Twenty five years ago the Eldritch Conqueror, Farou il Salinger, Head of the Cult of Saklos and Leader of the Allied Unorthodox Alliance, waged war against the Eastern Orthodox Churches. All over the four corners of Adaemos, Invokers of Gods and Goddesses, Orthodox or Unorthodox, raised their weapons to shed blood in the Great Shattering.

The world was plunged into an era of bloodshed and chaos while the Churches fought desperately to restore their control.

However, on the Eighth Year and final year of the Great Shattering, the son of Farou, Arthur il Salinger, had slain the great Cult Leader and procured his head to the Orthodox Council, ending the war.

It was also in that year where Arthur had a son. A boy who must burden the hatred of the world and the sins of his grandfather on his shoulders.

…

Clack Clack. Creak. Slam! Clack Clack. Creak. Slam! Clack Clack. Creak.

Melchior il Salinger twists the ornate silver knob of a door, pressing into the fifth room of the long, furnished hallway. His dark eyes peek through and his gaze seeps into the room, scanning for his older brother.

His eyes move from the velvet sheets of the grand bed in the center to a wooden seat by a reflective bronze candle holder. He even moves his keen eyes to the tall ceiling, glancing at the wide and glamorous chandelier. Alas, nothing.

Slam!

Removing his grip from the doorknob, he heaves a sigh as he continues his search. Melchior gently turns paintings and peers behind them, raises curtains, and ducks under exquisitely carved tables.

In the long hallway, he spots a large, dark, and amorphous shape that remotely resembles a bust on the ground. It's the shadow of a statue, lined nearby an emotional painting. But Melchior doesn't spend his time admiring the marble bust or the brushstrokes of the painting, he moves his eyes down to the seemingly mundane shadow of the statue.

Squatting down, the pupils of Melchior's eyes dilate and begin to split into a pattern, still somewhat in the shape of a circle. The strange fragments of his pupils might even look like the Nubilant Archipelago, islands floating in the vast sea of his eyes.

His eyes glow softly as he observes the shadow.

"Looking for Young Master Absinthe again?"

Melchior deactivates his eyes, and the pupils turn back to their original shape and recover their dark brown hue.

"Yes, Charley, Absinthe enjoys avoiding his problems in this manner."

The voice belonged to a small, hunched figure emerging from the shadows of the corridor. Charley, the ancient and loyal servant of the il Salinger family, shuffled forward, leaning heavily on a gnarled wooden cane. His bright blue eyes twinkled with mischief and amusement as he looked up at Melchior.

"Well, if anyone can find him when he's hiding, it's you," Charley said, a fond smile playing on his lips.

"I suppose so," Melchior admits as his boot taps against the marble floors, "perhaps I wish my older brother could act like one."

"Hoh? I beseech you, Young Master Melchior, to spare kinder words for the Master in question. You do know of his hard work for the last few months."

"That I do. I was working alongside him after all."

The old butler, Charley, stifles a sob as he begins tearfully, "The two of you have grown up to be fine men! It is just so heart-wrenching that you both are traveling to enemy territory tomorrow!"

"Charley, please," Melchior responds, patting the older man on his back, trying not to crumple his vest, "you know how father hates calling the East that. It has been almost two decades since we have been enemies."

"Of course, but remember that old wounds do not close that easily."

Melchior nods solemnly. "Yes. We aren't so naive to believe otherwise." Unconsciously, he moves his palm, tracing over the braids that grace his scalp. His smooth dark-skinned fingers feel the bumps and the rivers of hair on his head. He remembers the young man who helped him do his braids and the subject of his search.

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"That being said," he continues, "have you seen Absinthe?"

Charley shakes his head. "It would be folly to suggest his room, considering that must be the first place Young Master Melchior checked. In that case, I will ask the other servants."

Taking a large gasp of air, Charley cusps his mouth with his hands. In a thundering voice, Charley calls out down the hallway.

"THIS IS AN URGENT REQUEST BY MASTER MELCHIOR. SEARCH FOR YOUNG MASTER ABSINTHE!"

At that moment, the whole manor seems to come alive as the servants start to begin their search as well. Melchior can faintly hear the voices of the butlers and maids.

"Find the master!"

"Check under the ovens! Young Master Melchior found him there one time."

"I solemnly swear I will be the one to find Young Master Absinthe!"

"Huh?! I'm the one that's going to find him, you damned idiot!"

Taking a step back and taking off his palms from his ears, he clears his throat. The ringing in his ears subsides as he says, "Ahem. Thank you, Charley."

As the commotion calmed, Melchior's thoughts drifted back to his brother's peculiar habit of hiding in the most unlikely of places.

He recalled the time Absinthe had concealed himself within the hollow of a large, ancient tree in the manor's garden, and another instance where he had slipped into a narrow, hidden compartment within the library's bookshelves. Melchior's eyes narrowed, his mind racing with the possibilities of where his brother might be hiding this time.

Just then, a soft voice whispered in his ear, "Perhaps, Young Master Melchior, you should check the one place where your brother feels most at ease."

Melchior's eyes widen slightly as memories come to his mind. He turns his head to the closest window just as a soft breeze ruffles his long braids like wind chimes. Melchior moves his hands to close the window… but spots a bluish yet almost translucent liquid on the windowsill.

He swipes the liquid with his fingers, feeling its slight viscosity between his thumb and index fingers.

"Bubble syrup," he mutters with a frown.

In one swift movement, he leaps onto the wooden windowsill and climbs out the window whilst bidding farewell to Charley.

He balances on the small platform, peering up to the roof of the manor just two floors above. The tips of his boots squish against the windowsill as he leaps upwards, reaching for another window above him.

Inhaling the light autumn scent, he scales up the manor.

Standing atop the expansive roof, his foot knocks a long rod with a large hoop at one of the ends.

The sound causes some birds perched on the edge to flutter away.

It's a herding pole, a tool that helps farmers move and control rhidnas by latching onto their strangely swirly horns.

On the rims of the hoop is bubble syrup.

But there's no one around to take ownership of the rod. In front of Melchior is a brick chimney that casts a long rectangular shadow.

"Seriously Absinthe? You couldn't do better than that?"

Melchior's eyes dilate and shift again, turning back into their strange, patterned form. He scans the chimney's shadow and waits for Absinthe to pop out of it.

He frowns as the shadow remains still, unmoving like a calm pond.

Smack!

A sudden force slaps Melchoir on his neck, and he spins on his heel, turning around in reaction. Melchior takes a step back from on the wood roof and frowns. "Where were you?"

In front of Melchior is Absinthe il Salinger, who stares at his younger brother with his violet eyes.

His eyes have a magnificent, ethereal quality to it, something that Absinthe had inherited from his mother, supposedly.