bread. It did not take long for the prisoner to crawl his way out of the shadow and towards the front of his cage – laying his slender fingers and chipped nails onto the tiny crumb and devouring it piece by piece as if it was the finest delicacy he had ever tasted.
Sitri reached inside the deep pocket of his white coat and unveiled a black cylinder with a head of mirror – it firmly fitted with the grasp of Sitri’s smooth palm.
Sitri could tell from a glance that despite all of his bravado and accolades, the Watch Warden did not seem like a man terribly caught up with the times. “A new invention of Newspecs. Flashlight, it is titled, as mandated by His Heavenlier. Soon, it will be the first amongst many great relics to guide ecliants out of darkness.” Though Newspecs invented it, they did not name it – the Prophet was the one who had the authority to do so on behalf of Ark, as he had with most creations in Xearth. By pressing a small button built onto the surface of the rod, a beam of light, brighter than any lanterns or torches could ever summon, conjured out from the head of the cylinder. Its tender ray ushered light into the dungeon once wholly consumed in darkness – and also ushered awe onto the face of the once stone-faced Watch Warden.
“A bemused idol for a muscle mind such as yourself, surely.” Sitri sneered. “Nothing so dull and inefficient like the common lanterns and torches that Xearthers have been brandishing for over two centuries.” Sitri dangled the flashlight in front of Ronquiotte’s dulled face. “I may even consider contributing my contraptions to your cause, granted, if my demands are met, of course.”
“That matter is hardly of any concern as of this moment. Do what you’ve come here to do first and foremost, Lord Sitri.” The Watch Warden remained steadfast and unshaken by Sitri’s provocation, batting the cylinder of light away from his sight – the strike nearly made Sitri drop the relic.
It’s your loss, Sitri cursed in silence – for he knew he’d be no match for the Watch Warden in a bout. “Alright, let’s see how possibly interesting this specimen of yours could be.” He turned his attention to the savage who was still nibbling onto the tiny piece of bread – and Sitri shone the light over his paled face, yet the feral beast did not wince nor quiver but instead found solace under the flame lit by men. “Frothing mouth, peeling skin, erratic movements, hair loss, gnawing onto one’s own flesh… At least from what I could see, these are symptoms of Follium, no doubt.” Sitri pointed the flashlight throughout the human’s entire body. “Better keep this one away from the other humans for now. Wouldn’t want the disease spread to them as well.”
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
“I figured that much.” Ronquiotte coughed.
Follium – though ecliants fancied its title as Man’s Folly, was a curse that only humans could suffer. Once cursed, the host would abandon what little sanity they had left and shed into an even lesser and fouler shell – ghouls with blanked minds who relished in feasting on the flesh of their own ilk. A terrible fate for humans, yet Sitri could spare not even an ounce of pity for those cretins – for it is merely an act of Ark to bring the true nature of these malevolent humans to light.
“Though I can’t say that I’m terribly impressed with this sample, Lord Warden. If I wanted a ghoul, then I could just sail myself out to the Wasteland instead. No doubt there’d be thousands of more interesting ones out there for me. Ones that are not one foot in the grave at least.” Sitri sighed as he shifted his light towards the end of the corridor to where the entrance was. “I suggest you put it down and burn the body. A mindless beast like him wouldn’t do you any good in the mines anyway.” The young Ace waved his fist while still grasping onto the flashlight as he began to tread down the narrow dungeon.
“It would do you geniuses some good to listen to the lesser enlightened at times.”
“Excuse me?” Sitri halted his steps and whipped his head backwards – nearly cracking his neck. Those words sounded like the ones that would come out of the mouth of a particular haughty scoundrel whom Sitri so detested.
“The words of madmen and desperate folks – heed them attentively and carefully. For you may think they come commonly and indifferently, but I assure that you Lords of Sentry do not know the difference.” The Watch Warden said calmly, yet his choice of words did not match his temper.
“Fine. I’ll humour you.” Sitri retorted – as he would if that particular conceited philanderer was here to mock him. He has experimented on dozens of ghouls afore, and yet merely few of those man-eating savages were able to provide any worth to his research – though he would never cower away from a chance to challenge his mind.
