“Where is he?” the lady asked as she fixed her slim glasses. Her sapphire eyes were ever so focused on her clipboard, paying no heed to the entourage.
“We’re currently keeping him in a guest chamber. Should we bring him now, Lady Sydra?” the Sentinel promptly replied. His tone was unaverred and conduct sharpened, befitting of the gold hexagram emblem he adorned.
Sydra lifted her eyes away from the papers, before gently straightening her dusky coat and walking away. “Bring him to the Prophet’s chamber. I’ll arrange an audience.” The secretary said without a lookback. The Prophet should still be in his chamber at this time, being the son and eyes of the Great God Ark ought to keep him busy in most days.
“At once, My lady.” The Sentinel responded. Though her head was turned, the clatter of colliding chainmail and hasty bootsteps furthering her rear, assured her of his compliance.
Sydra trailed across the vast and gleaming hallway. The hearth carried wide, as dozens of Sentinels could be stationed there with room to spare for their steeds. Paintings and artifacts from olden days mounted across every wall, each whispering silent tales of the might of the Centum Order. Banners and drapes embroidered with a simple black enneagram decorated at all sections of the castle – to honour the Centum Order.
Though she’s merely a steelborn, a halfling from a human mother and an ecliant father, she ever wondered how fortunate she was to be able to wander the halls of the Arkeep. Her station as the Prophet’s secretary owed her minute personal joy, though her fatigue ever so faintly eased when she admired this olden fortress of Sentry.
He better be in his office right now, Sydra pondered as she wandered through the number of corridors – every stationed Sentinels bowing to her as she passed. She knew that the Prophet rarely lingered in his office, and instead meandered to the many galleries within the keep. She squinted her brows as her mind ached at the mere thought of having to amuse the Prophet’s fickle urges.
She steadily paced faster at the thought. Her silver strands swayed as her stride broadened, capturing the gazes of passing sentries. Eyes of men in duty, men in fear, men in lust, Sydra has witnessed them all afore. Those eyes were never enthralled to hers when she was merely a steelborn with no title nor honour to her name.
Her pace began to dwindle, as she gasped for air and sweated within her coat. The fortress was a wonder. Though its scale and finery were unmatched throughout all of Xearth, Sydra ever dreaded traversing within it no matter its splendour.
She kept walking, panting incessantly while dabbing herself with a handkerchief with each passing step. I should request the Prophet to station carriages within the keep, Sydra silently jested and snickered.
*
The door was the same as any others within the Arkeep, though when she stood afront it, her heart pumped insistently no matter however many times she had gone behind it. She warily patted her tattered garb and straightened her snowy hair.
She knocked on the door. “May I enter, Your Heavenlier?” Sydra requested, her tenor was calm and tender. Though the door separated the two, she softly bobbed a curtsy nonetheless – waiting for an answer.
“You may.”
Upon receiving approval from the Prophet, Sydra raised herself, and with one hand, she gently grasped the doorknob, while the other sternly gripped the clipboard.
She swiftly recouped her breath and unlocked the door. She stepped within the Prophet’s office, the chamber where the most important man in Xearth resided. She has been in his service for over ten years, and though she believed them to have a bond beyond the confine of classes – hesitation and reverence still cowered her when she was around him, though that temperance has dwindled as of late.
This repulsive… Sydra silently irked as she glanced across the room. Piles of documents and unsealed envelopes flooded the chamber. Numbers of tomes were stacked like bricks on his desk, wobbling and falling when a step was taken in the room. Sydra took a step backward as her nose flinched, and her mouth gagged from a dreadful aroma. What is that smell? Sydra looked around the chamber. Beneath the tomb of papers, she spotted empty bottles, dried chalices, and grimy plates littered on the floor.
Amidst this battlefield, stood a man, with a dishevelled silver head, cladded in a stained white dress shirt, embroidered with a white nine-pointed star – the symbol of his faith and God. His golden eyes were ever so focused on a paper in hand, paying no heed to Sydra.
“Your Heavenlier.” Though the chamber repulsed her, she thoroughly knelt down and greeted the Prophet.
“Up with you now, Syndy.” The Prophet gestured his hand. “Kneeling and honouring me are needless I’ve said.”
“You certainly had,” Sydra said as she once more glanced at the cluttered office. “And I’m beginning to believe it.” She softly jested, to which the Prophet replied with a gentle grin. “I was gone for one week, and the room was reduced to… this. What do you make of it?”
“I was busy.” He neatly folded the paper and slid it into his pocket. “Entertaining guests.”
“You’re the most important man in all of Xearth. They should entertain you, not the other way around.” She knelt down once more and collected the litter.
“I doubt that very much. I’m only important to them when it matters.” He knelt down beside Sydra and grabbed the dirty crockeries. “This isn’t two hundred years ago. Everyone and everything think they’re the king of the world nowadays.” The old man reminisced of the olden days, though his youthful beauty had not left him.
