Aces seating in Sentry. Lords and Ladies hailing from Eden. Scholars attending Harford. Merchants and tradesmen toiling away in Seapien Port. Stars and artisans of Dreamcity… Confined within her private quarters, a small and modest chamber within the Arkeep and near the Prophet’s own office, Sydra mumbled the names and accolades inked onto the long list of honoured guests for the forthcoming tourney that all Xearthers so cherish dearly. How long does this godforsaken list go? she licked the tip of her thumb before turning the parchments, her sweaty grip nearly tearing the pages off the tome. Though Sydra had never been one to indulge in athletic events, no matter how grand and acclaimed the Arklympic is. To her, it was merely more paperwork to pen, and sleepless nights to come.

The championed game is hosted every three years, and even then, Sydra wouldn’t mind if it were to become sparser, six or nine years even. Arrogant ecliants, desperate steelborns, and vain humans are all thrown into a pit like beasts to compete in bouts of strength and endurance. Such tactless activities were far beneath Sydra. Mayhap before she was endowed to be His Heavenlier’s scribe, perhaps then she would have enjoyed such a frivolous game like the upcoming Centum Tourney. Not as though I could’ve back then… Sydra fell out of thought and lost count of where she was on the list.

It has been a fortnight since the hearing with the watcher deserter. After the hearing concluded, he was transferred to join the Sentinel, despite Sydra’s protest. A runaway’s words bore little worth to Sydra, yet it didn’t seem so to His Heavenlier. What are you hiding?

With the Arklympic commencing in due time and the rebellious ordeal with the Firstkind, Sydra had barely caught any glimpses of respite, much less so the Prophet himself. Or so he should have been… Sydra crumpled the piece of parchment she was supposed to pen invitations onto. Penning letters of welcome to the esteemed figures of Xearth was delegated to His Heavenlier, yet he couldn’t even handle such a simple task and instead had pranced away to do his usual covert deeds. Your Heavenlier… When I get you… Sydra released the balled parchment and grasped the inked quill, ensuring not to crush it as well. She unloosed her dark vest to loosen her sore shoulders, and fixed the spectacles over her dimmed eyes, priming herself for the scripts to read and letters to pen. The days when she fantasized about the romance of the Arkeep have surely been tattered and buried beneath this paperwork. I swear to Ark himself. When I get you…

*

“Dear Lady Yuna Elidyne,

I am once more biding my time until I could be graced by your noble presence at the forthcoming 70th Arklympic.

On behalf of the Centum Order and the people of Xearth, I offer you and the Lords and Ladies of Eden, my sincerest gratitude and honour. Your enduring generosity in granting the tourney to be hosted at Eden far surpasses any benevolent gesture that could be wrought by the noblest of ecliants.

How fare is your Lord Father? Has his illness waned? His fortitude to battle the ailment for so long is truly unmatched throughout the realm. I can only pray for Ark to bless him with enough strength to regain his former valour and attend this year’s Arklympic. His presence would assuredly elate the mass, as would for us all.

I bid you and the House of Elidyne to always be vested in the might of Ark,

–The Prophet”

That should be all, Sydra groaned a breath of relief as she fanned her sopping face with one amongst many discarded parchment. She had pen through hundreds of parchments and broke dozens of quills, losing track of whether the day has slumbered and renewed, but at last, the letter titled for the Lady of Eden should mark the end of her torment… and onto another.

With tired lids, Sydra glanced at the other pile of papers, numbering up to 279 pages. They were all reports that were meant for the attentive gaze and decisive mind of His Heavenlier, yet instead they ended atop Sydra’s decrepit desk, barely lit by the flickering candles.

Few pages accounted for the funding for the Sentinels’ endeavours. We owe them so many arks… Where would the Sentinels be if not for the Elidynes?

Few pages were detailed with status reports from the Ironmount Institution. There seem to be less riots from prisoners now… I wonder what the watchers have been employing to achieve so?

