There seemed to be an odd ‘voice’ which possessed Farthan nature. Unknown to me, nor those of mortal kind, the ‘voice’ acted as a means of guidance. Confuse it not with the Scarves, for the Scarves meant for mortals are ones the Farthans do not possess. But understand that this ‘voice’ seemed like a Scarf in itself.

— Study II of Tarkas, Second Verse

----------------------------------------

Towering between the enslaved ones and Varna was a large cobblestone wall. She watched as the young ones passed through the main bridge, only halting briefly for the guards to confer amongst themselves. She took this chance to close the distance, yet was stopped when the bridge cleared of people. The backs of the young children grew ever smaller, and the night was emerging, the situation growing unfavourable. Not once had she resented the brilliance of the Scarf, but its gleam drew curious eyes among the dark. An annoyance, quite frankly, but one had to put up with it.

Refusing to waste anymore time, Varna quickly hid under the bridge, partly feeling her way through the increasing darkness. Cobblestone rubbed against her hands, as she silently progressed toward the main gate. Her shoes passed through the shallow creek, and the soles of them grew muddy with dirt.

Stumbling slightly over the uneven ground, she felt out the bridge’s pillar ahead of her. It was uncomfortable rubbing her fingers across the moss, but it couldn’t be helped. The nights in the Marlyn Capital were quite dark, save for the few lanterns scattered across the streets.

“Shit.” She muttered under her breath. “How do I—”

Voices. It was faint, but Varna could make out indistinct chatter coming from within the walls. She paced around the pillar, but hadn’t found a single clue as to where the entrance was. A mechanism, perhaps? She thought, but quickly dismissed the idea considering the fact they were under the castle. No sane king would want an entryway into their castle so easily accessed.

And yet, there, a small mouse scampered through a small opening in the grass. Using the minimal light which gleamed off her Scarf, she searched through the grass bordering the pillar. Pulling aside the blades, she saw the small opening it came from. The entrance was half a metre, and looked to barely fit Varna’s body even if she lied down. Its rugged entry appeared crude, and was supported, albeit barely, by wooden frames along its edges. Proning to crawl through the tunnel, Varna’s expression soured as she dirtied her clothing. She felt the surface scratching her knees, and flinched whenever the stones pierced her skin even slightly. Luckily, the dark tunnel was illuminated by the fading light around her, and seemed to get slightly larger the closer she crawled to the entrance.

She could hear the voices get louder and louder the closer she approached the exit. Dim, orange light began filling the small tunnel, and the faint sound of running water was audible. Swift, cold gusts of wind swept over her body as she gripped the edges of the wall outside. Pushing herself out, she could see it, the desolate catacombs of the Marlyn Castle.

Lanterns dangled as the breeze entered through the small openings up the walls. They were lined in straight succession, and the shadows they cast moulded themselves into different shapes with each movement. Navigating through the labyrinthine interior, she progressed through the desolate tunnels. Tall, white clothes were draped about the interior of the tunnels, likely covering the corpses of those who’d wished to be unseen. Several skulls watched upon her with every step she took; she felt judged, like the prying eyes of the dead were assessing her worth. Following the path with the least eyes, she walked as her steps echoed behind her.

She didn’t know what exactly she was looking for. Well, she knew, yet she didn’t understand what she followed them for. She picked on a crumbling trail, knowing that the chances of finding something were slim—though, she still followed her gut. How unreliable it was, mortal nature—to cling onto the hope that something, if not anything, was there to satiate one’s desire.

Walking on for too long, she almost convinced herself to turn back. She heard it then.

“—Sterling scum.” One hissed. “You multiply when we’re not looking, and when we turn a blind eye, you exploit our kindness and give us more trouble.”

Varna quickened her pace, having heard the words flaring out of the anonymous mouth.

“Brodovar—”

“Do you not understand? We have the kindness to entertain your foolish requests, and yet you treat your sentence as a game.” Then came the sound of a whip, and the cracking of bones, and the whimpering of children, as they followed.