“You say as if I’d know,” Sydra responded. As a child, she had learned about the Iron War, between ecliants and humans two hundred years ago, and how it led to the Centum Order’s birth – but being able to talk with a relic of history himself made her question the many lessons she had learned.
“Of course you don’t. You youngins have it easy nowadays.” Though he looked not a day older than thirty, he stretched his back and lightly groaned. Sydra subtly sighed at the poor act of humour.
“Thirties isn’t exactly young, is it?” Sydra retorted.
“Twenty, thirty, seventy, may as well be the same in my eyes.” The old ecliant said, for a moment, it seemed as if his eyes had lost their colour and his words turned sour.
She has worked for the Prophet for over a decade, and at times, she would find the man who owned the world, to carry such sad and tired eyes. Why? Sydra murmured, ensuring the Prophet couldn’t hear her.
“You may be older than me in age, but, younger in all else, it’d seem.” Sydra softly jested.
“Thank you. But frankly, that isn’t hard to achieve.” The Prophet replied, his visage outwardly lightened as his annoying grin returned.
Sydra silently sighed in relief as she hurriedly gathered the remaining litter.
The Prophet lifted certain parchments and stacked them together neatly, his fingers handled them ever so delicately, unlike with his chamber. He slowly stood back up, as he headed for his desk and hoarded the documents away.
“Syndy. About the watchdroid,” he asked as he gently inserted the papers and locked the drawer.
“He’s being brought over as we speak.” Sydra swiftly responded. “Please, go ready yourself. I’ll handle the chamber.” Sydra offered as she lay towering stacks of documents on her lap, awkwardly balancing them while gathering leftover scattered papers. Her arms were sore, and her back ached, though she couldn’t show it to the Prophet. She silently panted and stretched her joints, ensuring they did not meet the gaze of the Prophet.
The Prophet walked towards Sydra. She ignored him, trusting that it’d deter him from staying.
He bent down next to Sydra. “That’s quite all right. Knowing the Sentinels, we would have more than enough time to clean up before they arrive.” He said gently as he grabbed the stacks of documents on Sydra’s lap and laid them on his desk.
It baffled Sydra that a man of his station had to handle such menial labour, but she could not stop him. Darn it… Sydra sighed underneath her breath as she writhed to mask away a smile. Sydra carefully passed more gathered parchments to the Prophet, as he paced back and forth from Sydra to his desk.
He cautiously set the piles on his desk, before dabbing sweats off his forehead. “Besides, I don’t want you peering into my private documents,” the Prophet stated.
“What are you hiding?” Sydra asked as she took out her handkerchief and dabbed her face.
“Private documents.” He restated.
Sydra put away her handkerchief and glared at the suspicious Prophet. “Are they por–”
“They are private documents.” He restated once more.
Silence ensued, as Sydra continued cleaning in one corner, and the Prophet in another. Thy shan’t wear faces coloured by falsehoods, Sydra mumbled the Fourth Tenet, the second out of nine commandments mandated by Ark in the Arkive, his holy scripture. The Prophet should know those passages better than anyone else, but whether he followed them or not – Sydra did not know.
*
“I don’t know who you had over, but next time, I’m making them clean up before they leave. Got it?” Sydra coughed away the dust lingering around her nose, as she placed the last heap of documents into the cabinet.
“God, what are you? My mother?” the Prophet dropped and laid on the floor, further dirtying his garments. The wretched sight of the Prophet panting in exhaustion as he drowned in waters of his making, was the lone reward that Sydra received for this debacle.
“You had it easy then if that was all that your mother did.” Sydra retorted as she sat down at the Prophet’s desk.
“Is that right?” he murmured amidst his heavy gasps.
The chamber has returned to how it was before Sydra left. Cabinets and bookshelves encompassed the room – encircling a lone desk made of auburn maple wood.
Sydra rarely ever got the chance to be seated on the Prophet’s throne, chiefly when the bearer was resting on the carpet. This picture… Amidst the now tidy desk, Sydra picked up a small wooden frame, within it lay a picture of the Prophet smiling and hugging shoulders with seven other people. So these were the Archetypes, Sydra recognised few of them, and some she had never seen before.
Every child in Xearth is taught of the forebearers of the ecliants and the Centum Order dating back hundreds of years afore – the Archetypes they were named, and eight of them were fashioned from Ark’s mighty chisel. Though she knew of their existence, she had only had the privilege to meet a few of them. So even you could smile like that, Sydra gently giggled at the grin that seemingly belonged to another person.
“Your Heavenlier. Lady Sydra. The watchdroid has been escorted.” A placid knock on the chamber’s door accompanied by a dutiful voice shook Sydra out of her daze, as she instinctively released the picture frame from her grasp.