Few pages were letters sent from throughout the realm – like from Lady Brooks of McLay, a scholar and Arbiter of Harford University who means to visit Sentry and His Heavenlier. There was also a detailed letter from the adventurer, Crusoe Bumson, regarding his exploits over in the Wasteland. Cannibals, dead men walking, green people… What is going on over there?

Sydra read through each page, with each of them being duller than the last. Wait a minute? Sydra was thrown slightly aback once she finished page 233. 234 and 235 were not present in the pile. Sydra skimmed through the compiled sheets once more, surveyed her messy desk, and stooped to the dusty narrow floor, yet the two pages would not surface. That’s odd… Sydra mumbled. Whether she lost them or His Heavenlier forgot to hand them those two, she was far too tired to open a hunt for two missing papers. If the Prophet was carefree enough to push his work onto Sydra, then he’d be fine with her informing him on the matter once the work has dwindled.

Sydra flipped to another paper, this time reporting on the ongoing protests in Harford. They have been persisting for over a decade. It felt as if it was no longer a citadel to nurture knowledge, but more of a battleground for students and scholars to protest against the Centum Order, yet none of them could seem to decide on a goal to fight for. Some ecliants wish to extend their equality towards humans and steelborns. Others wish for the Centum Order to cease remaining dormant in Xearth and instead lay claim to the Wasteland as well. A group of protesters titled the Automatons has been growing in popularity over at Harford for their dedication and zealotry. As she read through the accounts of turmoil in Harford, she couldn’t help but hold an ache in her heart. The virtuous grounds that she once held so dear in her heart have been reduced to a patch of dirt that breeds violence and unrest instead of bright-minded dreamers. Just revolts after revolts nowadays it seems, Sydra unleashed a deep breath, calming her heart and returning to her duty at hand.

Sydra kept reading the cursed records. Her sapphire orbs were engrossed in the words written and illustrations drawn of the endless catastrophes stirring throughout the world.

Outer meddling normally should be barred from her mind when it is deep in thought, yet a certain voice from beyond her tiny quarters broke through her closed mind and lured her ears and eyes away from her desk. Your Heavenlier? Sydra was certain that it was the Prophet’s voice right outside the corridor. As his retainer, she shouldn’t snoop her head in matters unconcerned to her, especially when it is not at the Prophet’s behest, yet it’d hardly be her fault if the whispers were to intrude her quarters by themselves. From her little chamber, she did not need to stand up and press her ear against the door to eavesdrop, she could easily do so from the comfort of her chair and desk. For once, she was content with being granted a room the size of a privy.

“I do not mind if you require further rest, you know?”

That crass and jovial tone belonged to the Prophet, of that Sydra had not a single shred of doubt.

“Your consideration is much appreciated, Your Heavenlier. But, it’d be best for me to conclude this task quickly and fastidiously. I do have other matters I’d like to attend to as well.”

Lord Six? the voice was rough yet mellow all the while, Sydra could only think of the Prime Sentinel to wield such chords.

“It always sounds wrong hearing Heavenlier from your mouth.” The Prophet clicked his tongue. “Are you still irritated from last time?”

“I do not know what you’re talking about.”

“Confess. Your Heavenlier commands it.” His Heavenlier mustered up some air to flaunt, albeit a little too late it’d seem.

“There are only two whom I’d confess to. Ark himself, and as for the other, you don’t seem to bear their features.” The Prime Sentinel chuckled.

Sydra must have misheard that, for it is rarer for the sky to rain fire than it is for Lord Prime to adorn a smile.

“Cheeky bastard.” His Heavenlier laughed as well. That on the other hand, was not rare at all.

Don’t these two have better things to do, Sydra palmed her face, having to listen to this childish conversation.

“Well, if nothing else, I’m glad that you haven’t lost your spunk yet,” His Heavenlier said, followed by a brief thump, perhaps a pat on Lord Prime’s shoulder.

“It’d take more than your usual preaches to rot this old man’s dome.”

