Run, for the darkness takes you.

Fly, for the wind will guide you.

“These are the famous words of Will Shakespeare from his play, Aerial.” The teacher continued her class. “Does anyone know what are the two lines that follows?” She turned around to face the class and pointed over to the young boy. “Kingston.”

His head shot up. “What?”

“Do you know the answer?”

He looked around the class. “Why are you asking me and not Harley?”

“Because you were sleeping, Kingston.”

“But you asked for someone who knows the answer!”

“And how do you know Harley knows the answer?”

She looked to the girl sitting across from him. “Can't you see the wind telling you?”

The teacher sighed. “Kingston, you can't see the wind. Now stop being a child and stand up.”

“But I am a child!”

“Kingston!” she scolded.

He jumped in his seat. It was not like he knew what he did wrong. But that was how the world saw him. He always spoke his mind and the world yelled back at him for him. With a sigh while holding back tears, he took to stand. But his legs refused to move and his tears were red. He pushed at his table again, trying hard to get on his feet. Instead, a sharp pain shot up his back and he turned over.

There was sky, exactly as bright as he remembered it. At his side, slumped against the wall of the city, the giant bird unspawn began to vanish back into nothingness, its sheer size taking it longer than normal to do so. The building it had dozed through was reduced to rubble. But thankfully, there seemed to be no one around.

Every breath he took bit into his lungs. Every second his eyes stayed opened was like an added weight being dropped onto his temple. He turned his head how he could and saw himself in a pool of his own blood. His legs were both bent in awkward directions and had soaked his pants into maroon.

“Am I... am I going to die?” he asked painfully.

The wind told him, Yes. It was then he realized that question had not been particularly specific. Everyone was going to die eventually. The thought of that linguistic loophole warmed him with slight hope.

“Am I going... to die... today?”

His heart sunk from on high. The answer had not change and he was, in all likelihood, to die before nightfall. But he had expected that the moment he decided to steer the unspawn away from his friends. At that moment, he wondered what made people heroic. Not the definition of heroism, but what made people choose to sacrifice their own well-being to help others.

“Can... can I still... save my friends?” He asked without much thought.

Nothing replied. It was the same as when he stood on the bell tower with Shjacky. His question wasn't specific enough. Perhaps too broad a query to properly answer.

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“Can I... save... my classmates?”

The answer was confused. A swirl of red and green in a torrent of pain and hope. What was it? Was his question still too broad? Did he have to narrow it even further? Does he even want to do that? What comes after classmates? Of course, he knew the answer to that. More accurately, he knew the question.

“Can... I... save... as many... of... them... as I can?”

In a split second, the wind showed him a path. It was a trail of green that followed the road of a breeze painting a line above him, stretching down the streets.

“Okay...”

With what strength he could muster, Kingston tried to roll onto his chest. He placed his right arm under his back and pushed, each force further crushing his lungs. He wanted to scream but that too hurt him. Instead, he foamed through gritted teeth. He must have stayed in that position for days, he felt. Every slow inch to turn his body grounded each bone and muscle. His head felt fuzzy. His tongue tasted blood. He could smell dirt. Most of all, he wanted to sleep forever.

What made people heroic? What made made people choose pain and suffering over an easier and more peaceful path? Especially to do so when one doesn't know whether the outcome of their effort would change anything since they would already be dead.

He heard a crack as his fists balled and he realized he was not ready to die yet. Taking in as deep a breath as his crushed lungs could hold, he gave one final push and flipped his body face down. He felt his legs twist further and he chortled a scream. He coughed further as his chest hacked at his insides with knives.

“Hey, Kingston?” Pempe asked.

“What is it?”

“Why are you here?”

They were walking down the corridor of their school, heading to their first day of their second year. It was a time of bright confidence and easy days. It was after settling into the yearly routine but before the onset of the epitaphs.

“Well,” Kingston replied, pausing for some thought on the matter. “I don't really think there's a reason why we're here. I think life in general is just a stroke of luck on a probability scale of–”

“No,” Pempe sighed. “I mean you. Why are you here? I've seen what you can do with machines and gadgets. If I had your skills, I'd apply to a trade school. In Lutvvin, your home country even. Why move to Aleynonlia to be a Spellblade?”

Kingston glanced back with a raised brow of offense. “Are you saying I'm a mediocre Spellblade?”

“No! Not at all. Just...” Pempe considered his words carefully but seemingly gave up. “Honestly, I think you're a much better tinkerer than a Spellblade.”

Kingston stopped in his tracks and looked at Pempe who simply looked really uncomfortable with being stared at. He considered his friend's words before breaking off into a laugh.

Pempe quizzed, “What's so funny?”

“It's just, to answer your question,” Kingston breathed in to stop his chuckles. “I asked myself a question. I asked where I would be happiest. And here I am. Come on, let's head to class.” They turned together and continued their way down the halls.

He was not sure how long he had been crawling. For what felt like years he had drifted in and out of consciousness, only occasionally glancing up to make sure he was still following the trail of the wind. Behind him was left a track of blood, all his own. Somehow on turning his body around, he had managed to staunch the part of it that was bleeding the most. So instead of dying quickly from blood lost, he was instead slowly being quizzed dry of his inner red. New wounds were scratched into his body with each drag.

But it was all fine. Just a little more. He could see the end of the trail his power was marking for him. It was at the foot of the watchtower. He was not sure how or why being there would help but it was apparently the best he could do in his condition.

As he continued his slow crawl with the screeching feeling and pain of his kneecap scrapping along the ground, he could only lament on his inability to have his powers be more accurate. He did not know how many he could help save. It could be just one or it could twelve. But at the very least and worst, he could not save all of them. The future the wind told him had at least someone else in his class dying, and that knowledge tore him up inside.

He wondered if Shjacky had made it off the bell tower safely. He wondered if, perhaps, there was something else someone else could do to save his friends. He wondered if they had not ran off on The Watcher's suggestion, would he have been able to live. In the end, he wandered onto the end of the line.

Face down, panting, he had reached the spot where the wind had told him to go. There were no moves left. He was the chess piece that was at the end of its game, about to be sacrificed for the betterment of victory. He wasn't sure if he was a pawn or a king, but he hoped he played well. The colours in his visions faded away and for the first time, he saw the world without the added hue from the tone of the wind. The world was so quiet where he laid he almost forgot there was a battle over yonder the canopies. He could hear the birds chirp and smell the grass around him. He had not thought about it until then but dying in the City of Wildflowers was not such a bad deal, to be surrounded by the colours of nature.

But he wanted to see the sky one last time. So with a grunt, he punched into the dirt. Giving it all he had, he pushed and flipped himself onto his back. Above, the sky was bright and a hawk swooped over the canvas of light.

Memories reminded him of the question Pempe asked so long ago. Why was he there? He could have chosen to become a tinkerer. An engineer even, just like his father was. But he chose to be a Spellblade. He had asked the wind once, a long time ago. He asked where he could do his best and it told him to stay in Lutvvin. He then asked where he would be happiest and it showed him a way out. Then, he asked where he was most needed, and the light outside was blinding.

“The waves of time washes over,” he answered his teacher. “Let the mother take you home.”

All Kingston could see was the last second of light trapped by the time bubble The Watcher had enveloped the city in. He could not see the clouds freed beyond. He imagined them to look like flowers.