“Hey—”

“My patience is thinning. You’re plenty lucky already, having lived this long, Sternum—”

“Brodovar.” Another interrupted, sternly. “Too much.”

“What, Kallas? Is there a problem?”

“You know the problem.” They paused. “Look at them. They’re terrified. Have you a shred of moral conscience?”

The other hesitated, responding. “Moral conscience matters not to captives. Especially those of Sterling’s.”

“They’re not captives, Brodovar. They’re children.”

“I don’t think—”

“Do you hear yourself right now? This is against our conduct.”

They shot back, immediately. “Our conduct collapsed the moment His Majesty started the war.”

The closer Varna got to the voices, the likelier she reached the end of the tunnel. Split between her were three paths: left, centre, and right, and it seemed that the commotion came from the centre. Eventually, she could make out the silhouette of two men—one slimmer than the other—and the young group of children she saw earlier stuck behind metal bars. Most of them were petrified, frozen to the core at the beration they just suffered. Only a few of them appeared fine, though that seemed more like a shallow surface than anything.

“That does not mean you have to imitate them.” The other responded. “We are the last of our Marlyn conduct. Do not break what little we have left.”

Brodovar, who seemed to be an older, wrinkled individual, scoffed. “Fine.”

“Thank you.” Kallas, who was the younger man Varna saw at the back of the line, broke a feeble smile. He seemed slightly bothered. “You can leave. I’ll take care of things here.”

“You’d better.” Brodovar huffed, dismissing Kallas and the children as he walked off stowing away his whip.

This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

Varna, noticing that Brodovar would walk directly into her, stuck herself into a small enclosure in the wall behind a white cloth. She held her breath, and tensed her muscles such that unnecessary movements would not be made. The steps grew louder, echoing into even the small crevice, and with time the man passed her completely, his steps fading into the darkness of the labyrinth.

She gasped for air, stumbling out of the encasing as the white cloth ripped itself from the ceiling. Tripping on the linen, she fell to the ground, coughing as the air she took in released itself again. It caused quite the ruckus, to say the least, for when she gathered herself she noticed the children—who were still awake—staring at her, and Kallas who watched her warily. She stared back, without anything better to do, and mustered two words.

“Uh, hey.”

Kallas scrutinised her, his hand on the hilt of his sword to his hip. “Who are you?”

“Whoa.” Varna raised her hands, taking a single step back from the sword, despite the considerable distance. “Um, calm down. Nothing on me.”

“A trespasser to the castle with nothing.” His eyes grew sharper. “How did you get here?”

Varna looked at the children, their eyes still half-shocked and half-worried. She could see a part of their expressions pleading, though.

“Secret.” She stuttered.

Kallas approached her slowly, still armed and ready. It was a bit too real, the situation, for Varna’s heart began to excite itself. She felt the sweat trickle down her cheeks—not a lot, but enough to indicate that she too was worried.

“Don’t move.” He approached, beginning to feel her down for any possible weapon. There was nothing, and he stepped back, refusing to let up. “Why are you here?”

“Curious. Follow you.”

“To the catacombs?”

“Yes. To the— to the catacombs.” She struggled slightly, pronouncing the words.

Only then did Kallas let down his guard. He relaxed his fingers and left them to the side, before sitting down on the ground. Varna recoiled slightly, unsure whether it was dust or bone that scattered into the air. Then, she took a moment to catch her breath.

“So, again, the situation?” Kallas inquired, softer this time.

“I was curious. That’s all.” She insisted. She couldn’t tell him her gut brought her here. Nobody would believe that.

“A normal person would not follow a slave group.”

“I don’t understand.” She responded, wittingly.

Kallas sighed, and waved off the matter. “Alright.”

He turned to face the children, who stopped whimpering at this point. They all fell fast asleep, their little voices audible as they snored slightly. Only one was awake, staring at them like an owl.

