“I still could not believe we have to do this.” Owl whined and flailed his arms as if he were a toddler.

The boy coated in scars and stitches lay his palm on the wailer's shoulder. “Best believe it. There are no free dinners in our household.” Evens retorted. “You’re lucky that Mom even let you off for this long,” Evens snarled – for it has been close to a fortnight since the night they intruded upon Evens’s dinner.

“But I don’t wanna’,” the raw-boned and foulmouthed freeloader further moaned.

The lanky lad with a pegleg, tiptoed forward and lay his own palm on the other shoulder. “Yield already, Owl. Your moaning isn’t going to change anything,” Rupert attempted to console the whining child, though it did not seem to yield much success.

“Ya’ can try to act gallant all ya’ want, but I can tell that ya’ screaming inside as well,” Owl shoved Rupert’s hand off him.

“No, I am not.” Rupert claimed, though while his eyes avoiding Owl’s.

“Yeah, ya’ are.” Owl enunciated every single word, all while glaring down at the cowering giant.

The moronic duo began to argue in broad daylight, unheeding to surrounding passers-by.

Damn idiots… Evens sighed.

They were no longer in the Bottom Barrel. The morn began early for Evens, having to pack his gear to journey towards the centre of Screwpile, where opportunities lay more abundant. A chance fell upon them and took them out of the Bottom Barrel and to a more pleasant part of Screwpile, yet even so, it was still infested with junk, blood, and steel. Instead of the sullen mobs of humans and steelborns that roamed the Bottom Barrel, in this part of Screwpile, ecliants were more plentiful though they still pale in numbers compared to the ilk whom they deemed to be inferior. The streets were wider and huddled with many pedlars’ stalls trading exotic goods from Seapien Port to the Wasteland, and open taverns serving blissful steelmen and wistful humans. Ecliants carried about their days trading with distant merchants, unminding the steelborns and humans as if they were stones littered on the dusty road. Steelborns lay under the shades of their stalls, trying their best to barter and sell their forged merchandise to trusting travellers. Humans were yet no different than they were in the Bottom Barrel – they crawled around street corners like stray mutts, with barely any cloth to cover their nude self, either drunk and collapsed affront a tavern door or begging for arks affront merchant stalls. The sight was the same wherever Evens went, yet it did not vex him any less to see it each time. Have some shame… Evens scoffed.

The sun was terribly harsh with its grace. Ecliants, steelborns, and humans alike all found refuge under the roofs of stone inns and brothels, all built unevenly to try and cram as many structures into one space as conceivable. If not for the job that Evens had to undertake, perhaps he would have wasted himself away to one of the nearby taverns or brothels as well. Not like I could anyway. Having to babysit these two, Evens glanced back toward the two fools in their incessant scuffle.

“Will you all give it a rest?” a shrieking roar, far fiercer than the ones from any meterases that Evens has heard, shook the raucous boys out of their childish scrap. “If the client sees this ruckus and rid of us, best believe a slight clean-up gig would be the last of your worries,” affront the house of which today’s commission would be conducted, Mother scolded them with her alloyed arms crossed, even though her shout was far louder than Owl and Rupert’s petty spat.

“Yes, ma’am.” Owl bowed his head.

“Yes, ma’am.” Rupert bowed his head.

“Yes, ma’am.” Evens bowed his head as well, though he did nothing wrong.

“Good.” Mom rose back a kind yet eery smile, before facing the door once more.

Mom accepted a housekeeping commission for a day, and since Rupert and Owl still haven’t repaid her goodwill, she decided to force it upon them to reimburse, and unfortunately, Evens was caught in the clash.

Evens reached into his worn-out satchel and unwrapped a parchment detailing the commission. They had reached the house of an ecliant named Lygor, who was seeking temporary housekeepers after his previous ones allegedly quit. Though knowing ecliants, Evens do not doubt that there is more to uncover behind that purported account.