“Are you inferring that I’m not doing a good job preaching to the masses? That could be grounds for treason. Wouldn’t want to be sent away behind iron bars for some frivolous remarks, now would we?” the Prophet jested.

“If all I’ve done so far hasn’t earned me a cell at the Ironmount Institution, hurting your feelings surely wouldn’t either.” The Prime Sentinel retorted.

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The Prime Sentinel’s past has largely been shrouded in obscurity, nor has Sydra found it particularly interesting to pry through his secrets. Yet she knew that Lord Six, despite his station, was not adored by many. Lords and Ladies would often gossip at court about the many atrocities that Lord Six had committed in his life, each of them more absurd than the former, though he has never been convicted due to his title and blood. Cravens who scurried and hid behind their stations are the worst in Sydra’s eyes, yet Lord Six has never struck her to be of the sort. To Sydra, Lord Six felt awkward and stern, but he seemed to uphold honour quite close to his chest.

“Well, let’s try not to add more to the pile.” The Prophet’s laugh dwindled for a moment. “I heard that you’d begin your hunt at the Bottom Barrel?” the Prophet asked, his laughter fell wholly.

“The Heart Corp advised so. They believe that the Firstkind could be masking themselves amidst Screwpile’s densest corner.” Lord Six answered dutifully.

“I wouldn’t put it past Four. Her acting talent had always been matchless among us eight.”

Sydra had never met Lady Four before, as she had turned rebel before Sydra assumed her seat at the Arkeep, so she could not opine on her character, but she had always heard that Lady Four was a meek and gentle girl, though they did come from the same crowd who admonished Lord Six.

“The one thing she had going for her. Why couldn’t she just stay put in her lane and turn to a wandering performer if she so desired,” Lord Six cursed, though his temper seemed more sorrowful rather than wrathful.

“Our dear sister isn’t so meek and temperate as she once was. You had our sister and brother to thank for that,” the Prophet chortled mockingly. “Perhaps pat yourself on the back as well when you next visit their graves.”

“Quit it.”

Though stone walls parted and shielded Sydra from the outsiders, chilling sweat descended from her neck as if the Prime Sentinel’s golden orbs would pierce through the gate at any point.

“Alright, my bad. But do try to not remake a mistake of the past,” His Heavenlier apologised, surprisingly enough. “Once you’re at Screwpile, I want to keep casualties to a minimum, outright none if you could help it. That’s an order.” It didn’t take long for his humble apology to turn into a haughty command.

“Understood.”

The Prime Sentinel’s roar subsided, bringing repose to Sydra’s rampant heart and quivering legs.

“The Arklympic is approaching soon. Wouldn’t want to pave the road leading towards it with blood, now would we?” the Prophet added.

Sydra couldn’t blame the Prophet for such a snide remark. With dragons and meterases swarming the realm, protesters and rebels growing in numbers by the days, and each Aces thinking they rule the world – sullying such a significant event such as the Arklympic would be the last thing the Prophet would want to plague his head.

“Did Ark decree you so?” Lord Six asked.

“Maybe at one point he did. With how many teachings he had bestowed upon me, it’d be a wonder if I could retain all of it.” The Prophet worded flippantly.

“Your job is already easy as it is, yet you still find room to whinge.”

“It really is easy, isn’t it?” the Prophet cackled cheerily and breathlessly. “In fact, I’ve already memorised all there was in the Arkive. Now they are no more than footrests, paperweights, and kindling to warm my hands.”

Even Sydra was stunned upon hearing such blasphemy from His Heavenlier’s mouth. The holy scripture of the Creed of Ark, the Arkive, was penned onto parchments by His Heavenlier upon receiving divinations from Ark himself and from there spread to every corner of Xearth and onto the faithful palms of every Children of Ark – or so the legend went. The Prophet had never approved nor denied the tell-tales spread by the common mass, and none have bothered to pry the truth from his lips.

