There, it’s possible to see the unknowing nature they possessed. Their awareness, or lack thereof, aided the consciousness of their sins. Had they learned the value of life, perhaps there would be a lesser consequence.

— Study III of Tarkas, First Verse

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The king’s affairs were shrouded in anonymity—a fact only occurring to Varna a few days before the execution. The more she thought, the more she realised the enigma of the king’s character himself. Not once has a Marlinean told of their king’s origins, only suffusing to speak of their ruler’s achievements. It was almost as if the past mattered little to them, focusing on the present affairs of their nation; like puppets, almost, as fools who were driven by the succession of accomplishments their king held.

Varna only knew of King Donovan’s through rumour. Most knew he had risen from nowhere, supposedly usurping the throne after the third king’s notorious ruling. Yet that held as little a candle as the widespread knowledge of King Donovan’s meritable achievements. Even with his illegal rise to power, the citizens held their silence as their current ruler was more than satisfactory. They didn’t know what means were used for power, nor did they know what went behind the throne. The treatment was better, and that was all that mattered.

And yet, when the date of the execution grew ever closer, it seemed almost as if holes were ripped into the illusive curtain shrouding the king. Rumours, both far-fetched and believable, floated around the capital. There wasn’t a single speck in the city where the king’s name was free of hearsay. On the days Varna worked, constant declarations of what people believed to be “the truth” left their dry mouths. Every day there was a new rumour, and today was no different.

“Did you guys hear? Apparently King Donovan grew paranoid—he hid himself in his chambers after the war.” A citizen chuckled down a nearby table.

“That’s not what I heard. They say he fled the kingdom after he knew Earl Sterling was after him.” Another rebutted, placing their wooden mug down the wooden table.

“You both are wrong, I’m telling you.” A third spat. “The reason he’s hiding away isn’t because he’s scared. It’s because his daughter grew gravely ill. A honourable king, wouldn’t you think?”

A fourth added. “I thought he became cripple.”

For the next hours, Varna would hear the same things twice over, and only when the stars shone did the silence enter her ears. The inn’s lanterns, which were sparsely burning, had given the building a sense of solitude, and the moonlight kept heavy upon the windowsills. The atmosphere laid bare, as the only noises were the cleaning of tables, washing of dishes, placing of mugs and creaking of wood.

Now, having already been exposed, Varna freely exited the inn to meet Kallas within the castle catacombs. The walk was quiet, and the darkest of nights kept the city lonesome. It interested her how the streets were almost devoid of people during the night, a stark contrast to the vibrant life during the day. Crickets hiding within thickets chirped as Varna approached the plaza to the castle bridge.

It swirled around her, the mystery which presided over King Donovan. He was a man subject to many rumours, and a man who hid himself away from the general public. The war. It was all she ever heard of when it came to the king. For what reason did he participate in the war? And for what reason were the children connected to the conflict? The more she thought, the more she realised her lack of awareness of the world. She knew nothing of the people she’d met. Her world was small, insignificant, sheltered, too sheltered for her to understand the intricacies of the mortal land.

Yet, even when she believed to be no different from the Fated, she could not grasp what it is that they had which she hadn’t. Everything a mortal could ever dream of, to alter the course of destiny with a single thread, all laid in her hands—and she still felt there was a canyon she couldn’t cross.

She looked at the Scarf—not hers but the one of her Fated, which flowed ever-so-prismatically in the night. Perhaps it was that very power she held which made her unable to grasp mortal tendencies. Amidst her thinking, she noticed that the Scarf dimmed for a split second. Harrowing, potentially, for a phenomenon which appeared only at the fingertips of death presented itself upon the individual she hadn’t herself known.

A pity, she thought, for the one behind the Scarf would suffer an unfortunate fate. Yet, there was nothing that could be done in her eyes. She was not one to govern such a life—that matter simply was out of her hands. One would have to pray, potentially, that the dice which destiny rolled would harbour a forgiving consequence. Though, a tinge of guilt still floated in her mind. Was that really the right thing to do?

Having paid little, if not any, attention to her surroundings, Varna realised that she was nearing the catacomb prison cell. Bone dust floated around the soles of her feet as she walked down the lone hall. Expecting to be the sole visitor, she paced forward with hurried steps, that was until a slight commotion entered her ears.

“Brodovar! Do you understand what you’re saying?” It was Kallas, shouting from the prison cell. The cramped hall made his yelling ever louder, and for a moment Varna felt unbridled anger behind the voice.

“Certainly. And it’s you who doesn’t understand your words.” Brodovar retaliated.

“What you’re doing is torture! And I tell you again, they’re children! Not animals to be fed to nobles.”

Varna approached ever so silently, resting her back upon the bone-filled walls just before the prison. This time, she made sure to hide behind a draped cloth, within a crevice big enough to fit her small body.

Brodovar spoke in a cold voice. “All people are animals—some more humane than others. Children have no right to be exempt from this.”

“What degeneracy.” Kallas spit in disgust. “It’s no wonder you speak like an animal for a man—”

“Why do you go to such lengths?” Brodovar asked, his tone considerably softer. He spoke with such contrast it almost seemed like there was a sorrow in his voice.

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“What?”

“These children. What is it that you see in them?”

Kallas paused formulating an answer. Perhaps unable to stand the silence, Brodovar seemed to pace around the hall, before grabbing hold of what seemed to be metal bars. Then, he spoke in a strained tone. “I don’t see children. I see animals. Monsters, who are vile and hungry and starved of everything.”

“Is that it?” Kallas seethed. “Is that the reason you harm these innocent children? Because of your fucked up worldview?”