Even a lowly ecliant in this part of Xearth could afford housemaids? Must be nice… Evens thought. No matter how poor and unfortunate an ecliant is, they would still triumph far over the happiest of humans and steelborns.

The house was about three times as tall and double that in width compared to Evens’s shabby hut, though that was hardly a noteworthy accomplishment. Even amongst the neighbouring holds, it was more on the larger side. A keep made of crumbling cobblestones, that mayhap aged far back over a century ago – the cobwebs and creepers hugging its walls did not help to make it seem any less haunted.

“Hello, housekeeping here,” Mom fixed her white and black attire, before knocking gently on the door – her steel knuckles colliding into the wooden door made a strange sound that no humans, ecliants, or steelborns could make.

The four waited for the homeowner to arrive.

Mom stood still and unwavering as if she were a monolith – Evens doubted even a storm would break her posture.

Rupert struggled to stand straight with how many bags and satchel he wrapped around his giant body – though it was his fault for insisting upon himself to shoulder everyone’s weight.

Owl yawned and scratched his butt crack while slouching his back – even Evens would feel bad for any sorry ecliant sop that received him as their maid.

Evens glanced his eyes upon each nook and cranny of the stone house affront him, from the dark smoke flowing out of the round chimney, to the draped windows allowing no light to enter its domain – a pity that such a structure would be maltreated like this. Take care of where you live, Evens pressed his palm against the dusty wall, marking his stamp onto it.

The door creaked open lastly, and all bated breath and distractions came to an end.

A grey fogey with a plump belly that could barely be contained within his yellowed blouse greeted Mother, each of his purple eyes staring in the opposite direction. He had thin white hair and even thinner stubbles across his face, Evens shuddered to think of when the last time he had groomed and washed himself. “You’re here? Good, good. Come in and start already.” Lygor ordered, and for an instant, his eyes glazed over Evens, Owlem, and Rupert – his disdainful wince was faint but all could notice, nevertheless. His tone was feeble and meek, and he waved his hand nonchalantly as if he were gesturing for his hounds to return home.

The quartet walked into the dimly lit house.

The moment Evens stepped foot passed the doorframe, foul stench and squalls of dust raided his nose – despite his house appearing to be fairly yet oddly tidy as if ghosts housed in it, though there were a few empty bottles and dry animal bones littered over the floor.

The doorway led straight to the lounge, where lay a fireplace and not much else. Atop the pile of burning logs, a longsword lay ornamented over the wall, where its scabbard shielded the blade from rising smoke and embers. It lay dormant inside a black sheathe, decorated with woven red stars – a rather fine craft if Evens had ever seen one, perhaps the stout geezer once wielded it under the banner of a watcher or the Sentinel.

“Don’t any of you dare touch it, you understand?” the old oaf marched towards Evens and warned him sternly, though he did not look terribly threatening with his ale belly and sullen eyes. His breath reeked of spoiled meat, while his teeth decayed and chipped.

Evens did not respond and merely nodded – for he’d rather avoid opening his mouth alongside Lygor’s, lest he wanted to risk huffing in his stench.

“I said do you understand!?” he shouted, yet his roar did not match his frail body, and it shook Evens slightly aback.

“Yes, sir.” Evens announced.

“Yes, sir.” Owl announced.

“Yes, sir.” Rupert announced.

“Good, good…” With eyes crossed as if he were a lizard, the slovenly old man grunted.

Lygor then limped towards the end of the corridor, bumping his shoulders against bookshelves and knees against cupboards, yet it did not seem to pain him in the slightest. Once reached the end, a chamber lay open, though it was engulfed in darkness without even a single flicker of light. The strange freak retreated into the chamber and sealed the door tight, unminding whether his housekeepers may rob his dwelling – perhaps to him, they were no more than mere vermin who do not have the temerity to act against their ecliant master.