Sitri returned to the caged Wastelander once more and graced his light over the creature’s feeble flesh. It had finally finished dining on the morsel of bread – though it did not appear to fatten his body by any margin. His pelt remained paled and peeled. His head housed merely a few silver strands that could fall off at the softest breeze. His skin was etched deeply onto his bones, leaving clear marks of veins and crevices all over his body.
Wait a minute… Sitri leaned closer to the cell, his nose skimpily touching the bars of the cage, yet he did not mind the cold and dusty sensation. The ghoul was coated in endless scars and gashes of his own makings, to the point where the dried blood painted over his body hid away his snowy skin. Yet amidst the blemishes, a singular gash separated itself from the rest. Engraved onto the back of his neck was a gash, no bigger than an acorn, and it was lathered in pale green instead of dry red – yet Sitri could not imagine how an injury such as that could be inflicted, or perhaps it was not even an injury.
“The jaded folks, their remit cometh… Song they tear… Rain they pour… Earth they free…” the Wastelander resumed his mumbles. As if they were words of prayers – each passing verse brought slight vigour to his feeble voice and colour to his hollow eyes.
Is he talking about the Firskind? Or are the Wastelanders preparing an invasion on Xearth? Sitri was staggered. It was rare for Sitri to feel that way – yet within recent events, he had felt it twice over now.
“Peaked your interest?” Ronquiotte poked his head in while Sitri was still deep in thought.
“Who are these jaded folks you speak of?” Sitri urged the Wastelander as he pounded onto the cage with his flashlight, echoing thundering sounds throughout the silent dungeon as if a battering ram was thrusting into a gate.
As how the blinding light did not awake the mindless husk from his stupor – nor did the deafening clamour. “Mercy once afore… Never again…” the follied man uttered his last prayer before disappearing into the shadow whom he called home once more.
Sitri sheathed his light back into his pocket – vile the human may be, Sitri could, at the very least, allow him repose in the darkness. Sitri had never encountered a ghoul with such symptoms before. Perhaps the Follium and his mad rambles did not come from one and the same… Numerous hypotheses surged through his mind, yet he could not figure out an answer that could satiate his ignorance.
“A rather peculiar ghoul, isn’t he? Not one that you could just find anywhere in the Wasteland, I reckon.” The Watch Warden smugly remarked.
Sitri did not answer. His gangly hands were shaking underneath the thick sleeves of his white coat, while his face was redder than the dusking sun – yet he could not realise whether it was out of anger or embarrassment.
“So, what do you think? Is he, in fact, mad? Or are there secrets rooted in his madness?” Ronquiotte was pleased with the outcome and halted his smug disposition.
“I don’t know,” Sitri mumbled, his silver eyes staring off into the shadowy abyss as his dome conjured up countless theories that only served to further prick his already busy mind. “Their remit cometh…” Sitri slid the verse out of his mouth – it left behind an odd aftertaste on the tip of his tongue as if he had just uttered cursed speech. “The Firstkind would be my first guess, lest he’s speaking of other rebels of old. Who knows? Maybe Ark would return himself.” Sitri suggested the Truemen and the Red Rebels – the rebels who predated the Firstkind and brought about the first two Iron Rebellions, respectively, though they have long since been reduced to specks of dust and ashes for daring to oppose the Centum Order.
“You seem more annoyed than pleased. I thought a hungry mind such as yourself would delight in tackling such tortuous discoveries?” Ronquiotte probed the scowling Ace.
“I already have so much on my plate. I’m not that hungry,” Sitri lamented. On top of leading Newspecs, upholding his deal with Bao, minding his family’s affair, and now this matter as well – even a genius like Sitri has his limits. “I’ll buy this ghoul from you, nevertheless. How does one gold ark sound?” Sitri bid. It’d normally be unthinkable for a human, let alone a demented ghoul, to fetch such a high price.
“A man is not to be sold.” Without a single shred of hesitation, the Watch Warden rejected Sitri’s offer.