“Innocent?” Brodovar scoffed, his gloves squeaking as he clenched his fists. “So that’s what it is. You believe them to be innocent. Young children who’ve seen nothing of the world and only opened their eyes the first time—innocent.”

“What are you—”

“Would an ‘innocent’ child commit murder?”

Silence.

“No, I— You mean to say they’ve killed? To take the life of another?”

Brodovar expressed in a dark tone. “The world can never be perfect, Kallas. You know that yourself. And yet, here you are, blabbering about the ‘reality’ you’ve contrived for yourself. You’re sick.”

“Then, why are you the only one who knows? If that was the truth, then I would have—”

“Everybody knows, Kallas.” He spat. “Your righteousness blinds you. You can’t understand the difference between reality and fantasy. All you would do is make a mess. That’s why nobody told you.”

An uncomfortable quiet dominated the halls. Everything sounded far louder than it should: the swinging of lanterns, the sobbing of children, the rough breathing, and the clasping of hands.

“I see.” Kallas said in defeat, his voice losing energy. “Just leave, then.”

“I hope you understand—”

“Please.”

Brodovar paused, before the sound of heels twisting against the ground came about. Then came footsteps, which were to come and go. There, a small breath escaped from Brodovar’s mouth. He looked as if to say something, but failed to do so after seeing Kallas’ expression. Shattered.

Only when the footsteps ceased did Varna step out of the crevice. Rather than stumbling forth toward the young man, she approached him with a courtesy as to not break the glass in front of her. He had already sat down, forlorn and crumpled. Unsure on what to do, she too sat down in front of him, and coughed, awkwardly.

“I’m assuming you’ve seen that?” Kallas asked, throwing a pebble against the brittle wall.

“Yes.”

He sighed, before learning back into his arms. His hands looked to grow pale with the dust on him. “How embarrassing.”

“Um—” Varna stuttered before closing her mouth shut. She stopped herself from prying into personal affairs, at least, to what seemed like it. Instead, she gripped her Scarf as she unravelled it off herself. Staring at it for a moment, she proceeded to wrap it around Kallas’ neck, adjusting it as she saw fit. “Here.”

Kallas held the Scarf curiously and stared at Varna’s face. It struck him then, that this newcomer had yet to show her face in its entirety. For the days he’d seen her, all that was visible was her hood and boots, and the seemingly ethereal Scarf which protruded from her inner hood.

“Your scarf? Why?” Kallas asked, still touching it.

“Tradition.” Varna stammered a few moments, then trailing off the end of her sentence in uncertainty. “Uh— Give, scarf, to help. Healing…”

Kallas chuckled. There, a slight smile crept upon his face—something which rested the second-hand guilt Varna held.

Nodding, Varna looked around the hall, landing her sight at the children. There, she could see the lot of them hiding away at a corner, huddling amongst each other as they shivered. Only Ellen, as per usual, stayed close to the bars. She watched the two of them with dull eyes, and had likely seen the argument beforehand.

Looking back at Kallas, who sat still staring at the floor, Varna quickly tried to direct his attention elsewhere. Unsure what to do, she spoke without thinking.

“Um. Outside? Break?” She stuttered. “Uh, want to talk.”

Kallas raised an eyebrow, confused. “You want to talk? Outside?”

“Yes.”

“Varna. I’d love to talk, but I’m supposed to be guarding the cell.”

She frowned. “Leave then. Few moments. Swear.”

“What if somebody comes?”

“Won’t come. Nobody.”

“You. What? How do you know?”

Varna paused. “Don’t like them. Children. Won’t check.”

Kallas fell silent. Staring at the ground, he grabbed some dust and rubbed his fingers together. The dust, almost like sand, fell in grains as he groaned. Then, coming to a sigh, he spoke.

“Okay.” He stood from the ground. “I’ll go.”

Varna smiled, also standing from the ground. Patting the cape covering her knees, she looked back at the children. She felt sorry.

“Um. Ellen.” Varna said, approaching her as she crouched and held the bars. “Come?”

She stared at her. There, she stopped fiddling with a pebble and stood from the ground. Mimicking Varna, she also held the bars and looked up at her. No expression floated on Ellen’s face, yet she spoke with a slight sense of elation.

“Yes—”

“Wait.” Kallas interrupted before looking directly at Ellen, concerned. “Are you sure?”

Slight silence dawned on them, and an uncomfortable tension ran between the halls. Varna, looking back at Kallas, wanted to respond yet could not articulate her thoughts. Though, it would have proved fruitless nonetheless. For Ellen nodded, mumbling as she affirmed her words.

Even then, Kallas still appeared sceptical, but perhaps feeling the effects of the argument, he reluctantly agreed. Then, he posed a suggestion.

“If we’re to leave the castle, we should head to the outskirts. It’s not too far from here, and there are some things we should get done there in the meantime.”

The two nodded. And satisfied, Kallas took out a pair of keys from his back pocket—one presumably for the cell in front of them. Inserting the key, he opened a small door, letting Ellen temporarily exit the cell. A tinge of guilt washed over him, for his consciousness was unable to let go of the other kids. For the sake of another, however, Kallas shut his consciousness away in deep waters, and bore with his faults. It was something he’d done in the past, and will always have done. To him, the past could never change—only making waves to your actions in the present moment.

Shutting the door, Kallas looked at the two perpetrators. It was as Brodovar said, he was too righteous and hesitated to let the other children have the same privilege. Yet, perhaps for this moment, he could let himself enter the spotlight.

Maybe that was the missing piece he sought.