“Stop gawking around, boys. He doesn’t pay us to clean his house with our eyes,” Mom clapped her hands to wake everyone from their daze. Once awoken, she tossed Evens a wooden broom, Rupert a bucket of water with a soaked rag, and Owlem a pair of gloves alongside a basket – each item more tattered and grimier than the last. “Well, get to it.” Mom snapped her fingers and commanded the crew, acting as if she was the owner of the keep, while the actual owner had retreated to his cave.

“Honestly, I’d rather slay mets than this,” Owl complained as he covered his nose away from the oddly sticky gloves that he received.

And for the first time, neither Evens nor Rupert chimed in their dispute.

“Well, at least mine doesn’t look too bad… At least I hope so…” Rupert chuckled nervously, as he lifted the bucket and pocketed the rag – unsure as to what needed a scrubbing.

Such is our life… Evens lamented as he held up the splintered wooden broom, and began to sweep the stone floor lathered in dust, mouldy crumbs, and gnawed bones.

*

The sun had begun to descend, and the curtains were no longer needed to shield the keep from its dazzling grace.

The housekeepers had nearly completed their cleaning duty, all except for the chamber that Lygor confined himself in – even though the room probably needed most cleaning, with all the harsh and fishy odour that seeped out from the door’s crevices.

Everyone was exhausted. Only the lounge remained to be tidy and cleansed – the place where they started, still scattered with rubbish and grime.

Evens has slouched the whole day while sweeping, making it seem as if he had a hunchback. The broom that he gripped so tightly onto, left its mark on Evens’s palms, and as its duty neared its end, Evens felt as if the wooden stick was heavier than any swords or spears he had wielded.

“How are things on your end?” Evens coughed, with dust still caught in his throat.

“All good here.” Owl rose a thumb up from across the room. “For the love of Ark, how many bottles does this guy have lying around?” Owl whispered as he picked up another bottle and tossed it in his basket, ensuring that the owner could not hear him. “Ya’ good, Peg?” Owl asked Rupert.

The normally amenable and responsive Rupert did not grant an answer, he merely kept on cleaning in his own corner – all while porting a deadpan face, as if he had encountered the vilest atrocity.

Owl encroached slowly toward the legless husk. “Ya’ alright? I said–”

“Leave him.” Evens yelled from across the chamber.

“What?” Owl asked with a puzzled look.

With one hand still sweeping dust, Evens lifted the other and pointed his finger towards the wooden foot of Rupert – whereby next to it lay a large chamber pot, and it was spotless, though Evens was certain that it was not spotless before.

The horror conjured onto Owl’s agape face upon seeing his own reflection mirrored on the ceramic pot was enough to tell Evens that even someone as callous as Owl knew when to hold his tongue regarding other’s messy affairs.

They carried on cleaning and tidying the room in their own corners – all in silence, with only the sounds of brushing broom, sponging cloth, and rustling basket to lull their ears.

Even as his hands were occupied with wielding his sweeper, Evens couldn’t stop himself from admiring the sheathed blade perched above flame, rather than the clusters of dust speckled over the walkway. The black scabbard was woven with fine leather, though cracks and creases have covered the lustre yet dry sheathe, and engulfed its red starry markings. How old is it? Though the scabbard proved fine craftmanship, and while its sheen was hidden under a drape and away from prying eyes – Evens was sure that he could forge a sword far greater if given the materials, arks, and time.

“Are you all done, boys?” Mom walked into the room after being missing for half of the day, her garment tattered and covered in dust and dirt while her silver hair was tied to a bun. Though her tenor seemed spry and blithe, no doubt she took on far more chore than all of the rest combined – after all, half of the house and the garden were untouched by Evens, Owl, and Rupert.

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Perks of being a servicebot no doubt, Evens stared at his mother, freed from trickling sweat and tiring gasps. “Yes, ma’am.” Evens bowed his head briskly.

“Yes, ma’am.” Owl bowed his head wearily.

“Yes… ma’am...” Rupert bowed his head creakily, life had all but left his hollowed eyes.