“The people will flog you through the square if they learn that their Prophet is burning Ark’s scripture.” Lord Six jeered.

“I doubt most would pay much heed to what I preach or burn. They haven’t for a long time, and I doubt a resurgence would occur now.” The Prophet murmured. Sydra had to lean forward slightly to grasp his faint mumble.

“It seems you don’t have much faith in Ark anymore.”

“It’s not him who I don’t have faith in,” His Heavenlier sighed.

The Prophet’s voice was slowly dwindling with each passing word. With her ear aimed towards the door but her buttocks still firmly planted on her seat, Sydra leaned further forward and pushed aside the obstacles on her desk, not willing to quit her pointless venture. Lost in thought and eavesdropping, a scorching gust grazed her sleeve. Crap! Sydra shook her arm wildly until the blistering draft extinguished, but it was a moment too late.

The table candle had toppled onto the stacks of reports and letters, engulfing the parchments in its fiery embrace.

Sydra hastily snatched her coat and paddled it over the burning heap. Please don’t burn… Please don’t burn… Sydra begged as she fanned her vest until it was lastly quenched, though not at the cost of a few papers reducing to cinders. She panted madly but also soundlessly, praying that the smoke and ashes wouldn’t leave her chamber, but she was not so lucky.

“Pray tell, what sort of conniving racket are you concocting up in your quarters, Syndy?” the Prophet shouted from beyond the door. With how small her chamber was, it was no wonder he’d be able to hear the ruckus from where he stood.

From endless paperwork, then an arson, and now she had to suffer the smug babbles of His Heavenlier – the days at the Arkeep hadn’t served Sydra well. She quickly brushed her dishevelled hair and dusted her ashen garment, and hid the pile of cinders below her vest.

Sydra left her chamber – it took merely three steps for her to reach the door. Once opened, she was greeted by men with golden eyes, though one was spirited and smirking, while the other was silent and scowling.

“Greetings, Your Heavenlier, Lord Prime.” Sydra bowed carefully, hoping that they wouldn’t notice any remnants of kindling clung to her head.

“Didn’t your mother teach you that it’s uncouth to lay your ears and eyes where they shouldn’t be?” the Prophet lectured her, though sardonically.

As if you didn’t know, Sydra scoffed from within. “My deepest apologies, Your Heavenlier. I’m afraid my mother wasn’t able to teach me an awful lot of good,” Sydra would normally never be able to make such crude retorts around the Prime Sentinel, but being bashed by His Heavenlier’s inanity, Sydra often found herself forgetting her position.

The Prime Sentinel did not seem to mind her remark. He was far quieter once Sydra was here, no longer speaking alongside His Heavenlier.

“Is that smoke I smell in there?” the Prophet shuffled his nose, and geared it towards Sydra’s chamber. “Are you cooking up a feast for yourself at this time of day? I think you should tone down on the feasting before you turn too plump.”

The man who is drinking himself to death is lecturing me on health, Sydra struggled to port a soft smile. “There is no cooking in my chamber. The candle merely tumbled over.” She explained herself, fearing the wrath more so from Lord Six rather than His Heavenlier.

“Don’t tell me it burned the papers you’ve read and written,” His Heavenlier asked kindly, yet his voice seemed more thrilled than sullen.

“Please do not worry, Your Heavenlier. Some of them have been charred, but I assure you that this blunder would be remedied promptly.” Sydra assured His Heavenlier.

“Relax. I do not really care regardless of if one or two records turn to ashes, and neither should you. There is enough knowledge to go around as it is,” though it seemed that Sydra’s assurance was unneeded to His Heavenlier.

“Thank you for your kindness, Your Heavenlier.” Regardless of the Prophet’s careless drifts, Sydra knew she still needed to rectify it, lest she wished to further stain His Heavenlier’s name. “I once more apologise for disrupting your exchange. I would take my leave–”

“Lady Sydra.”