“Are you disappointed?” Kallas asked, turning to face Varna again.

“What?”

“In the Marlyn order.” He specified.

Varna frowned slightly, pensive. “Not really.”

“Huh. I assumed the opposite.”

“Why?” She inquired.

“Your clothing. You don’t seem from here.”

Varna paused for a few moments. He was right, completely.

“Traveller. Passing traveller.”

Kallas frowned. “Well isn’t that so, Miss.”

He turned back to the children. The child was still awake, and still staring. Part of her felt uncomfortable with the prying eyes, but it couldn’t be helped. The child was curious. To her, Varna seemed like an exotic specimen.

“You alright, Ellen?” Kallas asked, worried. He stood up, approaching the cell and crouched to meet the child—Ellen’s—eyes. She could see her expression softening slightly, as she replied in a dull voice.

“Okay.” Ellen looked at Varna a few moments before facing Kallas. “Um. Are we able to leave yet?”

“Soon. Very soon.” Kallas responded after silence with a fragile smile. “I’m working on it. Just give me a bit longer.”

Varna could see it, the sorrow in his expression. He looked as if his glass heart cracked, slowly shattering into a million pieces. He knew. He understood that there was a truth behind that smile the girl didn’t know. And she likely never would. Not with the way things were.

“What’s wrong?” She asked.

Kallas turned to face Varna, his contour not letting up. “Many things.”

“Like?”

“Political strife.” He spoke, resolutely. That wasn’t her strong suit, politics, but there was something about the situation that screamed to her gut.

“That’s fine.”

“I’m telling you, it’s better if you don’t—”

“I do.” She insisted, in broken Marlyn speech. “I must know.”

Kallas stared at her, sighing. He scratched his head, wondering what to do, before giving up and approaching Varna. Whispering next to her, he explained.

“They’re to be executed.”

“The children?”

“Yes. And in a few days’ time.”

It was a horrible truth. Surely, the children were better off not knowing, but a part of her felt torn knowing their unfortunate fate. She looked at the children, Ellen’s eyes staring back at her. A deer in headlights—that was the outcome of their lives. She could only pity them.

“Solution?” She asked.

“Solution? What, are you suggesting to help them?” Kallas replied, utterly confused.

“They can be saved.”

“Forget it. Even if you saved them, the guards would hunt them down.”

“No. It’s possible.”

Kallas frowned. Clearly, she doesn’t understand, he thought. Perhaps he was right. She was an impulsive one.

“No. You don’t understand. The order isn’t kind. They’re ruthless, and will cease to hesitate in slaughtering an orphanage—had they found out Sterling knew them.”

“Sterling?”

Kallas groaned, growing frustrated. “You don’t know him. Anyway— It just won’t work.”

“It can.”

“Do you not understand—”

“I can do it.” Varna was stubborn. She stood up, looking Kallas in the eye as she spoke. “I know a way.”

“Even then—”

“For Ellen.”

Silence dominated the two of them, and all that could be heard was the periodic breathing from Ellen. She’d stopped staring at this point, and had her back turned to the bars. Asleep, on the cold, dusty surface. Feelings of unrest welled in Kallas’ mind.

“How are you going to do it?” Kallas demanded. His impatience was getting to him.

Varna pointed to the exit. “Exit. They can escape there.”

“And? Where will they stay?”

Varna stammered, trying to formulate the proper response with her broken Marlyn. “Home. I know inn.”

Kallas was lost in thought, his arms crossed as he stared at the ground. Then, he looked at the prison, and perhaps with pity he wrinkled his brows. His fists clenched, so much so that his nails were digging into his skin. He stared at Varna, determined.

“Your name, what is it?” Kallas reached out for a handshake.

Gripping his hand, she responded. “Varna. Varna Milieze.”

“Kallas. I don’t have a last name.”

Varna squinted slightly at the absence of a last name. She shook his hand as Kallas gave the final word.

“I look forward to working with you, Varna.”