The knocking alerted the Prophet as well, as before Sydra could leave her desk, the Prophet instantly rose himself up from the floor and gently brushed the dust off his shirt, and fixed his dishevelled silver head. “Bring him in.” The Prophet ordered as he straightened his back and cleared his throat.
The Sentinel did not answer.
The ensuing silence vexed Sydra. This unruly sentry… Sydra wished to open the door and punish the Sentinel, but she didn’t move a step as the Prophet didn’t either. She glanced at him, he stood motionless, still in posture and expression, only eyeing the gate, as if he were in a waiting contest against the other side.
“Forgive me but I could not do that. He’s currently awaiting in the council hall, for an audience with the Aces.” The Sentinel broke the silence. “Allow me to escort you there, Your Heavenlier.”
Those impudent… His calm and unwavering voice infuriated Sydra as if he found nothing wrong with his request. “Inform the Aces that the Prophet need not move a step out of his chamber and that if they wish to attend the hearing, they shall make way here.” Sydra marched towards the door and commanded, clenching her fists and struggling to calm her gorge as she did.
“Lady Sydra,” the door reacted.
“Off with you–” before she could declare, a firm palm gripped her shoulder. She gazed over to find the Prophet standing beside her, his now solemn and blank demeanour reminded Sydra of the man in duty.
“Calm yourself, Sydra.” The Prophet said steadfastly, as he retracted his arm from her shoulder. “Let us make way to the council chamber.” He commanded.
“But Your Heavenlier,” Sydra looked up at him.
The Prophet did not respond nor did his eyes meet Sydra’s. He reached for the doorknob – which Sydra wanted to pull his arm and stop him, but she couldn’t. As he tilted the handle and glimpses of the other side began to crawl through the door’s crevice, Sydra sighted the Prophet’s damp expression.
He sighed, he scowled, he smiled, then he blankly gazed at Sydra. “I told you.” The Prophet murmured, his emptied eyes and dried tone sending light shivers down Sydra’s spine.
What? Sydra mumbled beneath her breath, awaiting an answer that never came. The lone sound that grazed her ears was the creaking wooden door as it opened – followed suit by the departing bootsteps of the man she had known for so long, yet so little of.
*
“We’ve arrived. Your Heavenlier. My Lady.” The Sentinel bowed as he held the handgrip to the great gate – behind it lay the council chamber and its vain bearers. Though the chamber was once His Heavenlier’s private quarter, he now spent the least amount of time there out of all the Aces.
Sydra carefully stepped in front of the Prophet. “Your Heavenlier. Allow me to name you.” She gracefully asked.
“Well that’s your job, isn’t it?” the Prophet smirked. His grin reminded Sydra of how much she disdained being graceful towards him.
“Practice formality.” She quietly clicked her tongue as she raised her head.
With a lone glare from her, the Sentinel pushed the gate inward.
She stepped into the grand chamber, though her eyes were closed, she could feel that her heels were graced by a dragonhide rug that couldn’t even be found in the Prophet’s chamber, as the melody of songsters embraced her ears before ceasing the moment the door was fully opened.
Sydra didn’t care to glance across the room before bowing her head. “My Lords and Ladies, you are in the presence of His Heavenlier, Nine. The Archetype for All, the Forefather of Centum, and the Prophet of Ark and–” Sydra then lightly lifted her head and glared at the centre of the chamber, where seated the Aces around an octagonal table. “–Xearth.” She couldn’t stare for long, as their sordid and conceited airs made her shut her eyes once more. “Now join me and bow.” She decreed and then graciously bobbed a curtsy, facing the Prophet, and omitting the Aces.
Everyone stood from their seat and bowed – all beside one man.
Sydra turned to find the folly. “Lord Three-OO. Allow me to repeat mysel–”
“Give it a rest, dolly. I heard you loud and clear.” The towering man brashly sighed and then bowed. His head hardly dropped, and his back unbent as if to not crease his brown trench coat. “But do refrain from addressing me with my serial-name again, or else next time I won’t be so compliant.” He hastily lifted his head after his poor attempt at bowing and slicked back his scruffy auburn mane, unveiling his ruby eyes.
“As you wish, Lord Bao.” Sydra complied, clenching her fists behind her back.
“Please raise your head.” The Prophet decreed though some had already been raised before he permitted. “My Lords and Ladies, it is always a most joyous occasion for us members of the Aces to gather under one warm roof and settle our affairs, but I do have to wonder, of whom do I owe the pleasure for this time’s most joyous occasion?” he asked with a smile.
