“Lord Fino!” a raucous plea came from beyond crept its way into the chamber. “Lord Fino!” The constant knocking on the door played unpleasant tunes to his slumbering ears.
Shut up, he wrapped himself over with his hide blanket, though it didn’t help much to quash the racket.
“Lord Fino, may I please enter?” As if he were amidst a battle, the knocks on the door sounded like battering rams to a castle gate.
No, the awakening ecliant mumbled. His eyes were still frightened of the morning light, and his limbs still stiffed from the long nightly rest.
The bashing ceased, and instead creaks from the jerking doorknob arose. “Pardon my intrusion, Lord Fino–”
For fuck sake, the drowsy ecliant shed his blanket, and the blinding morning rays speared past the many windows of his chamber and shone over his dark fleece. He roughly scratched his long yet unkempt black hair and rubbed the rusty lids over his golden orbs. Still on his bed, he sat up sluggishly, bones cracking throughout his body as he raised.
“Good morning, My Lord.” An ecliant cladded in black Sentinel gear bowed his head. His muddy boots stained the prised entrance carpet, while his sabre bounced around his waist and dented the chamber walls whenever the Sentinel waddled.
“Not so good any longer.” Fino yawned brashly and stretched his arms. “What could be so important to compel you to enter my chamber unwarranted?” he glared at the insolent guard.
“My sincerest apologies for disturbing you so early in the morn,” the Sentinel further lowered his head and pinned his sabre from flailing about, “but I’ve been tasked by His Heavenlier to inform you of Lord Six’s return from his expedition. His Prime Sentinel had accomplished his tour unscathed, truly befitting for a man of his revered title.”
The Sentinel’s words of praise to Six felt like spikes to Fino’s ears. He couldn’t possibly fathom a worse way to begin his morning.
“Great to hear. Now you may leave.” Fino brushed his hand towards the common guard, a right reserved only to Lords like him.
The unruly Sentinel ignored Fino’s command and yet lingered within his chamber. “My apologies, but that is not all. His Heavenlier had one more command.”
“What now?” Fino asked, though he cared little for an answer.
“Pardon my tongue, but few members of the Aces have voiced their displeasure of your negligence to your duty as an Ace. As such, His Heavenlier has profoundly insisted that you attend more meetings of the Aces from hereon, My Lord. In fact, there is one scheduled soo–”
“Tell him I’m busy.” The sleepy Ace covered his yawn with one hand and scratched his hind with the other. “I have a pending business trip o’er at Dreamcity.” Besides, it’s not like I’m needed there anyway, thought Fino. He reached within the nightstand and picked out a blue band. With it, he tied his scruffy mane into a bun.
“But My Lord, the Prophet insist–”
“And I insist that you act your post and leave my chamber.” Fino shut the drawer fiercely, fracturing the outer decors of precious gemstones he collected throughout Xearth. “I’ve already given you my verdict. Now out with you,” Fino ordered. He attempted to mimic Six’s intimidating glower, though he quickly understood from the Sentinel’s blank stare that he had yet to attain it.
“My apologies, Lord Fino. May Ark bless your voyage.” The sentry answered gently.
Though his smile was light as if he was adorning a flowery mask, and his parting bow was as articulate as a Sentinel could be, Fino yet couldn’t stand peons alike him.
Fino buried his face into a pillow, and from the crumpled gaps of the feathered cushion, he peaked at the departing Sentinel.
As the Sentinel reached for the door handle, Fino found his blurry eyes and muffled ears centring towards it as if they were magnetized, with his body then almost tumbling off from the edge of the bed.
“Damn sloth…”
The door closed gently.
Did I hear that right? Fino could have sworn he heard whimpers of curse and spit, yet he merely shrugged. His pride couldn’t bother to defend itself, nor could his limbs be nimble enough to leave the comfort of his bed. Batty runt… Ruined my morning, he yawned though his eyes faintly twitched and he knew not why.
Dreamcity again? Fino muttered to himself, knowing he would soon be able to dine on the finest wines and women that all of Nix had to offer, and it granted him enough wisps of strength to sluggishly rise from his warm sheets and pillows. Though detaching from their soft embraces bequeathed Fino great agony, a most arduous feat that he had to commit to every morning.
