Zinnia pushed her way through the crowded streets, the acrid stench of smoke burning in her nostrils as she approached the Siren’s Rest Inn. The explosion had left the building a mangled, smoldering wreck, its skeletal remains barely recognizable beneath the glow of the flickering fires. The air buzzed with panic and confusion, people shouting and scrambling amidst the debris. But louder than the chaos was the chant, echoing in unison from the gathered throng: "Ji! Ji! Ji!"
Zinnia's heart sank, the sound grating on her nerves. ''Oh, that fucker,'' she thought, lips curling into a grimace. Her eyes scanned the mass of bodies, the shadowy figures moving erratically through the smoke. She caught sight of him almost immediately—Silas, standing in the center of it all, his skin gleaming a strange, dark hue with a metallic sheen that was impossible to miss.
''What did he do now?'' she wondered, though she didn’t expect an answer. Whatever Silas had ingested this time, she could only guess. Some bizarre potion, no doubt. She rolled her eyes, a bitter sense of relief washing over her. ''At least he’s alive. And that means I get to live too.''
As she took in the scene, the scale of the destruction made her stomach turn. Splintered wood and broken stone lay scattered across the street, the remnants of the inn’s facade twisted and warped. The fires cast a sickly, yellowish light, making the chaos look even more nightmarish. ''That man has no boundaries'', she thought, shaking her head. The explosion wasn’t just reckless—it was lunacy, a show of force with no care for who got caught in the blast.
Zinnia forced herself to focus, her eyes darting across the area. Then, through the haze, she saw a flash of silver—Selen’s hair, unmistakable even at this distance. Relief mixed with confusion as Zinnia adjusted her course, slipping through the drifting clouds of smoke. She kept her movements subtle, reestablishing the illusion she wore, making herself blend seamlessly into the crowd. She didn’t want to draw attention, the last thing she needed was someone realizing she had ties to this mess.
As she neared Selen, a sudden shiver ran down her spine. For a brief moment, it felt like a thousand eyes were watching her, as if some unseen figure had locked onto her through the smoke. Her pulse quickened, and she nearly turned to check her surroundings, but she caught herself. No one’s shouting “heretic,” she reminded herself. ''It’s just your imagination.'' She took a steadying breath and continued forward.
Zinnia tapped Selen lightly on the shoulder, and the silver-haired woman turned, her expression calm despite the chaos around them. Zinnia made a quick gesture with her fingers, indicating they should move somewhere less exposed, but Selen merely blinked, her face impassive. “He told me to wait here,” she said, her words clear and untroubled, spoken in the tongue of the Empire.
Zinnia’s eyes widened, and she blinked, momentarily thrown off balance. “The fuck? You can talk now?”
“I could always talk,” Selen replied, her tone flat, as if she were correcting a simple misunderstanding. “You just couldn’t understand me.”
Zinnia’s mouth opened, a retort on the tip of her tongue, but she bit it back, opting to let the absurdity of the statement wash over her. ''Technically and literally correct'', she thought, a twinge of irritation cutting through her surprise. She didn’t have the energy to argue semantics, not with the situation spiraling around them. Instead, she cast a quick glance over her shoulder, ensuring no one had noticed their exchange.
The chants continued to swell, louder and more frenzied. “Ji! Ji! Ji!” It was like a wave, crashing over them, relentless and suffocating. Zinnia’s jaw tightened. She turned back to Selen, trying to keep her voice low and steady. “We shouldn’t be here. If he told you to stay, then fine, but I’m not sticking around to see if he wants to blow up something else in a minute.”
But Selen’s expression didn’t change. “He said to wait,” she repeated, her voice cool, unyielding. “So I will.”
Zinnia stared at her, caught between frustration and disbelief. Of course, she thought, ''He tells you to stand in the middle of a mess, and you just do it.'' For a moment, she considered grabbing Selen and dragging her out of there, but the look on Selen’s face stopped her. It was like trying to move a statue—there was no hint of fear, no hesitation, just an eerie, unwavering calm.
''Fine'', Zinnia thought, clenching her fists. ''Stay and wait for whatever comes next.'' She knew Silas was still in control, still breathing, and that would have to be enough for now. But the sight of the crumbling inn, the twisted metal, and the flames licking at the night sky made her skin crawl.
She took one last glance at Selen, then turned away, slipping back into the smoke, her mind already spinning with questions. ''What did Silas do? And why?'' The thought of confronting him made her stomach twist.
As she moved away from the wreckage, the chants still echoed in her ears, haunting and relentless, following her into the night.
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The Director stood at the periphery of the gathering, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he watched Silas, now the center of attention, weave his performance.
Silas's voice carried through the smoky night, smooth and commanding, and the crowd hung on every word, eyes glazed with awe and reverence. But to the Director’s discerning eye, it was all just theater—a carefully choreographed act meant to enchant and mislead.
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''He’s spinning them a tale,'' the Director mused, his smile widening. ''A beautiful, intricate lie.'' Silas moved like a maestro conducting an orchestra, gestures fluid, words precise. But it wasn’t art—there was no grace, no true rhythm, just the natural guile of a born liar. The Director found it charming, in a way. ''If I couldn’t hear the music of deceit in his voice, I might have been fooled myself.''
He tilted his head, watching Silas’s movements with a keen interest, almost as if appraising a new dancer auditioning for a part. The explosion at the inn had been chaotic, violent, and completely unexpected—an abrupt crescendo in the night’s otherwise quiet rhythm. It didn’t take much to deduce who was behind it. ''It had to be this charming little devil.'' The Director chuckled, letting the sound escape in a soft, low hum. ''What a delightful mess he’s made.''