“You need not owe anyone, Your Heavenlier. It is but a mere coincidence I’m afraid.” The old gentleman, cladded in a master-tailored white vest, responded with his raspy voice. He sluggishly bowed to the Prophet once more, pointing his bald head at His Heavenlier before rising. “I was praying in the Hall of Ark where I caught wind of a trial hearing. As my mind emptied in the sacred chamber, the whispers of the hearing filled my curiosity and took the best of me – and I knew that I would have to satiate it, else Ark would strike me where I stood for such apathy.” He worded eloquently, all while caressing the golden monocle over his right silver eye with one hand, while the other holding tightly onto an Arkive, the holy scripture of Ark’s faith.
“Always with the flowery words do you, Lord Bellamy?” a crass but still ladylike voice joined the conversation. “If nothing else, I’m at least in the same boat with ya’ on that. When I saw how serious your little secretary was in the hallway, I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of secrets you cronies are hiding.” The lady in the maroon suit smirked.
“Lady March, please, such crude behaviour is hardly befitting for a woman of your status.” The lady rightward to Lady March purred soothingly. Though her stature was half of Lady March’s, her confidence and gracefulness curtailing from her posture and her dark silk dress, impressed even Sydra.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
“What did you say, Yuna?” Lady March belligerently asked the smaller Ace, casting her velvet side cloak back as if she wished to fight her. “Actually why would a girl scout with daddy’s money like you would even care to attend council meetings? Does the Lady of Eden not have anything else better to do?” the crass Lady March mocked Lady Yuna. Her orange orbs facing a breath away from Lady Yuna’s lilac gaze.
“Thank you for your interjections, Lady March.” Though the towering Lady March was fronting her, Lady Yuna gently turned her head away and covered her mouth with her snowy pelt scarf. “They would be brilliant if you hadn’t recycled them a dozen times afore.” The mistress of the City of Gold said softly.
“What did you say?” Lady March yelled once more. Her overbearing bellow overshadowed the sighs of everyone in the room.
Can someone put an end to this? Sydra looked at the Prophet, hoping he would handle this, but he did not look back at her nor anyone. He solely stared forward aimlessly, which baffled Sydra on how he could remain unruffled at a quandary like this.
An Ace in the audience, cladded in a white coat, raised his hand. “If all that everyone’s doing is senselessly talking, then may I please excuse myself–”
“Why don’t we just drop the pretence and cut to the chase.” Lord Bao spoke out, his thunderous voice squandered the squabble between Lady March and Lady Yuna. “Everyone knows why they and everyone else are here.”
The white-robed Lord Sitri raised his hand again, he could hardly keep his dozing silver orbs pried open. “Actually, I don’t kno–”
“I recently caught a report about a watchdroid who narrowly escaped death from an ambush led by an unknown force. He was brought to the capital to be questioned, but instead of being directed to a Sentinel quarter, he was granted the privilege to be heard by the Prophet himself.” He glanced at the Prophet. “Now, I have no doubt that you have the best of intention and foresight, Your Heavenlier. Yet I merely wish for my humble self to be there to witness your radiance at work and learn from your excellence. And no doubt, I believe the others share the same sentiment.”
Lord Sitri raised his hand once more. “I do not share the sentime–”
“Will you grant me and all of our council brethren that humble wish, Your Heavenlier?” Lord Bao pleaded. His voice filled with sincerity, unlike his eyes.
I thought we were dropping the pretence, Sydra mumbled to herself, though it appeared the Prophet faintly smirked afterward.
The Prophet’s golden eyes stared directly at Lord Bao. “If you so wish, who am I to refute.” He cheerfully uttered as his glare disappeared, and he adorned a smile.
“You are far too kind, Your Heavenlier.” For once in the assembly, Lord Bao properly bowed to the Prophet.
Silver-tongued as always, Sydra sighed and rolled her eyes. Though she despised the Lord, she could not contest his silver tongue. “May I ask where the guest of honour is then?” Sydra asked the Aces. For an instant, she could have sworn she saw Lord Bao grimace when her words reached him. What is his problem? Sydra muttered, wanting to glare back but didn’t.
“Bring the watchdroid in.” Lord Bao spoke aloud while clapping his palms.
His claps echoed throughout the chamber, and as it ceased, a door at the end of the room opened. From the gate, two Sentinels marched out, escorting a watchdroid behind them.
So that’s who he wishes to meet, Sydra glanced at the Prophet, but his eyes were fixed on the guest instead. Sydra walked towards him and tapped his shoulder, awakening him from his daze. “Your Heavenlier. Let us head to your throne.” Sydra dutifully proposed.
The Prophet briefly nodded.
The secretary and His Heavenlier ambled towards the octagonal table, where seated the Aces on each edge. All but four thrones were hosted, with the Prophet having marched towards the edge furthest from the chamber’s gate. His Heavenlier be seated, his eyes faced the entrance, while his back faced the approaching watchdroid. Sydra stood behind him, her stance proper and still, only breaking at the commands of His Heavenlier.