Fino squirmed when the stone floor kissed his bare feet. Though he wore no more than his stained undergarment, his entire body felt as if stones and bricks were layered atop it. Even his battle gears during the Iron War weren’t as aching to his back.
He wearily limped towards the end of the chamber, where placed a garments rack and a mirror the size of himself. Fino glanced at himself bare. Shadowy bags loomed under his lids, while his cheeks sunken and lips parched. They reminded him of the sleepless and starving nights amidst his first and only war. The scars and blemishes that he had gained from the Iron War had all but faded, though so did his defined muscles. He took a grey blouse and baggy auburn pants from the rack and adorned them clumsily. With the wrinkled garments coated over his ebony skin, Fino panted and rubbed his old joints. He picked up the silver ring and put it onto his left ring finger – though it hurt his hand to do so.
Fino walked towards the door. His dry palm wrapped over the handle, though it was tough to jerk it open. That unruly Sentinel, Fino cursed. His morning had just begun, and yet his bliss had been bleached by the report of Six’s return while his chamber had been ransacked by a wilful crook.
Dreadful morns and irksome curs have forever hounded Fino throughout this forsaken realm. Fino has desired to flee from his titles ever since the Iron War ended and the Centum Order deposed the old world of humans. Yet he couldn’t, for he wasn’t as rash as Seven nor was he as outlandish as Four. In fleeting moments when his folly would fog his reason and he sought to escape, few would impede him, though today, they no longer could.
Xearth again? Fino muttered to himself, knowing he was ever bounded to the land that he and his brethren ruled, and it granted him naught but stale ales, shabby harlots, and unwanted steelborns.
*
The accursed grace of the sun blinded Fino’s squinting eyes the moment he stepped foot outside of the Pillar of the Aces. He hobbled beneath one of the many clay canopies of the Arkeep, hiding beneath its shade though he could never seem to escape the burning light beam.
Fino crept through the keep as if he were a spy, shivering from the early breeze yet blinding from the morning light, whereupon he stumbled past the grand garden. It’s been many years since Fino last ambled within the bay, and its name and maker no longer lurked in Fino’s memories. The countless vivid flowerbeds and chiselled sculptures have all withered and been buried in snow. All of the flowers there were once nourished by each Archetypes, though Fino couldn’t remember if he did it, for he didn’t fancy nurturing others.
Though his fingertips were freezing, Fino breathed cold air into his feeble lungs as he strolled across the garden, one of the few acts he fancied performing outdoors over within his sealed musky chamber.
Fino reached near the heart of the garden where rested the statue of Nine, though it no longer resembled the magnificent sculpture it once was, instead, it was dyed white by falling snow and pesty birds. Where was mine again? Fino thought. The statue of Nine, as with the statue of the other Archetypes, all bore the same stance, holding their arms upwards to the sky, worshipping Ark. What a joke, Fino spat at the stone foe, yet it stuck to his lips and strung down from his mouth instead of staining its target.
Would anything go right today? he wiped his mouth off with his sleeve, whereupon from the corner of his eye and tip of his sleeve, he caught a glimpse of a lady standing and staring afront a bed of dead flowers. Her pale skin and white ponytail fluttered along the breeze, while her adorned silver armour and white cloak masked themselves under caressing snowflakes. Her lone sunlit eyes shone through her snowy fleece. She reminded Fino of fair winter faeries that he’d read about in old records, though he knew that the wench was all but fair. On the tip of his toes, Fino snuck and hid behind the statue of Nine, awaiting a chance to escape.
“It’s quite rare to see you out here.” The pale knight murmured.
Yet Fino’s poor stealth has never been one to best Eight’s vigilant gaze.
Shit, Fino cursed silently before leaving the silhouette of the statue. “Well I can’t just let such a beautiful morning pass me by now can I?” his mind shambled frantically and freely from his tongue, devising a way for him to flee. “And you, Eight? You’re certainly not the sort of lady to frolic in gardens and blow handfuls of dandelions.” Fino stuttered as he delivered his joke.
“I don’t see any flowers,” Eight pointed softly at the graveyard of faded flowers.