“I could hardly even call that moving husk a man.” The Head of Newspecs let out a sardonic laugh.
“That is for me to decide, not you. I do not mind if you wish to watch him from his cell at times, but I could not trust to put my prisoner’s life in your hands.” The Watch War proposed his own offer.
“This is not exactly the first time we’ve done this. Why the cold feet now? Such hesitation and cowardice weren’t present when it wasn’t you who adorned the mantle of Watch Warden,” Sitri goaded the green Watch Warden. “But I understand – arks speak louder than your brand of justice. How about three gold arks for the ghou–”
“How longer do you mean to insult us, Lord Sitri?”
“I beg your pardon?” Sitri uttered.
“I invited you here in the hope of uncovering riddles that would be of value to Xearth, yet you insist on treating the Ironmount as no more than your private slaver’s ring.” Ronquiotte gnashed his teeth while twisting a silver glare that could melt stones.
“Your institute is the one who approved of my visits.” Sitri snickered in disbelief.
“As an observer, not a player.” The Watch Warden pounded his fist against the stone wall – if not for his black glove, no doubt his hand would have suffered a hefty price, or perhaps the wall would. “I regret my lack of power before, but now that I’m the Watch Warden – I’d no longer tolerate such imprecations within my walls.” His presence was commandeering and nauseating amidst the stuffy dungeon, one that could bring lesser men to heel – though he still had a long journey to hone until he could match Father’s.
“Then why invited me here then? Surely not so you could just lecture me on my business dealings with your predecessor?” Sitri palmed his own face. He has never been subjected to such affront before from the previous Watch Warden.
“Evidently not. I expected that you would have a change of heart, but it seems that my faith was unfound.” Ronquiotte descended his sleeveless arm from the cratered wall. “Henceforth, I bid you a formal farewell and apology for ending any further ventures between Newspecs and the Ironmount Institution – well, at the very least, any secret and wicked ventures behind closed curtains.” Though malice could practically be seen seeping out from his body – the Watch Warden bowed deeply before Sitri, even having his long silver strands skimpily grazing the stone tiles.
“So if it does not benefit you and make you look good afront the Centum Order, you’d want none to do with it? You’re not so different from the previous Watch Warden, after all.” The Head of Newspecs mocked the bowing Lord. He saw how the warden gandered with at his invention as if it was a wand of light – his pupils mesmerised, almost brightening to shades of gold instead of silver.
“And you could not be any different from the Prime Sentinel.” Any respect Ronquiotte had for Sitri seemed to vanish the moment he rose from his bow.
So you’re going to go there, with his silver orbs seeming as if they would burst out of their sockets, Sitri stared at the warden who had lastly unmasked his true face – he could not decide on whether he should scowl or laugh at the jibe.
“I guess aside from the fact that you’re both crooks deserving of your due penance, yet have been treated with impunity for the longest time,” the warden did not halt his maligning.
“My acts, heinous or not, are in part due to your inability to impede me. What goods are the watchers if they could not even stop a frail man of the desk such as myself?”
“Say what you will about my incompetence – nothing that I haven’t learned myself. But the countless bodies that had piled up in our keep have all but rotted and reeked – it is nigh time that someone buries them.” Ronquiotte vowed.
“Then why don’t you arrest me here and now? Perhaps that will grant some corpses their peace.” Sitri held his wrists forward to the Watch Warden, awaiting for his belated shackles.
“Your sentence will come – as would the Prime Sentinel.” Ronquiotte had no chains for him – as usual. “But for now, do we have an agreement, Lord Sitri?” With his stance upright and steady, Ronquiotte drew his roughed hand out to Sitri – not as the Watch Warden to the Head of Newspecs, but as fellow Lords of the Centum Order.
“Alright, alright. I did say I’d follow the rules under your roof,” Sitri shook his palm, though it felt as if the brute’s grip would tear his hand from his wrist.
“I offer you my gratitude, Lord Sitri.” The Watch Warden released his clasp.