“Wonderful. Good job, boys. I’m so proud of you all for working so hard.” Mom clapped her hands, fluttering dust off of her palms.

“Thanks.” Evens scratched his cheek. “But you should tone down on your own workload. Sure you servicebots have your inhuman strength, but your resilience doesn’t quite match up,” Evens warned.

Even though Evens was quite confident in his skills as a craftsman, he still had yet to have any inkling behind how Newspecs was able to create sentient beings such as servicebots. Though, just as Evens fell short of the craftmanship of Newspecs, it’d seem they too fell short of the might of Ark. Servicebots were far from faultless, their short lifespan and frequent breakdown had led them to be abandoned by their creators and masters – aside from Mother, Evens do not believe he had seen another person whom too bore her fleece of grey.

“You worry too much, Evens.” Num laughed at her worrywart of a son.

You’re one to talk, Evens sneered at the woman who would give him an endless earful if he were to arrive home late by even a minute.

“Thank you, Evens. But best reserve that concern for yourself and your friends. Unlike me, you have blood to be shed and flesh to be blotted,” Mother smiled a sombre arch that her ruby eyes could not match.

The chamber lurking at the end of the keep suddenly burst open its door, and from within the shadowy depth, a walking husk who had hibernated for an entire day left his cave and hobbled sluggishly, carrying his plump belly and all, towards the startled spectators.

“Good evening, Lord Lygor.” Mom bowed her head to him, though he was no Lord.

Though Evens despised the idea of greeting an ecliant of his meagre stature as such, the glare from Mom’s bloodshot orbs compelled him and the other two to bend their neck.

“Have you lot finished?” Lygor hiccupped and scratched his dishevelled head. Drools splattered over his lips while rusts surrounded his lips – he seemed even more unkempt than before.

“Yes, sir. I hope that you’ll be pleased with what we’ve done for your abode,” Mom said.

“Yes. Good, good. It’s good…” The half-awake ecliant slurred his words, with his eyes hardly opened and barely even a slight glance was given to his house – outwardly unbothered whether the commission was fulfilled or not, and instead beginning to tumble back to his cavern.

“Excuse me, sir. Regarding the payment,” Mom asked before the mindless sleepwalker could dare to escape his end of the bargain.

“Yes, yes. You’re right.” Lygor gasped as if he genuinely forgot. “A dozen bronze arks, was it?”

A dozen? That much only for cleaning? Evens was baffled, he received far less for risking his life and limbs hunting meterases.

With the little semblance of wits returned about his dome, Lygor walked back to his room and slammed the door shut – though darkness and silence no longer obscured the chamber, as flickering candlelight shone out of the door’s gaps alongside the sound of wild cupboard rummaging.

“We oughta’ run the moment he hands the arks. Man gives me the creep,” Owl whispered to Evens’s ear.

“No objection here.” Evens retorted, though he wouldn’t mind staying back a while longer if it meant he could further admire the ornamented blade.

“Same.” Rupert chimed in, at the hint of mentions about soon departure.

The rummaging ended, and the source of the ruckus left his dorm and limped towards Mother. In his grasp was a sack woven by a thin leather that Evens had never seen used. He then handed the bag to Mom, revealing brown dry marks over its patching, reeking with stench of rotten meat and stale wine.

Without any hesitation, Mom untied the string wrapped around the neck of the satchel and reached her delicate hand into the mawkish mess. “Thank you so much, Lord Lygor.” She meticulously counted every single bronze arks.

“Yes, yes…” Lygor mumbled as he scratched his neck wildly like a rabid beast, his long and yellowy nails digging deep into his brittle skin.

Matters of payment coated behind forced pleasantries irked Evens, instead, he found more enjoyment in admiring the bedecked sword once more – yet this time, faint droplets leaking out of the scabbard and befell onto the flame caught his attention. Evens tiptoed closer to try and have a better sight, yet he never even encroached a step closer before a taut grip landed on his shoulder and hurled him backward.