“Even if they were blossoming and spry, I’m sure your temper would wither them away regardless.” Fino chuckled drolly.
Eight remained quiet for a moment, ignoring Fino’s crude remark. “I’m heading to the Pillar of the Aces. I just happened to pass by.”
Cold and dishonest as ever, thought Fino.
Fino hastily yet stiffly spun his back towards Eight. “Well, I wouldn’t want to keep you from whatever tedious errands you have o’er there. Have a splendid rest of your da–”
“You’re not coming as well?” she asked, innocently somewhat.
Her squeaky voice wasn’t threatening in the slightest, yet sweats fell from his dome amidst the breezy morn as he slowly faced Eight again. “I unfortunately can’t as I have other crucial matters that need to be attended to.” He smiled wryly.
“Matters more important than state affairs?” Eight asked once more. Her pure pupils of gold twinkled as if she were a pup basking beneath snowflakes, but Fino wouldn’t fall for her veil of charm.
“They certainly are to me, and by proxy, they should be important to you as well, my fellow Ace.” Another joke lithely delivered from Fino’s parched lips, and it once more received no laughter or applause aside from the flaps of fleeing snowbirds.
“And here I had my hopes up…” Eight murmured. Her warm innocent gaze descended to an icy benumbed glare. “Five. We have told you then and now, gear your being however you wish, but as long as you bear the title of an Ace and the blood of an Archetype, you can’t just simply idle away your life in breweries and brothels.” She lectured Fino fiercely, though he could not care less about the admonishment of someone who is not even his creator. “Nine has covered you for far too long. If I had held the Prophet mantle, you’d have been banished from Sentry long ago.” Eight claimed, stomping her boots on the murky snow.
Bitch, Fino cussed in his head. His slight fright towards Eight from afore no longer persisted upon embracing that affront. “But you’re not the Prophet. It’d seem my luck has prevailed over your fleeting fantasy.” He jeered at the wench.
“Your luck will run dry eventually.” Eight retorted, her face unbothered by Five’s taunt.
“You’ve predicted that ever since the Iron War sparked, and yet here I am, two hundred years after. Standing o’er worthier, yet unluckier men and women.” Fino chortled flippantly.
The fierce Lady Knight of Centum befell into a passing silence and her scowl grew. Fino has always known her as a solemn and stoic woman, yet it was rare to see her as irate.
“You’re beyond reasoning. How pitiful.” Eight said softly, her scorching glower dispelled and her cold gaze restored.
Scathing, Fino thought, her words felt like pikes stabbing his chest, though very little and feeble stabs. “I don’t need saving. In fact, I’ve done my savings two hundred years ago. Now, whatever happens, happens.” Fino shrugged and sighed.
“As if all of us haven’t? Winning the war does not grant us rest.” Eight believed valiantly, puffing her silver chestplate frontward and clasping the battered hilt of her olden shortsword, Tria, hanging from her waist and blanketed under her cloak.
“Not quite convincing coming from you,” Fino scoffed. “If only Six would steal my station as well.” He jested.
“He did not steal it. I did what I must.” Eight stuttered, unseemly for her.
“And I’m not refusing to fulfill my role as an Ace either, I’m simply doing what I must.” Fino flung his arms hammily and mocked the pensive knight.
Fino’s aggravation brought slight vigour to the dull ecliant. “You reject your duties at every turn. I’ve served my time as Prime, and then I passed my cape and badge. No more, nor less.” Eight proclaimed. Her insult was unfit for her honeyed voice and tender glare.
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Unbothered by Eight’s provocation, Fino stepped closer and faced her. He had to lift his neck, as Eight topped half a head over him, though Fino wasn’t fearful as he had yet to see anyone who surpassed Six’s towering figure. “And how has retirement treated you? Has Novathens grown so dull that you’d rather frolic the crowded and crooked paths of Sentry instead?”
Novathens was the land that Eight ruled. A martial settlement harbouring the shore of the Sparkling Sea, that once hosted one of Xearth’s largest armies. Though ever since peace has graced Xearth for the last eleven years, her men had returned the city to a hub for festivity and debauchery as it once was during the long Epoch of Concord, much to the penchant of Fino.