“Your Heavenlier. My Lords and Ladies.” In unison, the two Sentinels bowed and venerated the Aces. They brought forward the sully watchdroid, who had kept silent for the entire walk. The Sentinels unchained his wrists, and paced back, awaiting for further orders.
“Please place him in the centre.” Lord Bao kindly asked the Sentinels, as he stood up from his seat and unlocked his side of the table. The centre of the table was hollow, granting for a person to enter through any of the detachable sides. Sydra wasn’t born when this ancient marble table was crafted, but its peculiar shape and hollowed body continually left her wondering why the Archetypes ordered for its creation.
The Sentinels dutifully escorted the silent man into the heart. “Your Heavenlier. My Lords and Ladies.” They bowed once more, before turning and marched back.
What does the Prophet want with this watcher? Sydra heedfully studied the watchdroid.
Instead of his battered uniform and badge, he adorned fresh garments that Sydra arranged for him. His face was cleaned, and his body showered as per Sydra’s orders to the servants, yet his eyes seemed to still have lost all life – as despite being surrounded by the Aces, he didn’t gaze around nor make a single sound. His eyes merely stare aimlessly downward.
“You are in the presence of His Heavenlier, and the noble Lords and Ladies of the Aces.” Though she was reluctant to command a corpselike man, Sydra performed her given duty.
A fleeting moment of silence followed before the watcher left his daze and raised his head to the audience. “Your Heavenlier. My Lords and Ladies. My name is Rak.” Though his form was derisory, he softly bowed.
“Please rise, Rak.” The Prophet ordered kindly. “A brave soldier of your mettle need not bow to any of us.” He commended the watcher.
A splendid reward that many ecliants would pit steels to earn, yet in spite of it, the watchdroid remained silent and still.
The Prophet waited for him before clearing his throat. “Do you know why you’ve been summoned to the capital and be granted an audience?” he asked calmly.
“Is it for what happened in Screwpile?” Rak stuttered as sweat trickled down his cheeks.
The Prophet leaned forward from his seat and posed his elbows on the table. “Precisely. We received news that you and your companion were ambushed by unidentified assailants. Would you mind going into greater details on what transpired that night?” the Prophet asked. His voice seemingly regained the vigour he had been missing since entering the chamber.
“Where do I start,” the watcher muttered, as he scratched his drenched dome. “I… I was…” the supposed survivor stumbled on his words as if he was a toddler.
“Out with it already!” Lady March slammed the desk, startling the shivering watchdroid. “No wonder a snivelling droid like you succumbed that night!”
“Lady March.” Sydra stared down at Lady March from where she stood. “I advise you to refrain from committing any further crass behaviours in front of the Aces and His Heavenlier,” Sydra spoke out against the wild Ace.
Lady March faced Sydra with veins pulsating on her dome. “Careful now, secretary. Your boss is the big man, not you.” She warned Sydra, her face reminded Sydra of how ecliants used to look at her before she gained her station.
“Perhaps you should heed your own words before preaching to others.” Sydra calmly retorted, her eyes refusing to retreat from Lady March’s.
“That’s enough, from the both of you. If you wish to continue your meaningless squabble, then take it outside.” The Prophet slammed the table, far louder and fiercer than Lady March’s.
Sydra resumed her station instantly. From the corner of her eyes, she noted that even the ever-crass Lady March was startled by the words of His Heavenlier – to which Sydra faintly smirked at the sight.
The Prophet rose from his seat and intently stared at the watcher. “I implore you, Rak. As a noble son of Ark, you and your knowledge would greatly aid every man, woman, and child in Xearth.”
“Your Heavenlier…” Rak muttered as his eyes became glossy. “It happened at night near the Iron Trail. My senior and I,” he stuttered and gulped, “we were on our way back to our tower when they appeared.”
“Who were they?” Lord Bao hastily interjected, his tone seemingly masked his excitement.
“I don’t know. My senior assumed that they were the Firstkind.” Rak murmured, his body quivered, and his pupils dilated while storming wild.
“Firstkind...”
Sydra was perhaps the only person in the chamber who heard the Prophet mumbled.
“So they’ve returned after years in hiding? Those insolent rebels deserve nothing more than the highest order of punishment for opposing the Centum Order and His Heavenlier.” Lord Bellamy loudly proclaimed. It’s unbecoming for Sydra to hear a man of his station and reputation bellow so brashly.
“Are you certain they were the Firstkind? What else could you remember?” the Prophet gently sat down and further interrogated.
“There weren’t many of them. They were all dressed in rags and armed. But,” the watchdroid paused, as his body further shivered and sweated. “There was this woman,” he sluggishly continued. “She had one eye and a brown head.”
For once since the hearing, the entire chamber fell mute, parting only the vexed watchdroid to writhe in confusion.
“One-eyed brunette? Your Heavenlier,” Sydra whispered to the Prophet.
