The city streets were far more crowded than usual. The events of the coronation days past, many still lingered enjoying some festivities and all the city had to offer. The boy had rarely ventured further than the small area where he lived with his father, for he was forbidden to do so. This sensation of seeing so many people, the pulsating nature of those who looked like him and those who did not laughing, fighting, and kissing, it filled him with excitement. Such a lively place he found himself lost in the sheer scale of it all. This otherworldly place so foreign to him. All this to exist a mere stones throw from the only place he had ever known.

  "You do not belong here."

  The boy turned around, atop several barrels an elderly man sat. The man's eyes never left the book he read. A worn out hat covered much of his face, but dark purple eyes with a golden center focused intently.

  "Huh," was all the boy could manage at that moment.

  The old man took his time, intent on enjoying his book. The boy stood there awkwardly, looking around but was not the subject of interest. People carried on about their day unaware of what was happening. He had grown impatient waiting for the old man, he turned around to leave.

  "I would not do that," the man called out.

  The boy rolled his eyes and turned back to face the old man. "What do you want?" He approached the man.

  "You do not belong here." He turned the page on his book.

  "I heard you the first time," the boy said with an annoyed expression crossing his face. "What do you want?"

  Once again the old man became lost in his book forgetting the boy stood there impatiently. The boy's patience had run out and he turned to leave heading back into the crowd, he felt the time he had wasted here would slow his reach to the castle. He looked out across what he believed was a market and looked for an opening to pass through, behind him the old man called.

  "I am trying to help you!" he waved his hand.

  The boy did not stop. "Thank you I'm fine!" he yelled back as he went into the crowd.

  He walked for some time unsure of how long it had been; the crowd never seemed to diminish. People were trading amongst themselves while others enjoyed the daily activities that were on display. But the boy did not allow himself to get distracted, the letter felt heavy in his pocket. He swore he could feel the heat coming from the insignia. He would deliver it to the king. He looked up at the obsidian castle as it stood proudly in the midday sun, a black monolith of power with a purple glow to it. Even in his small world with his father, he knew of the Royal Family and the Stygian demi-gods who lived within its walls. He pressed on quickly.

  He was sure he did not deviate from his path even once, even when the old ladies offered him fresh bread or the lavender women pleaded with him to come to their pleasure rooms. He refused all and stayed true, but as he stood there looking up at the castle he could not comprehend why he was still in the same location he had been hours ago. He heard chuckling from behind him and there sat the old man still reading his book atop the barrels. His old attire was loose and free, despite being shorter than him the old man felt bigger. His presence gave him more of an air to him than his visage.

  "What's happening?" the boy demanded.

  "She does not like your conviction," the old man retorted.

  "Who is she?" asked the boy.

  The old man regarded his question with a curious raise of the eyebrow, eyes still locked to his book. "Why the city, of course. She is not too happy with you."

  The boy returned the look with a curious one of his own. He did not like riddles and he especially did not like them from people he did not know. He turned to leave and carried back into the crowd. He stopped all manner of people, kind people, angry people, and everyone else found in between and yet all said the same thing when he asked them how to reach the castle; he simply had to follow the way.

  He sat on the floor with his back against the barrels, exhausted with the constant walking he did. Frustration clouded his thoughts, the letter growing heavier in his pocket. Visions of home crossed his mind and part of him wanted to return. It was a foolish mission, he thought. He was not the only one to lose a parent nor would he be the last. But still sitting there the boy thought maybe just this once he could make his father proud.

  "Giving up already?" the old man croaked behind him.

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  The boy wiped tears from his eyes, not wanting the old man to see his face. "I'm just taking a break." He looked ahead determined.

  "A break huh? Yeah she will do that to you," the old man chuckled. "She likes to humble people who need humbling."

  "Yeah, well tell her she's a lousy teacher," he snapped back.

  "Easy there kiddo, I am not your enemy." The boy could feel the old man's eyes on him. "I said I would help yea would I not?"

  "All day I've asked for 'help,'" the boy scoffed. "And it's been just about as helpful as a headless chicken. These people are mad, all of them. Just mad."

  "They are not mad, you just are not listening to what they are saying." He scratched his beard. "You gotta follow the way."