“I’ve yet to rest wholly. Unlike you, I have other titles to uphold.” Her belittling wouldn’t cease, galling the drowsy ears of Fino.
“If you’re so adamant about keeping honours, and admonishing my ineptness while praising your lack thereof, I’m more than willing to offer you my cape and badge as well.” He yawned and picked his right ear with his pinkie, outwardly galling the eyes of the graceful Lady of Novathens.
The knight sighed aloud. “You still do not understand. It does not matter who occupies the seat–”
“Well, then it would seem we’ve come to an agreement. Me being an Ace, it doesn’t matter. You being the Prime Sentinel, it doesn’t matter. The dead and rotten, they don’t matter.” Fino explained. “Who cares if we rest? The people of Xearth certainly don’t. Hell, most of them probably don’t even know who the Prophet is.” He laughed alone.
“Perhaps. However,” Eight paused briefly. “Nine truly matters. His rest will come last.” She murmured with her face shadowed over her boots as if a caring damsel weeping for her lord.
Nine was undoubtedly important, even Fino couldn’t refute that. If Fino stood atop a shabby hill, and the other Archetypes at high mountain peaks, then Nine had ascended to the vast heaven. Though the day he is usurped and banished from paradise would come, of that Fino held little doubt.
The treasonous thought clouded Fino’s dome, and he stared at Eight’s chestplate, where buckled the badge of an Ace, or at least there should have been one. “Let the man retire then. If you care so much about him then usurp and rob him of his crown. It is far from an arduous task for you.” Fino goaded and tapped Eight’s shoulder coolly.
Eight pushed Fino’s frail arm aside effortlessly, yet it still ached him. “Careful now. Even for an Ace, you’re overstepping your bounds.” Eight said while patting away the spot stained by Fino’s touch.
“You just now claimed your desire for the throne.” Fino reminded Eight.
“Hypothetical. Ifs, not wills.” Eight reminded Fino, though he found it hard to trust her tongue.
“C’mon, would you cease this farce for once? I’m just speaking what we’re both thinking.” Fino sighed aloud and goaded. His spit flew at Eight’s face, yet she swiftly dodged the stream with a faint tilt.
Eight backed a step away from Fino. “That’s quite enough out of you.”
Fino took a step towards Eight. “Well I say that, but you think about it far more than I ever do.”
She paced back once more. “I said that’s enough.”
He paced forward again. “Two hundred years and yet you still haven’t moved an inch. Even to me, that’s dreadful.”
Her icy glare melted, and her sealed gorge broke. “Enough.”
“Or perhaps you’d prefer staying a chained war hound for the rest of your life?” High from Eight’s restless face, Fino’s snarky laugh ever grew.
“You impuden–”
“Five. Eight.” A few swift words flowed into the garden and closed the quarrel just as swiftly. The voice was ear-splitting, commanding, and hoarse. Here comes the most troubling one, Fino sighed. He preferred to keep his gaze on Eight, rather than turn his squinting eyes towards the approaching footsteps.
“Six?” Eight didn’t share the sentiment and tilted her head instantly. “I’ve heard of your return, but I didn’t expect you would be back on duty so quickly. What affair do you have at the Arkeep?” Eight asked, abandoning her scorn and reverting back to her woeful look once more.
Pensive or livid? Pick one already. Fino stared at the capricious silver knight with judging eyes.
Six marched towards them, his great frame scarcely squeezed through the garden gate. “I’m an Ace just as much as you two. Do I need a reason to visit or depart from my lodging?” he faced Fino and Eight, staring down from above.
Has he gotten even taller? Fino couldn’t remember when the last time he had seen Six, but he was sure that he couldn’t have grown this much. Damn bastard. Hogging all to yourself, Fino clicked his tongue subtly, though he doubted Six would notice from that height.
“Everyone and their roundabout tongue. Fine, ignore me asking.” Eight crossed her arms and shook her head to the side as if she were a pouting child throwing a tantrum.
Six grinned briefly, then tilted his neck to Fino. “Five. It’s quite rare to see you not in the confine of your chamber.”