“Yes.” The Prophet immediately responded and broke the silence. “It would seem your senior’s assumption was correct.” He resolutely stared at Rak. His gaze further perplexed the trembling watcher. “The woman you described is most likely Four, the leader of the Firstkind.”
Sydra could tell from his raised brow that Rak did not grasp His Heavelier’s revelation, though she did not need to glance at the others to know the contrary. I didn’t think she would return after all this time, Sydra mused, and she presumed the Aces shared her thoughts as well.
“I was under the assumption that Eight had vanquished her at the end of the Third Iron Rebellion.” Lady March wryly laughed in an unruly fashion, unbefitting of an Ace. Ever since the Iron War ended, there have been three major rebellions in the last two hundred years, where humans rose up against ecliants and the Centum Order – and every time, their efforts were squandered.
“Lady Eight failed in her mission of subjugating the rebel force. They escaped at the Battle of Ironblood, and their whereabouts have been unfounded ever since.” Lord Bellamy responded in a dignified fashion, as befitting of an Ace.
“A jest, you old coot.” Lady March muttered beneath her breath, though Sydra doubted the greyed Ace heard it.
“Four…” the Prophet muttered and then clapped his palms. “With that, our hearing should conclude. We have sufficient details to dispatch the Sentinels to hunt the rebels down.” He ordained, to the surprise of Sydra.
Is this it? Sydra pondered, as she glanced across the chamber, their faces doubtlessly shared the same sentiment.
As the Prophet stood up and went to shake the watchdroid’s hand, Rak refused to meet his hand.
“There was something else,” Rak muttered.
The ever so silent watchdroid uttered and charmed the gazes of Sydra and every Aces in the chamber – all besides the Prophet, whom Sydra lone discerned his sighing visage.
“What is it? Do not be afraid. Any information you have would bring you and your family great honour and pride.” Lord Bao ardently gloated the watcher.
“The woman,” Rak paused for an instance. In that moment of stillness, Sydra could lone hear faint gulps and pants from the audience, “…she had a wand.” For once in the hearing, Rak doggedly worded his thought.
What? Was there something in the water flask I gave him? Sydra pondered in her mind, clueless on whether she should chuckle or sigh.
“A wand?” Lord Sitri spoke out. “Like ones in fairy tales?”
“Looks like someone beat you to it,” Lady March teased him and lightly tapped his back. “Perhaps you should surrender Newspecs to them.” She threw out a laugh shared by no one else.
“Please elaborate.” Lord Bao implored Rak.
Amidst the interrogation, Sydra peeked over at the Prophet who had remained oddly silent.
“It did not look like a wand in the stories. It was curvy, like a tusk. And its body of steel.” Rak depicted the unknown object. Sydra could not begin to imagine what this wand appeared like.
“Did it shoot out fireballs like a wand would?” Lord Sitri bombarded the watcher with queries, his curiosity seemed to have peaked.
“It was no fireball, but a tempered rock came out of it, faster and louder than anything else I know. It destroyed the lantern I had.” Though Rak’s description was garbled and slow, his words captivated Lord Sitri in a manner that Sydra had never seen before. “I couldn’t even begin to understand what that thing was.” Rak ended his report, to the noticeable dejection splattered over Lord Sitri’s face.
“So our enemies possess unknown weaponries, akin to sorcery.” Lord Bao rephrased. “Fascinating. What do you make of this, Your Heavenlier?” he faced the Prophet from his seat, with the other Aces followed suit.
“It only further proves the threat that is the Firstkind. The longer we idle in this chamber, the more dangerous and unpredictable they become. Let us adjourn the hearing.” The Prophet once more ordained for the gathering to end. The Prophet stood up and extended his arm towards the watchdroid. “Thank you, Rak. You’ve done your country and people a great service.” He kindly commended Rak, awaiting for his palm to meet his.
“I’ve done nothing of the like.” Rak faintly whispered, yet Sydra found it to be louder than anything else he had uttered.
The Prophet further stretched his hand and leaned closer to the silent ecliant. “My apologies. I didn’t quite catch tha–”
“I’ve done nothing worthy of praise, Your Heavenlier.” Rak cried out and violently struck the Prophet’s arm aside. “I merely retreated and left my partner to die. I do not deserve your commendation, but instead punishment.” The watchdroid brashly stumbled away from the Prophet, writhing and panting as he did.
Seeing the outburst, Sydra raised her arm to signal the Sentinels on standby. “Guar–” Before she could finish her command, the sight of the Prophet’s arm waving at her stopped her midway. Your Heavenlier… Sydra understood the kindness and virtue of His Heavenlier – though often she disagreed with him, she could never outrightly oppose his will. Sydra softly descended her arm and resumed her station, merely fixing on His Heavenlier.