How much of it is actual gratitude? Sitri caressed his swollen fingers. “But let’s say – if any of the samples happen to be irredeemable scums and scoundrels. Well, surely then you’d have no problem with me nabbing a few of them?” he inquired.
“Scums, scoundrels, abandoned souls. All would be given a fitting trial under the judgment of Ark.” Ronquiotte pledged.
“And by that, you mean to work the mines of the Centum Alps until their bones shatter and limbs tear?”
For the first time since their descent into this dusky tower dungeon, the tenacious Watch Warden held no rebuttal nor denial. “That is enough. I believe you should have no other concerns here any longer, Lord Sitri.” The virtuous Lord Dovanka niftily dodged Sitri’s query.
“No, I believe not.” Sitri relinquished, though he was satisfied with the charlatan's riposte. “Well, though we may not see eye to eye in all matters – I do still hope that Newspecs and the Ironmount Institution could continue our fruitful relationship. One rooted in benevolence and peace, of course.” He smiled wryly.
“I sincerely wish so as well, Lord Sitri.” The receiver, too, smiled wryly.
Sitri stretched his stiff legs that had stood still for the longest time, though the Watch Warden appeared to not suffer the same agony despite their age being akin. “Good luck in the upcoming months. You’ll need it.” Once recovered, Sitri bid the Ronquiott his farewell and fortune.
“And why should I need your blessing?” the ungrateful watcher questioned Sitri at any chance he possessed.
“Not only is the Arklympics commencing soon, but the Firstkind is wreaking quite a lot of havoc throughout Xearth,” even Sitri had to admit that his workload was incomparable to what the Sentinels and watchdroids would be dealing with in the coming time.
“Your point being?” No doubt the Watch Warden knew what Sitri meant, yet he wasted Sitri’s time regardless.
“I pity you, that’s all. The Ironmount is sure to be filled to the brim with so many feverish folks going around.” Sitri twirled his head in circles – gandering at the solitary dungeon that would soon lose its title. “I doubt that with the meagre manpower you have here, you’d be able to hold and remember every single head you have chaining about.” The Ace worded.
For a second time, the Watch Warden was left stumped once more. From where he stood, Ronquiotte could only glare his silver eyes at Sitri while his fingers bent and dug into his palms – if Sitri was any closer to the bronzed Lord, no doubt those gloved fists would no longer be dangling by his sides.
“Though who am I to comment on such matters? After all, I’m hardly a man of the stadium nor battlefield,” Sitri cracked a laugh – though he did take a small step backwards, just in case. “My place is with the books.” Sitri waved his hand at the tweaking warden as he then paced hastily down the strip the moment he had the chance.
Sitri did not need to turn around to tell what sort of twisted expression the Watch Warden was porting – nor would he stay long enough for his foe to part their last words in.
As he left for the entrance, where glimmers of light shone through the crevices and into the shadowy dungeon – from the corner of his eyes, he briefly glanced at the Wastelander once more. He refused to tilt his neck wholly, lest he wanted the face of Ronquiotte to be in sight as well – as such, it was hard to have a clear view of the ghoul, with his golden locks impeding his eyes and no flashlight to light his path. Yet from what he could see of the husk shrivelling under the shadow, it was that of a human who had felt and seen what no humans should have – though that was no longer Sitri’s concern to ponder.
With his sweaty palm clasped around the rusty handle of the steel gate and his white back facing the deserted darkness and its hosts – one lone thought coursed his jumbled mind. Come to think of it, Arwyle should be graduating from Harford in the coming month… Sitri had been so busy lately, tangled with matters from every corner of Xearth, that it nearly slipped his mind – even though he was the one who pestered Father about it. A rather unpleasant thought it was to conjure before his departure.
To think Sitri had taken so much time out of his hectic schedule just to travel all the way from Sentry to the Ironmount Institution, yet only to then return after mere hours of being welcomed to their mountain keep – he surely could not be that unlikable. Perhaps once his schedule has cleared up, he should ask Bao for some lessons to brush up on his etiquette – or maybe not, even the brightest minds have bad ideas from time to time.