Seriously? The same question twice in one day? I’m not that lazy, Fino seethed, but he knew better than to grow restless from the words of brutes. “I have duties to attend to as well. You’re not the only one who’s busy.” Fino smiled blankly. He wished to spit onto the fieldboots of Six, yet he restrained his impulse as the cold wind shivered his spine and limbs. Whether out of decorum or angst, he wasn’t certain.
“Do you now? Duties in Dreamcity no doubt?” With his brows raised and body pressed closer, Six interrogated Fino as a Sentinel would.
“What is it to you?” Fino took one step back. The foul stench of grime, ash, and tavern rum soaked to Six’s navy coat and pants was too much for even Fino to handle. Though his pearly skin was yet to be drenched in booze, nor was his golden bun and goatee reeked of sweat and smoke.
“You’re an Archetype, you should act as such.” The Prime Sentinel sighed and gripped Fino’s shoulder.
Again? Are they just parroting each other? Is there a hidden script? Fino groaned silently. He felt as if Six was about to rip off his arm entirely from his torso, but his little pride wouldn’t allow him to reveal it to Six.
“Archetype isn’t a position. I don’t believe your Prime Sentinel seat levy enough rule to dictate what one should be.” With all his might, Fino cast Six’s palm off his shoulder. “After all, I’m an Archetype just as much as you. Do I need a reason to act dishonestly?” he smirked shakenly while caressing his aching arm.
“Regardless of what you deem to be dishonest or otherwise, your slothful impulses don’t impact you alone.” The Prime Sentinel further admonished Fino, after all, he was no stranger to overstepping his bounds. “I’m willing to offer you help.” His reprimand ceased, though Fino could still feel hints of belittlement in his proposal.
Fino waved his hand unflappably at the meddlesome ecliant. “No than–”
“I can assign you a small role in the Hunt Corp if you so wish.” Six carried on. “Regain some glory for yourse–”
“No thank you.” Fino’s waving stopped and he stamped his foot afront Six, though he failed to startle the giant of an ecliant. “Unless I’m dealing with baby dragons, I’d rather have my hind uncharred and limbs intact.” Fino mocked, albeit to himself. “Hell, you should repair your own glory before minding others.” Fino mocked, no longer to himself.
C’mon, you wanna hit me? Do it. I dare you. Fino glimpsed from the corner of his smirk, though the grey and orderly Six did not push an inch from his post.
“You bring disgrace to our name. Every day you tally further shame to us.” Eight responded in the place of the silent goliath, to the disbelief of Fino. He would have thought that such compassion could only come from a temperate lady such as Two, and not an uptight crone like Eight.
“I wasn’t even aware there was a list.” Fino sneered. “Disgrace I may be, but at least I’m harmless. In fact, as I recalled, it was not my shame but glory that killed Tw–” No more words could leave Fino’s mouth. A giant palm gripped around his neck entirely, choking and pressing him against the statue of Nine. His back was seared by the frozen shell, while his feet frantically kicked about as they were floating above the wet snowfield. His hands were desperately scratching and prying at the vice that was locked to his throat.
“Not another word out of you.” Six warned Fino, though his voice wasn’t so threatening to Fino’s collapsing ears.
Streams of saliva trailed down from both sides of his lips, while his teeth kept grinding together. “Who do you think you are? Ark? You don’t get to tell me what to d–”
Six’s fist tightened until his nails sank into Fino’s skin.
Fino’s face was surely reddened while sight blackening, as he felt the ending morsel of air being squeezed out of his breath. “Are you going to kill anoth–”
The giant’s grip tautened further and lifted Fino higher. Fino felt as if his throat was thoroughly crushed. As his eyes befell and limbs collapsed, from the corner of his tearing lids, Fino beheld silhouettes of dastard and loathsome Centum Lords and Ladies roaming the sunken keep. Though his vision was waning, Fino knew their kind. Few sniggered, others winced, most were still, of that he was sure of. Enjoying the show, dipshits? With the last wisp of his might, Fino muttered and raised a leer.
“That’s enough, Six. Let him go.” A warm voice spoke out, and Fino’s sight scarcely glimmered back as the clutch dimly loosened. Fino was never so grateful to have cold air enter his lungs. With his eyes glistened, Fino sighted Eight gripping Six’s forearm with one palm while the other rested on the hilt of Tria. Though her arm was half the size of Six’s, he complied and released Fino’s neck.