“Yes, Lord Six?” Sydra turned back just as she had her grasp on the door handle, though she couldn’t wholly face the Prime Sentinel.

“You hailed from Dreamcity, yes?”

“That is true,” Sydra avoided his glare.

“And for the lack of better words, you were raised in the more unsavoury part of the city, is that right?”

“Yes.” Sydra muttered.

Where Sydra was born, humans and steelborns ran rampant like a plague. The streets suffocated with lavish brothels, dirty taverns, brawling rings, and slavers’ hubs. Decent men could not be raised there, only conniving and cunning crooks could thrive in the City of Colours. Half of her life was spent drowning in that den of depravity, and she had never once wished to return to that pigsty.

“The common people. The ones whom you were surrounded by most of your life. Do you care for them?” Lord Six posed his question, one that Sydra never thought would come from him.

As if, Sydra clicked her tongue. There wasn’t another city in Xearth that she despised more than Dreamcity.

Everything was spoiled with blood, wine, and viler fluids.

The food smelled like rubbish, and the water tasted like sewage.

The roads were hounded by thieves and conmen.

The townsmen abandoned her to the vultures.

Yet even when memories of harrowing nightmares shadowed the little dreams of bliss she had, she still couldn’t pray for its ruin. What she learned and whom she met there, she would never forget.

“To whom cared for me, I, of course, cared for them,” Sydra claimed, though she had doubts if she could believe her own truth.

“Fine answer, Syndy.” The Prophet grinned from ear to ear, as if he was a proud father.

“Thank you, Lady Sydra.” The Prime Sentinel smiled faintly.

Weirdos… Sydra sighed internally. “If that is all, I’d retreat to my chamber now. There is still a lot of paperwork I need to finish,” Sydra glared at the man who pushed all of his work onto her. “Have a good day, Your Heavenlier.” The Prophet avoided her glare and ensued to whistle awkwardly to the anthem, All Centum Road, though it was hardly intelligible from how much he was quaking. “May Ark bless your venture towards what is right, Lord Prime.” Sydra bowed to the sole Lord who acted as such.

Sydra retreated to her chamber, without a single glance back. Once inside and the door was bolted tight, she breathed soundless sighs of relief. Dealing with His Heavenlier was no arduous venture for Sydra, but Lord Six’s presence was nauseating to her who was not overly fond of bloodshed.

Her heart wouldn’t stop beating, and keeping her panting silently was becoming harder by the second. She could still hear faint clatters of the two Lords outside, though this time, she could no longer hear their words over her rampaging heart. Leave already… She prayed with her eyes closed and palms clasped, and they didn’t soften until the echoes of fleeing footsteps drifted away far down the hall, and far away from her modest chamber.

With the outsiders vanished and the corridor returned still once more, Sydra’s strength returned to her limbs and she undraped her coat, revealing dusts of ashes embedded over darkened parchments. Damn it… Few of the letters that she had spent sleepless nights penning have all but charred, and the stack of reports delivered to her from His Heavenlier had burned away in great numbers. Just my luck, Sydra groaned as she swept the unsalvageable embers off her desk.

I forgot to ask him about the missing pages, only once Sydra was dusting the ashen pile, did she realize that the two missing pages were no longer unique in their strange disappearance. The temerity to inquire His Heavenlier regarding their vanishment has left Sydra’s soul and body wholly, for she knew he would take no blame, and pushed it all onto Sydra once more. Though for once, she would not be able to rebuke his reprimand, regrettably. Well, at least the Arkive is unburnt, Sydra caressed the tome lay at the far edge of her desk, far from the blazing bed. With how many books littered throughout her table, even she forgot about its presence at times. She could not even remember when the last time she even wondered about its presence. It was tainted by snowing ashes, but yet unmarred by burning grasps, for if the scripture was to be singed, even Ark himself would not forgive her. Though I’m not so sure about him… She dusted the ashen scripture with her own ashen palm, revealing its woven title and dark-leathered cover – perhaps then she would no longer forget about its existence.