The rain pelted the ground—a heavy shower that had been steady for the past week. It turned the solid earth into a muddy mess that clung to the bottom of his boots, weighing him down as he went. Disgusting weather like this is typical for the port town of Teratai, but is manageable within its borders. Since the port town is built with canals as its streets, the walkways are cobblestone, which means no horrid mud. That is why Domino wants to live in town but knows he cannot. He is cursed to walk the four-mile dirt road that will eventually have a branching off path that is another mile until he reaches his home.

  “You promised never to flood the earth again, yet here I walk through increasing pools of water!” Domino shouted after misjudging a puddle, thinking it shallow when it was deep enough for his leg to sink up to his midcalf. He has to methodically wiggle his foot loose without dropping the sizeable woven basket carried on his back by two shoulder straps. The basket is made from bamboo and features an attached cover, secured by a piece of twine to keep it closed. Inside the basket were cured meats, grains, preserves, oils, and other essentials to last roughly two weeks. His monthly allowance is enough for only two trips into town, so if any of the goods become ruined by falling into filth, Domino’s fate is sealed.

  Domino eventually frees his leg. He is dressed in robes that are loose around the chest and flare out toward the bottom. They are a mixture of beige and light brown—simple colors to match the town's people. On his back is a sewn symbol of a rope encircling a bouquet of sea lavender with the ends of the rope forming a sailor's knot; the insignia for the Kaito Clan, who rule Teratai. The fabric the robes are made of is nothing spectacular, but it is priced decently. They are leagues away from his old garments, which consisted of finer materials and bore his clan’s insignia—an amaryllis. That being said, he was one of the few who kept their robes immaculate, and having them coated with soggy mud felt like a personal affront. The worst part was that a gust of wind carried off his hat, and his long, charcoal-gray hair became drenched, the locks clinging to his back. “Pettiness should be beneath you, my Lord,” Domino grumbled, kicking off the excess grim from his leg. He continued walking, his mood now soured.

  It takes Domino closer to three hours to make it home, much longer than his typical hour and a half. As much as he dislikes his shoddy home—a small, single room, wooden cabin with no pipes to carry warm and cold water or a disposal mechanism for bodily waste—he is relieved to see it. The cabin has a porch and stands on stilts—a precaution, as the area is prone to flooding. To reach it, Domino has to climb a wooden ladder. It is taxing, especially considering his wet robes and the basket on his back, weighing him significantly. When Domino clambers onto the porch and walks the few feet to his door, he is utterly exhausted. The man drops his basket of goods against the wall near the door. Domino then scurries to the hearth, hurriedly ignites a fire, and keeps near it as he encourages its warmth to chase away the chill in the cabin. The flames crackle, consuming the wood Domino feeds them.

  The hearth is to the left of the cabin, and close to it are a couple of pots. In the upper left-hand corner is Domino's makeshift pantry—a bit of shelving that holds his perishables. On the wall to the right is a simple cot with a sheep's wool blanket, offering some comfort. In the center of the cabin is a short-legged table, ten inches in height, where he ate his meals and wrote his daily letters.

  Although the cabin has been Domino's home for many years, he has never truly seen it as such. His clan owns a large clearing of land within the barley fields of Casus Regalia. In the center of the land stands a two-story castle, fashioned from pale limestone streaked with veins of silver-gray. A pair of dark oak doors, reinforced with iron bands, bar the front entrance. Behind these doors is the castle's entrance hall, the floor made of white marble, and etched into the marble are the names of every clan member. The hall connects to the rest of the castle, which features a rectangular design with each corner housing a tower. Within the center of the castle is a grassy courtyard, decorated with the flower that represents his clan and a black locust tree planted by the father of their clan. Besides the courtyard, the great hall is the other notable portion of the castle. His family had painstakingly decorated the hall as a profession of their status and wealth. Its flooring is a golden marble color, banners hung with sewn-in words that encouraged good fortune to the clan, portraits of the more prominent members hung along the walls, and the table was crafted by the most skilled stained glass artisan who had made a fuss over them turning his work into something to eat on. Then there are the many servants who wait on the leader and his family. They are also clan members and see their duty as an honor. Domino used to have two attendants who saw to his every need since he was a young boy, and he missed their services dearly.