The murky soil caught Fino once more, it grazed his knees and coated him in wet grime as if he were a rolling pig. He panted relentlessly, desperately grasping for air, though it ached with each huff as though he was still being choked. He held onto his neck, ever so gently and carefully. Drops of blood smeared onto his fingertips when he touched the deep and scorching dent left behind by the brute's palm and nails. Still painted with mud and groaning, he could not care less to lift himself up. He could not care less if he was kneeling before Six. He could not care less if the arrogant swine prancing about in this colourless castle ridiculed him. He could not care less if what little dignity he had left was utterly tarnished into the dirt with him.
Fino glimpsed above, at Eight, he could still hardly believe that she of all people would shield him. Damn brute… Fino panted and glared at Six. Did something happen to him? Fino thought. The Prime Sentinel was as wicked as they come, yet he was never this receptive to Fino’s provocation.
Six pulled out a handkerchief from within his coat and polished his fist as if it were a bloodied mace. “That big mouth of yours will be your undoing.” He said calmly, seemingly aloof to his own transgression.
“It’s been doing right by me so far. The wisdom of my tongue can charm the fairest queens to whimsical maidens, and drive the noblest knights to mindless beasts.” Fino mocked, as he shakenly raised himself back up.
“Do what you will at Dreamcity.” The giant sighed out a gust of wind. “But best be in your finest conduct, else even my station won’t be able to free you.” With a fierce leer that could rival that of a dragon, he warned Fino.
Though Fino has long since forgotten what a true dragon resembled. The Realm’s Guardian, Millenium, could scarcely be marked as the mighty skybeast it once was any longer. Her body has grown too large for her wings, and her appetite too docile and soft for her fangs. When Fino last visited Nium, she had lost all of her vigour and radiance that she once bore during the Iron War.
“Duly noted, Lord Prime.” Fino grinned, though while trembling in his timbers.
“Excuse me.” For a moment, Six readorned his Prime Sentinel cloak and discharged himself dutifully.
With each parting step from his mighty stride, Six’s boots sank into the snow pile and it engulfed his ankles. His back was shown to Fino and Eight was wide and proud, while his stance was straight and poised, Fino could hardly recognise the same person who had just wronged him. The flock of gossiping Lords and Ladies still sheltering under the canopy, parted in two when the bear of a man marched through them. The crowd scattered away, incessantly staring back as if they were being chased by an ogre. A very leisurely pacing ogre. Good riddance, Fino tittered, still unsure of what to think of Six’s deed.
“I thought inheriting my post would have repressed his temper ever so slightly,” Eight crossed her arms, eyeing the fleeing Prime Sentinel. “Not quite.” Once his shadow had entirely vanished, she sighed.
“You say as if he begged and you gave.” Fino jeered, still holding on to his bleeding neck. A fleeting squabble with Six wouldn’t be enough to stop his mouth, though it did almost crush his throat.
Eight returned her attention to Fino, though disparagingly. “And I also thought adorning the badge of an Ace would have quelled your fatuity,” reaching into the pocket of her trousers, she took out a pink handkerchief and tossed it at Fino. “Evidently not.” She sighed further.
Fino barely managed to catch the handkerchief in between his slippery fingers. “More reasons for why you shouldn’t be our Prophet then. Heeding your divinations would raze Xearth to ashes no doubt.” He gently dabbed the hankie to his reddened neck, though it pricked his wounds with uncut threads. The cotton was coarse and sewn unevenly. Its cloth of pink and embroidered with the liking of a sword, or perhaps a tower, or maybe a stick. Whoever sewed this should never hold a needle and threads again, Fino was sure that even he could have sewn a finer hankie.
“You and your silver tongue. If nothing else, that is the sole thing you have us all beat.” Eight complimented Fino, though her stony guise made it feel less than flattery and more akin to mockery. “Begone then. Waste your sense away in the city of dreams. Perhaps drowning in wine and women would kindle you one day to matters of worth.” She proclaimed aloud and flapped her hand toward Fino as if she were casting a spell to dispel pests in her garden.