“What did I say?” the man who always seemed soulless shouted at the top of his lungs and gripped Evens by his collars. “What did I say?” Lygor repeated himself before Evens could even answer.

“Calm yourself. I did not even touch it or anything,” for all the airs the old ecliant vigorously flaunted, age must have caught up to him – and Evens effortlessly chucked his chunky yet frail fists aside.

“You brat. How dare you speak back to me,” Lygor cursed at Evens – though he did not look threatening when holding onto his flimsy wrist as if Evens had twisted it.

“Evens.” Mom leered at Evens – that indeed was threatening, even though her smile still curved and eyes still soft.

“My apologies, sir. Please forgive my offence.” Evens bowed, though the words struggled to leave his mouth. His head bent low until he was sure that the swine would only be able to see his dusky mane and not his grimace.

“You should be sorry… You should be sorry… If not for your mommy, vermin of your ilk would never set foot in my keep.” Lygor casted a classic insult, reserved only for ecliants.

“As if any would want to drown in this pigsty,” Evens mumbled, though for as old and half-witted the ecliant appeared, his hearing did not seem to dull alongside.

“You human filth,” as if he had turned into a wild beast, Lygor stumbled wildly throughout the chamber, knocking over recently tidied furniture and decor in his path. His maddening rampage did not quell until his arm chanced upon a flower vase decorated atop a crumbling shelf and then snatched it by the neck. “You show no respect to the ones who’ve shielded you,” the enraging bull pointed the glass vase at Evens as if it were a sword.

Shielded us? This man must be dafter than I thought, Evens smirked.

Evens’s smirk further reddened Lygor, and he lunged towards Evens with the vase rose above his head. “Dare mock me again, you impu–”

The old oaf was slow and big, even a child would be able to dodge his charge, let alone a tested huntsman like Evens. Old fool. Don’t blame me for–

Yet before Evens could ready his stance, a small grey figure dove in between him and the charging bull. Their thin and delicate arms stretched outward, undaunted by the man twice their size rushing towards them with a vase also twice the size of her head.

The crackling sound of flower water pouring onto the floor alongside glass being shattered to dozens of shards aggrieved the ears of Evens, yet the irritation vanished wholly when he saw the protector afront him fall to their knees.

Mom! Evens knelt down next to her. Her forehead was caved in slightly, yet no blood nor flesh seeped out to stain her alloyed skin, it was all hollow and obscured – though that mattered naught.

The ecliant bastard was too on the floor, though no one even touched a hair on his head. Crawling away and bawling dolefully as if his fat head was the one that was bashed in.

Evens stood up, his brown eyes fixed on the crawling Lord. The many scars throughout his body ached wildly, yet it was not painful enough to restrain his arms from grabbing his broom and his legs from marching toward Lygor.

From the corner of his eyes, he spotted Owl and Rupert creeping behind him as well. Don’t you dare try to stop me, Evens muttered, yet his prey was afront of him, and he could not afford to turn his back.

“My sincerest apology.”

“I said do not try to stop m–” Evens could not finish his words, lest he wished to suffer their wrath.

“My son is but an uncouth boy. Please do not let the words from such an imprudent kid sour your temper.” Standing tall as if the wound had vanished, Mom apologised with her hand holding over her head to shelter the hole.

“Yes, yes. You’re right,” as if the beast was neutered and sedated, Lygor responded meekly.

As Lygor listlessly stood back up onto his feet, Mom fell to her knees once more – no doubt her show of resilience was no more than mere bluffs.

As if his legs had too lost their strength and shifted to his arms, Evens dove down and caught her frail body before it could meet the ground again. “Why did you do that for?” Evens carefully assisted her to sit upright.

“My foolish son,” the colour of her ruby orbs dimmed ever so faintly. “If you could find the answer to your own question, then I would no longer have to do things like this anymore.” Mom panted softly, though her smile had yet to fade.

Stubborn hag… Evens breathed a sigh of relief.