As he moved closer, slipping into the throng of onlookers, the Director kept his posture relaxed, his gaze darting over the crowd. The air was thick with smoke and the acrid scent of burning wreckage, but no one seemed to mind anymore. They were too entranced by Silas, chanting his alias, “Ji! Ji! Ji!” over and over, their voices rising like the swell of a chorus. The Director’s eyes flicked upward, watching the smoke twist and coil, obscuring the stars.
He stepped forward, easing into the flow of bodies, passing through the haze like a ghost. For a moment, his path intersected with a figure cutting through the crowd—Zinnia, though she was masked by a subtle illusion. The Director’s gaze sharpened, catching a faint shimmer on the side of her head melding into the skin. ''Ah, an illusionist,'' he thought, raising an eyebrow, his mustache twitching as he stroked it thoughtfully. ''Very curious''.
With a Dancer’s grace, he leapt lightly, a movement so smooth it seemed to defy gravity, avoiding a collision with a stumbling onlooker. When he landed, Zinnia had already vanished into the smoke, completely unaware that he had noticed her. The Director’s smile deepened, filing away this new bit of information. ''Interesting. She moves well.''
He continued his descent into the throng, his own demeanor shifting seamlessly to match those around him.
His shoulders hunched, his steps less fluid, more shuffling, until he looked like just another lost soul, caught up in the fervor of the moment. The chant echoed around him, and he added his voice to it, “Ji! Ji! Ji!” blending perfectly with the crowd’s rising fervor.
But beneath the cheerful facade, his mind was working, dissecting the scene, plotting his next move. ''I’d very much like to make contact with this delightful little liar,'' he thought, his eyes never leaving Silas.
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Nyx hid among the smoldering rubble, the remains of the inn still crackling with embers that glowed faintly against the night. He nestled comfortably, his dark feathers blending effortlessly with the soot and shadows, an amused glint in his eyes as he took in the scene below.
He had been watching for a while now, and it was with no small measure of relief that he confirmed what he had suspected—Silas was the one responsible for the explosion. ''Far better than the alternatives,'' Nyx thought, his beak curving into something close to a grin. Whatever had unfolded, it was still within the bounds of Silas's control, and that was a comforting thought.
The remnants of the Siren’s Rest Inn lay scattered, twisted beams jutting out like broken bones, and the air was thick with smoke.
Yet, through the haze, Nyx's sharp eyes spotted the orange-suited man slipping through the crowd, his movements smooth and fast, a grand contrast to the chaotic movements around him. The Director’s bright vest stood out even in the smoke, making him easy to track if one was looking for him.
He was mingling with the throng of onlookers, chanting alongside them with a wide smile plastered on his face, his lips moving in sync with the rhythm of “Ji! Ji! Ji!”
''Nutjob,'' Nyx thought, clicking his beak softly in mild annoyance. There was no doubt about it—the Director was a slippery one, clever enough to blend in yet clearly up to something. But, it looked as if Silas was unaware of the man’s presence, making Nyx feel concerned. He kept his eyes trained on the Director, noting how effortlessly the man moved, how his eyes darted, constantly assessing. ''Slimy threat'', Nyx mused, his mind cataloging the details.
Still, what mattered most was that Silas hadn’t noticed the Director, confirming once more that the man was as elusive as he was dangerous.
That was information worth noting, and Nyx filed it away, his feathers ruffling slightly as he shifted his position, ensuring he remained concealed. He knew better than to reveal himself without reason, observation was often the key to understanding, and right now, there was much to learn.
Nyx and Silas shared a bond that went beyond the physical, a connection that allowed them to sense each other. It was a subtle, ever-present tug, a pull that guided them toward one another whenever one chose to initiate it, however it was at it's strongest when they were close to one another.
Over the years, they had refined this bond into a private language, a rhythmic code that was uniquely theirs for emergencies when close range speech was not an option.
While Silas commanded the crowd, speaking with the ease of someone born to manipulate, Nyx decided it was time to make his presence known.
He sent a series of tugs through their connection—short, then long, alternating in a rhythm only the two of them understood. It was a signal they had developed over time, a code that spoke volumes in its simplicity.
Silas, in the middle of his speech, paused for the briefest moment. It was subtle, barely noticeable, but to Nyx, it was confirmation that the message had been received. He watched as Silas’s eyes flickered, a momentary flash of irritation crossing his face before he smoothed it over with a smile, returning to his performance without missing a beat. Through their bond, Silas’s thoughts echoed back to Nyx. ''A third-step cultivator? And a sneaky one at that. Great.''
Nyx’s feathers fluffed out slightly, a sign of his amusement, and he let out a low, inaudible squawk. He sent another series of nudges, sharper ones, carrying a question that had been nagging at him since he arrived. ''Why did you blow up the inn?''
Silas’s response was swift, the thought transmitted back through their bond with a casual, nonchalant tone. ''Why not?''
Nyx couldn’t help but roll his eyes, his beak clicking softly in exasperation. ''My tantrums are at least fun,'' he thought, a mix of irritation and amusement lacing his internal voice. ''We get some good times out of them. His tantrums are just like a toddler’s.''
Despite the jab, there was a fondness there, a familiarity that spoke of years spent navigating Silas’s unpredictable moods. But Nyx knew better than to underestimate the man. Whatever had driven him to such an explosive display, there was a reason, even if it was buried under layers of Silas’s whims and caprices.
Both master and familiar were blissfully unaware of how similar they were when something set off their tempers.