She sure does love talking in riddles. But who am I to say? Fino smirked. “Thank you? I suppose.” The blood on his neck was clotted and his legs were no longer shaking. Fino paced away from Eight and waved at her with the stained handkerchief. “Have a wonderful rest of your da–”
“Wait, one more thing.”
For fuck sake, He begrudgingly flung his neck back, aching it once more. “What now?” he said, unkindly.
“Four has returned. It was confirmed at the council, not that you would know.” Eight relayed. Her face unveiled an ephemeral smile, though it felt bleak instead of joyful.
“Frou? She’s still alive?” Fino asked, he couldn’t decide on whether to be staggered or unbothered.
“It would seem so. Though her whereabouts are still largely unknown.” Eight held her chin between her bent forefinger and thumb, while her pupils gazed to the sky as if she was pondering about a difficult riddle. “She could be hidden in the many empty alleys of Sentry,” she shook her head lightly to the left. “Mayhap lurking in the barren woods shielding Screwpile,” she shook her head lightly to the right. “Or perhaps even amongst the many inns and brothels of Dreamcity.” She redirected her infamous icy stare at Fino.
She can’t be serious, Fino thought. He has never loved Frou, nor has he ever hated her. They have barely ever talked throughout the two centuries they've known each other. Yet he has always wondered how such a meek and cowardly girl, who had always hidden behind and clung to the loincloth of Seven, could ever take up arms and rebel against the Centum Order. What Six did to her was awful. But even then, Fino murmured. Though she was his enemy by all laws of the land, he was never one to follow their rules.
“So what now? You want me to catch her?” he asked, though her answer would not matter.
“Of course not. I wouldn’t even trust you to catch a mouse. The Heart Corp would send forces to apprehend the rebels.” Eight ridiculed the thought. Though Fino only bore wounds inflicted by Six, that affront somehow stung more than any stabs to his throat. “I’m merely advising you to keep your eyes open and head sobered. Worthless you may be, but as long as you’re still coated in our fleece, you deserve to know that much.” She warned kindly, or at least her own brand of kindness.
“Well, thank you. Let’s pray that I do not encounter her. For all of our sake.” Fino extended out his hand, the one unstained by blood.
“On that, we agree.” Eight shook his hand firmly. A bit too firm, as he felt his fingers being grinded in her soft palm. “Safe travels.” She unleashed his swollen hand and faced where Six did.
The Lady of Novathens sauntered by the bed of withered flowers and frozen statues, her eyes gleamed and charmed to the cold beauty. Even when bounded within the mightiest walls in Sentry, the knight held tight to her gifted sword, never releasing its hilt, and never permitting its scabbard to be soiled by flickering droplets from melted puddles. Eight reached under the warm canopy, now emptied of snow and conceited nobles, and there her bewitching pallor, cladded in bleached armour and mantle, vanished from Fino’s eyes as well.
That was oddly kind of her. Now I kinda feel bad, Fino thought, though he could yet believe that a woman, whose heart could only be thawed by the flames of war, could have changed that much. What is she up to? he muttered to himself.
There Fino stood alone in the garden. The sun and its grace that had scorched Fino’s skin have all been engulfed by waves of clouds. The snow littered over sculptures and the icicles hung to tall rooftops have all melted over the yard and turned to pools of crystal water. Into the water mirror, Fino glanced at himself. His grey blouse and baggy pants were dishevelled and dyed in mud. His black hair resembled a bird nest, the hair tie could scarcely contain his bun any longer. The imprint and punctures inflicted by Six laid over the faded markings from the Iron War. The reflection of him was undoubtedly miserable. Fino would have cackled and jeered until he collapsed if this were to happen to any other Archetypes. Yet no one was there to laugh at him. Nice mug, Fino sniggered to himself. He harshly slapped his own knee until it stung worse than Six’s choke. His cadence ever grew shriller until the nearby resting jays fled in a flock. His eyes unwet and post unmoved, still trapped within the garden, besieged by a band of familiar stones.
Dreamcity… Here we go again, his laughter echoed for naught but the audience of winter spirits who haunted the keep, perhaps it would one day dispel them away as well.