  The man must also not forget the final piece of his old life, the grand wall surrounding their territory. It stood nine meters tall and three meters thick, and the stone differed from the rest of the wall at the gatehouse. The gatehouse was constructed from immaculate white stone that shimmers in the sunlight, making it appear to have been dusted with diamonds. Flanking the arched entrance are two twin towers, their surfaces etched with depictions of biblical scriptures. Their peaked roofs are adorned with delicately carved finials, their edges lined with bands of gold leaf that reflect the sun’s gleaming light. A grand double gate, made of polished dark wood, its surface inlaid with intricate silver filigree that replicates vines, replaced the portcullis. Leading beneath the gatehouse is a marble pathway etched with subtle swirling designs that give the impression of flowing water. The gateway to his home was meant as an invitation to glamorous royalty.

  His clan, the Adeola Clan, holds importance and has relations with the tribes of Halo and Adoptore. When it comes to the seven tribes, the most significant are Noctua, Nemesis, and Halo; therefore, having a shared ancestry with at least one of them is something to be proud of. That is why their home reflects this; his new way of living is like a stain on his heritage. Someone of his pedigree, the son of a clan leader whose power is enough to sway court decisions, should live lavishly.

  Domino frowns as he withdraws the items from his basket and places them in their designated place on the shelves. His frown deepens when the last thing he takes out is a cloth bundle—this he takes with him as he sits near the fire. He unwraps it to reveal a handful of sailors’ biscuits; his meal for the night, as he cannot be bothered to make something better. They clack together when he lays the cloth and biscuits on the floor. If only his parents could see him, then he is sure they would take pity on him.

  He writes letters daily, and when he goes into town, he sends them. Domino has contemplated buying a Messenger Bird, but they are costly creatures, and he prefers using any excess money on more paper and ink. In his letters, Domino pleads with his father to return home, describing his less-than-ideal living conditions. So far, he has received only two responses, both of which state that it is too dangerous to return. The man could never conceive why that was the case. It has been… twelve years? Domino grimaces as he bites into a biscuit. The taste is bland, as it is meant to be added to a stew. Truthfully, he had not contemplated the passage of time since fleeing from his homeland, but now that he thinks about it, twelve years have passed. This is another reason why his father should permit him to travel home.

  The tribes won the Ethospar War, and the Neos Clan was obliterated. His father did not even have to worry about Heartsease because Patriarch Karna died the year the war had ended—the same night as his son Benaiah. When Bomin took over as patriarch after his father and brother's deaths, he considered all matters related to the war to be settled, including those involving the Adeola Clan and the tribe of Halo. With the nonsense behind them and the years passed, Domino should have been back in Begonia and behind the walls of his true home.

  “If there is no one to remember my sins, then must I continue to pay for them?” Domino asked the empty room. The only response comes from the crackling fire, and he hunches further into himself. His crimson eyes reflect the dancing light of the warm flames as he considers putting away the rest of his supper. He had only eaten one biscuit, but Domino's mood quelled his hunger. Tomorrow is his birthday; he will turn forty-six, and all that Domino prays for is to be taken away from this dismal life he leads.

  Salty water catches at the corner of his eyes, threatening to spill over. He is saved from the embarrassing display of self-pity by the sound of the front door tearing open. It slams against the wall with a splintering sound as the wood breaks apart. The sudden noise jolts Domino; his movements knock his leg against the sailors’ biscuits, sending them clacking in different directions. His heart is pounding, but it lodges in his throat when he sees the figure standing at the doorway.

  “Domino Adeola. It fills my soul with joy to see you again.”

  —————

  A click and wobble breaks the rhythmical uneven cadence of the horse's body as the creature expertly maintains its balance after stepping on a huge rock. Its shift is enough to disturb the rider on its back, waking him up from his gentle doze. Griff, patriarch of Davar, blinks his eyes several times to clear away the remnants of sleep. His horse, Hartwin, gives a soft chuff as if sensing his wakefulness. Griff leans forward to offer the horse a hearty pat along its neck, using the movement to stretch his stiff back. His position tips his ashen grey hair forward, none of it falling over his face because his front locks are braided, pulled back, and tied together to secure the rest of his hair underneath. Of his hair that he can see, Griff grimaces as he notes the oiliness from not being washed. The rest of him is ill passable as well. His fitted, albeit a bit loose, robes are dingy—the whites in between the yellows and violets are dirtied. Griff looks forward to when he can bathe and dress in fresh clothing.