The Prophet gently walked towards the shivering watchdroid. Though Sydra wanted to stop him, the Prophet’s radiance seemed to calm the thrashing beast with each closing step. “By retreating, you succeeded in relaying pivotal information to us that could turn the tide against the rebels. And by valiantly stalling the enemies, your partner opened a path for you to withdraw.” The Prophet kindly worded to Rak, softly lightening his ever-sombre visage. “As far as the people of Xearth, Ark, and of course, myself are concerned, you and your partner are our nation’s greatest heroes.” The Prophet benignly proclaimed as he rested his palm on the watchdroid’s shoulder.
“Your Heavenlier…” Rak sniffled feebly as he fell to his knees.
The Prophet lifted the fallen soldier, his arms gently guided the crumbled body. Once up, he dusted and straightened Rak’s garment. “Guards. Mindfully escort our most esteemed guest out – with the respect and dignity befitting for him.” The Prophet commanded the stationed Sentinels, all while not leaving gaze from Rak. “Our countrymen and soldiers could only aspire to be half the warrior you are. May Ark bless your heroic venture evermore, Rak.” The Prophet pressed his fist towards his own chest and lightly bowed, with Sydra and the Aces following suit.
With her head bent, facing the tiles, Sydra could not see or hear a response from Rak. Once she had risen, the writhing watchdroid was no longer quivering, instead he was once more silent and immobile as a hollowed husk.
The two Sentinels swiftly escorted Rak out, his blank face met the carpet until he reached the door. Though the garment that Sydra offered to him was new, the white blouse had now been infected with brown and dusky wrinkled spots, akin to the battered uniform he was found with. Sydra intently stared and winced at the foul droid as his feeble silhouette got engulfed by the shutting gate. I don’t understand, Your Heavenlier. The Prophet has many unprompted demands, but such a request for a wild and disorderly hearing was novel to Sydra.
Silence once more descended upon the council. No rowdy remarks from Lady March could be scoffed at. No gratuitous flowery words from Lord Bellamy could be sighed at. No strange mumbles and gestures from the Prophet could be eyed at.
A chair creaking burst all out of their daze. “This proved more fruitful than I initially thought.” Lord Sitri announced his withdrawal. “Your Heavenlier. My Lords and Ladies. I’ll excuse myself for I have other matters to attend to.” Without bowing, he slipped away from the table. His small and frail body limped across the chamber, tripping on the tail of his coat as he left.
“I’ll also take my leave and repose, Your Heavenlier. The heroic tale of the young soul has brought great warmth to this old heart.” Lord Bellamy shed a tear behind his monocle. “I wish you a fortunate day blessed by Ark.” Lord Bellamy bowed. His stout body waddled like jelly as he huffed and stumbled towards the gate.
“Well, that was incredibly dull. I expected something more than just the rambles of a crazy man.” Lady March sighed and hurled herself out of her throne. “Yuna. You going back to Eden now? Let me tag along.” She leered at the sitting Lady Yuna from above.
“I’d have to respectfully decline, Lady March. I’m afraid your sprightly temperament wouldn’t blend well with the customs of Eden.” Lady Yuna gracefully declined her offer and marched towards the gate. Though her petite frame adorned a vast pelt over her dress, it resisted grazing the ground and dirtying its snowy fur.
“C’mon. Are you still mad about what just happened?” Lady March begrudgingly pricked Lady Yuna, as she chased her tail like a hound.
Two Aces remained in the chamber.
Sydra glanced at Lord Bao. Though the Aces took little time to make their departure – Lord Bao instead sat still and silent, deep in thought. The enthusiasm he had while probing the watchdroid outwardly left with him.
“A thorn in your mind, Lord Bao?” the Prophet stood up from his seat and asked tenderly.
“A wand and Four…” Lord Bao mumbled to himself before glancing upwards. “What do you make of it, Your Heavenlier?” he equally tenderly asked the Prophet. “March believed it to be nothing more than fabrications, while Sitri found interest in its possibility.” Lord Bao gently stood up from his seat and candidly met the Prophet’s eyes.
“Either chance would not change what needs to be done.” The Prophet replied coolly, his calm gaze undeterred by Lord Bao’s towering frame.
“With all due respect, that didn’t quite answer my question.”
“Then I’m afraid I don’t have a suitable answer for it.” The Prophet retorted. “What do you make of it then?”
Lord Bao took a long pause before grinning. “Absurdity, naturally. Dangerous artifacts of that calibre hold no purpose in our world. They would be defying the might of nature, let alone being possible for a crowd of backwater insurgents to replicate.” Words flowed out of his mouth as naturally as ever. Sydra could never keep up with the young philanthropist’s lavish words. “Such items should and would remain in fairy tales and long bygone ages, wouldn’t you agree?” his uncanny grin vanished and was replaced by a solemn visage.