  "Yes, yes, follow the way," he said mockingly. "I don't understand what that means!" he exclaimed.

  He had looked for any markers, any signs that would point the way as they suggested and nothing stood out to him. Instead he continued to follow the path before him and still it lead him around in circles. And now he sat tired as the day waned closer to evening.

  "From your clothes I can tell you are from the slums, dirty rags like that only come from one place." he grunted. "I also know growing up with your little slum pals you guys would venture way beyond where you are not supposed to go."

  "I didn't have 'little slum pals,'" the boy interjected.

  "When it was time to come back home, how did you do it?" The man continued ignoring the boy's remark. "How did you find your way back to your father?"

  His mind drifted back to days long past when his father could still move with his own strength. To days where they would wander through streets at night as all slept. Their travels took them across Akkad, a city to him at the time the largest in the whole world. Its lantern covered streets glowed brightly illuminating the path ahead. The starry night sky acted as a theater of sorts for the boy, with his father narrating tales conjured to explain why they looked as they did. His father took him to different parts of the city, showing him the wonders of what their people had built. A city vibrant and living filled with millions of souls, all as important as the last. His father did well to remind him the importance of all life. And as their excursions through the city came to a close, it was now time to return home. It had never occurred to him but in this moment it now did, their journey home was never difficult. No matter how far they ventured into the city or for however long, when they wished to return home they did. The boy held on to this memory and battled to remember the sensation he felt as they walked. The assuredness he marched on with, knowing he would return home with his father without any delay. The city guided them in the right direction, leading them back to safety, back home.

  "I think I understand," said the boy.

  The old man laughed, "Now you have only conquered half the battle."

  "There's more?" the boy turned to look up at the man, still seeing him buried in his book.

  "It is well and good being able to follow the way," he began. "But it does one no good if they do not actually want to reach the end of their path."

  The boy turned his head away in shame.

  "I can't see the end of my path," the boy confessed.

  "Rarely does anyone," the old man chuckled. "Only way to see how it all ends is to walk it my boy. No one can do that for you."

  "But I'm alone," it was more of a whisper than a response.

  "Aye that you are," the old man stroked his beard. "But I still do not see how that is any excuse to forsake your fathers dying wish."

  The words of the old man struck the boy like lightning. His legs moved before he could command them. He stood up dusting himself off, for a moment he lost himself in doubt but now his mind was clear. He recalled the last moments with his father and how he sat there and watched over him. Tears ran down his face as he prayed to the Many Faced God and to each one of its godly faces; The Father, the Mother, he even prayed to the Laughing Man. None heeded his words. He failed him then, he failed him when he took him to the church, he would not make it thrice.

  He walked ready to leave, the bustling crowd ahead of him. He focused on the sensation from a time long past. He thought of the castle, he thought of the letter and he thought of his fears. Yet as these thoughts came, none of them weighed him down, for the presence that stood next to him would not allow it. He could feel his father's hand in his, he desperately wished to open his eyes but shut them even tighter. He held tightly and just like days of old they marched on. With eyes wide shut, he counted as they took three steps. The boy felt the rush of air and a thousand voices around him, people spoke of his father and others spoke of him. They spoke of things he knew and things he did not. Of things to come and things long forgotten by all. He ignored it all and as they grew louder and as he took his third step, the torrent of voices were gone.

  He felt the hand let go and instinctively opened his eyes as if someone was calling out to him. But there was no one there. He stood alone. He looked at his hand trying to recall the sensation. Try as he might he no longer could feel his presence, nor could he recall the words he spoke to him as they walked. He looked around and he found himself at the base of castle Xerxes. The height of the castle fully became visible to him now at the foot of it. A long winding path lead up to the onyx castle standing so proudly. He looked behind him to see how far he had traveled, he couldn't believe his eyes. Mere moments ago he stood nearly on the other side of the city, and in three steps he crossed such a large distance. Magic, he thought to himself. Just as the tiny letter in his pocket was magical, so was the very city he called home. He would have liked to have thanked the old man for his assistance, but he knew not how to get back to wherever it was he met him. But far more importantly, what else crossed his mind as he thought of thanking the old man, was asking him how he knew his father was dead; for the boy made no mention of it.