Her respite was fleeting, though her dome was cratered and her breath was short, Mom grabbed onto Evens’s shoulder and lifted herself up. “Once more, I am really sorry for my boy’s behaviour. I’d ensure to discipline him once I return home,” she bowed to the man who harmed her.

It irked Evens. The words Mom chose to speak and the man to whom her words were delivered to – they all irked Evens. Evens could not recall how many of his ilk had heard those words, though none were deserving. His fists clenched tightly until his nails dug passed his scars and into his palms. The house was locked and windows draped, with no prying eyes besides Evens’s own ilk and a lone ecliant – wild and perilous thoughts rummaged through his dome yet his limbs did not bear the same vigour.

“Wait. Are you leaving already?” Lygor asked timidly, with his crossed eyes seeming innocently enough.

Mother brushed the dust off of her dress. “Would there be any other chambers you’d like us to clean? We owe you that much after what just transpired,” Mom proposed, as she then gazed at the unspoiled chamber at the end of the keep.

“No, no. Not particularly.” Lygor flippantly stepped to the side, blocking all’s view of his chamber.

“I’m really sorry, sir. If there are no more needs of yours that we could tend to, then we best leave before nightfall, lest we wish to earn the ire of the Sentinels,” Mom clarified, her words outwardly brought some semblance of sense to the dithering and reticent oaf.

“No. You’re right, you’re right. Right, off with you all then.” Lygor whimpered, with drool trickling down his mouth yet he slurped it back up.

What is up with this man? Evens winced, few men he had met could match his oddity.

Perhaps Mom agreed with Evens’s sentiment as well, for she merely bowed and gave the snivelling and salivating ecliant her signature courteous smile.

The arks have been earned, and the deal has concluded – ecliant or not, Lygor could not oppose that which has been contracted. The pudgy husk shrunk down to a ball, all while nibbling on his nails and rocking back and forth as if he was a cradle – yet though his eyes were hollowed and cheeks sunken, the sentinel would not desert his assigned post and leave his chamber unguarded.

Evens gathered his gear into his satchel and set for the doorway – for a pair of grumblers and plodders, Owl and Rupert were far more on top compared to Evens when it came to departing.

“C’mon, boys.” Awaiting at the entrance, Mom called out to the three, of which Owl and Rupert wasted no time waggling their tails and scampering with their paws over. She had a murky towel wrapped around her forehead, though she did not seem to mind nor wince at the filth infesting her wounds and stench stuffing her nose.

Evens marched gently towards where the light from the slumbering sun shone – of all the rubbishes this keep bore, Evens could not deny the fleeting marvel constructs it too housed. With half his body crossed into the light, while the other half still shrouded in the shade – Evens glanced back once more, at the crumpled knight and the dusky castle he shielded, oozing foul yet familiar scents to Evens, as if meats were spoiled, drinks were spilled, and blood were shed.

Evens left the keep and sealed the creaky gate – abandoning the house and its host to the darkness. He huffed in a lungful breath of fresh air, no longer tampered by rotten stenches and stifling dust.

The sun has halfly slept – no longer blinding Evens’s eyes. Outdoor merchants and pedlars were retreating for the day, while taverns and brothels readying themselves for the boisterous night to come.

“Well that was not weird at all,” Owl sighed faintly as he ambled down the porch.

“The man did not seem right in the head,” Rupert sighed aloud – unbecoming for a normally collected man such as him.

“Ya’ don’t say,” Owl groaned while sniffing his fingers – the very same ones who have touched and been subjected to the foulest of horrors.

“Do you know him, Mom?” Evens asked his mother, who was leading the pack in front.

“This was the first time I met him. Foreman Chin was the one who passed me this request.” Mom revealed this to Evens.

So it was that old bastard’s idea. No wonder… Evens clicked his tongue in annoyance.

“Apparently Lygor was once a Sentinel, of the Scout Corp even. Perhaps things didn’t go too well in the Wasteland for him.” Mother added, a tint of lustre glossed over her crimson eyes.