The Prophet did not respond, nor did he budge at the unsightly stare fixed down at him.
Lord Bao’s grin returned, and he faintly bowed. “Well, I’ve taken enough of your precious time. I’ll excuse myself, Your Heavenlier. Have a wonderful day.” He did not wait for the Prophet’s response or approval before he turned and marched towards the entrance. His towering form and striking features that have entranced a great many ladies dimmed as the gate shut. Even Sydra couldn’t deny his beauty, though his attitude did not match his splendour.
Sydra and His Heavenlier lone occupied the chamber, privy from the prying eyes of the Aces and the Sentinels. Sydra wished to await her Lord to speak, but his mind was occupied elsewhere.
“That was quite an eventful hearing, Your Heavenlier. I pray you acquired what you came for?” Sydra gently asked as she cracked an awkward smile.
The Prophet rested his palms on the red marble table and stared aimlessly at the hollow. “More or less.” The Prophet whispered though Sydra felt as if it wasn’t meant for her. He swiftly withdrew his arms and turned to Sydra. “Sydra. Issue an order to the Hunt Corp and have them admit and promote Rak to the Dragon Division.” The Prophet ordered Sydra. His intense glare and absurd demand forced Sydra to lose her forged smile.
“Your Heavenlier? Excuse my insolence, but his recent achievement aside, he’s still merely a greenhorn of a watchdroid. I sincerely do not believe he would be able to fit in a Sentinel rank.” Sydra dimly voiced her disapproval.
“He’s a Centum hero. Honoured and graced by the Aces themselves. It’d be improper to not issue him his due reward.” The Prophet roared and swung his arm across the chamber, performing to spectators who weren’t present.
Sydra did not bother nor possess the station to refute His Heavenlier’s demand. She lightly bowed her head, ensuring the Prophet couldn’t glimpse at her disapproving sapphire eyes. “I will alert the division at once, Your Heavenlier.”
As Sydra raised her head and feigned her visage, the gate to the chamber opened, and entered a Sentinel.
The Sentinel marched towards the hollowed table. Once graced in front of His Heavelier, he prudently knelt to one knee. “Your Heavenlier. My Lady. Lord Six has returned from his expedition.” The Sentinel informed with his fist placed on his chest. “He has entered the city and is currently heading towards the Arkeep as we speak.”
“So soon?” A bewildered look descended on the Prophet’s face. Surprised but relieved at the same time was how Sydra construed it.
“Would you wish for me to escort him here, Your Heavenlier?” the Sentinel dutifully offered his service.
“That won’t be necessary. I’m not so cold-hearted to make him come to me after such a turbulent expedition.” The Prophet shook his hand. “Escort me to him instead.”
“As you command, Your Heavenlier.” The Sentinel once more bowed.
The Prophet had only concluded the hearing, and he now had to move on to another chore. Sydra scowled, though she wasn’t pleased with his demand, she still wished for His Heavenlier to retreat to his chamber and rest instead.
Sydra was lost in thought, and before she knew it, His Heavenlier had already gripped hold of the gate’s handle.
“Lady Sydra. Go and handle the task. And report back to me once it is handled.” The Prophet ordered, and all she could do was hastily bob a curtsy.
“As you command, Your Heavenlier,” Sydra replied dutifully.
“And Sydra,” his voice rang out as the creaking gate unlocked and half of his body left the chamber.
“Yes, Your Heavenlier?” Sydra threw her head back. Still and readied to receive His Heavenlier’s order.
“I forgot to tell you when we were there,” he stared at Sydra, his golden orbs entranced her.
Sydra gulped and sweated, it’s rare for the Prophet to be this austere.
“But the chamber pot in my room is brimmed. Please take care of it as well.” He ordained Sydra with a piercing glare.
What? The lone word clouded her empty mind as she stared blankly. Though the Prophet’s tone and demeanour were solemn, Sydra could spot him trying to conceal his smirk. “Why do I need to do that?” whinged Sydra.
“What do you mean? Don’t be lazy now,” the Prophet crossed his arms. “Dispel all sloth if thy wishes to enter the promised land.” He recited the Fifth Tenet from the Arkive, only mimicking the words of Ark whenever it benefitted his circumstance – and he had a total of nine of those commandments to exploit. “Alright, see ya’ later!” the Prophet then grinned at Sydra before turning away. Unakin to an esteemed Prophet, and more akin to a mischievous toddler, he waved his arm with his back turned, as he leisurely trotted away to the gleaming hallway.
As the Sentinel escort carefully closed the gate and the Prophet’s bouncing figure dimmed, Sydra could still hear his irritating laughter faintly echoing from beyond the walls.
This filthy geezer… Sydra softly unfitted her glasses, and brashly palmed her scowling head and pouting lips, fleetingly regretting why she ever pledged to stand by his side.