“How bad could it actually be? Seeing that the man hasn’t shied away from drinking sewage and eating shit.” Evens mocked the absent man who could no longer defend himself. “Am I right, Rupert?” Evens tapped Rupert’s shoulder – he would not let the scrubber forget his day or his pot anytime soon.

“Shut up.” Rupert shrugged Evens’s palm away. “Whatever he’s been feasting on, I don’t want to taste a single morsel even if I’m on my last leg,” the poor lad gagged at the mere mention of it.

“Old habits die hard, I suppose. Let’s hope that he does not need new housekeepers every time around anymore,” Mom said, though her words eluded Evens’s mind – perhaps a few things only steel on steel could understand.

As Evens marched through the dwindling street, filled with yawning faces setting away their wares for the night and exalted smiles hopping over to the nearest tavern; a stampede ensued at the midst of the junction – albeit a rather little and lonesome one.

A boy, perhaps no more than half of Evens’s age and height, ran amok in the square, all while blaring and throwing piles of papers to passers-by. He wore a pale green beret with a matching coat and a satchel around his chest that held heaps of newspapers – a rather fancy attire for such a young boy.

“Breaking news! The Sentinels are marching to Screwpile! Spearheaded by the prodigal Prime Sentinel and notorious Kinslayer no less! Hide in your keeps and hide your kids, lest you want them to be herd to the mines of the Ironmount! To keep up to date on their march to the slums, snatch yourself the latest issue of the Daily Centum!” the newsboy shouted at the top of his lungs, attracting the curiosity and fear of steelmen and humans alike.

Speak of the devil, Evens sighed. The despicable Sentinels were no strangers to lurking and laying their greasy paws in every corner of Xearth – but a mobilisation of an entire troupe to such a small and meagre part of the realm was bewildering to even Evens who has dwelt in Screwpile for over a decade.

“Well, what are we having for dinner?” Owl’s stomach growled, nigh matching the hollers from the newsboy.

“I do not believe your empty stomach should take precedence right now,” Rupert coughed softly in his hand, his usual prim composure seemed to have returned.

“Yeah, shameless bastard.” Evens insulted Owl, his usual grim composure seemed to have returned.

“C’mon, quit acting prissy and proper. The job is done already, and I know ya’ all as hungry as I am,” his belly grumbled louder as if he housed a beast in there. While masking sorrowful eyes and shedding crocodile tears, Owl turned to Mother, perhaps praying that his embellished agony would be enough to move Mom’s kindness.

Yet Mom did not appear to even grasp Owl’s plea, her dilated pupils seemed to lean elsewhere and nowhere all at once. “I’m sorry, Owlem – but go home, and stay there. You as well, Rupert – go home to your sister.” She advised the two lads. “At least until this ordeal comes to an end, I do not wish for any of you to leave your roof,” Mother muttered quietly, while her limbs fell numb as the rag bandaged her head unloosened and dropped from her temple.

What? Evens choked on his own spit, and Owl and Rupert appeared to do so as well.

Owl walked gently up to Mom, his body quivering faintly as if trying his best to not irate the silent witch. “Thanks for ya’ concern but no can do, ma’am. I need to earn arks–”

“This is an order.”

All became as silent as she was, and their faint nods were the only proper response they could conjure.

Few and far between had Evens ever heard such ire in Mother’s voice and such torment in her eyes. The last time was when Evens proposed to sell his flesh and organs to the Centum Order to earn themselves some arks – he wished not to recall the austere fury that was wreaked upon him that day. The rage that she bore in this instant felt indistinguishable from that of the past.

Perhaps pleased with the unanimous nods from the boys or mayhap with their enduring silence, Mother bent over to pick up the fallen towel and enveloped it around her dome once more. “Good. Now let’s go home.” Mother smiled a sunny smile that could warm the hearts of even the coldest of men – yet that nightfall, under the bitter sky casted by the ebbing sun, it felt as cold as steel.