  “My lord, are you alright?”

  Griff lifts his head to see Zhi Hao urging his horse closer. He is a young man in his late twenties and the youngest soldier in their company. He wears a white, long-sleeved tunic with yellow bleeding off the shoulders, violet at the hem, and white, high-waisted trousers, with a lightweight chainmail hidden underneath his garments—a soldier's uniform. The man's long, lightly silvered hair is pulled back into an orderly bun, none escaping. Zhi Hao is impeccable, his pale skin—the signature of Davaranians—looked fresh, despite the rest of the company looking dirtied and weather-worn from their long journey. Griff attributes the man's resilience to his youth because even he, someone tempered by the toils of war and well accustomed to lack of sleep, felt haggard, which is why Griff had closed his eyes in the first place.

  “I’m fine,” Griff replied. Zhi Hao is a lieutenant training to be the captain of the guard, a position previously held by Zhi Hao’s father until his early retirement two years ago, after a healer declared his heart to be weakened. The young man takes his role seriously, often behaving like a mother hen in his vigilance over his patriarch's safety and health. Griff has had to scold him numerous times, and he does not appreciate how Prometheus often joins in the fun just to mess with him. That is not to say greatness is not expected from Zhi Hao, because he is very much like his father. He is talented, loyal, intelligent, and eager to serve his patriarch. “Although I'm a bit sore, the saddle of a horse doesn't make for an ideal place to sleep.”

  Zhi Hao furrowed his brows in contemplation. “We are nearing the borders of The Cornucopia, and can rest soon,” he said slowly. Griff gave a noncommittal hum, but inwardly, he approved of Zhi Hao's response. Telling by the way the man spoke slowly, he had probably debated whether to stop the company for a short rest. A ridiculous thought because even if he wanted his patriarch to be comfortable, it made more sense to suffer through the last leg of their journey. Griff was delighted not to scold Zhi Hao, especially since his eyes were drifting closed again—Hartwin’s gentle walking lulled him to rest.

  It is another half hour until they are greeted by the cobblestone wall that runs the length of The Cornucopia’s land, and the archway entrance. The wall stands approximately a meter high and is just over half a meter thick. Its stones are hand-carved, smooth, rounded, and fitted together like perfect puzzle pieces. Moss sprouts where cracks form, providing an aged look to already aged stone. The archway is crafted much the same, and its keystone is slightly larger. Over the arch, the Davaranians planted the flower of their tribe, purple irises, which twined their stems around the stone. Hanging underneath, curving with the arch, is a metal sign reading the tribe’s inscription.

  We are home, Griff thought to himself. He could feel the collective relief wash over his company, and he did not hesitate to urge his horse into a hastier trot.

  When The Cornucopia finally came into view, Griff heard the sound of a ram's horn, a signal to all that their patriarch had returned home. Waiting to greet them outside the dark wooden doors, as the neared, were his eldest sons, and one of them appeared to be holding a badger. “Don’t tell me, Prometheus, that you have forgotten our conversation?” Griff asked incredulously, pulling Hartwin’s reins to stop him. He did not appreciate his son's innocent smile.

  Level one is enormous and can be excavated further if more space is needed. That being said, if Prometheus is granted more room, he will fill it with more pets. His affinity for animals knows no bounds, and now that his wife is pregnant, the crowding has become more apparent. Griff cannot fathom how they will handle raising children and animals. They will turn level one into a circus if he does not maintain a strict stance.

  “It isn't mine,” Prometheus answered, although it did little to ease Griff’s worries.

  “Then where did you get it?”

  “The creature belongs to Wukong,” Barnabas replied, sighing at his brother’s overplayfulness. “A late birthday present is what Uncle Edwin told us.”

  Griff looked at Barnabas and nodded in appreciation. “Who was the giver?” Griff asked, dismounting from his steed. Without needing to convey a command, Zhi Hao grabbed Hartwin’s reins and guided the horse to follow him. The lieutenant and the rest of the company headed toward the stables while Griff walked with his sons into The Cornucopia. “Cian,” Prometheus replied, as the three men neared the doors. Since Prometheus had his hands full, his brother took it upon himself to open the door for them. “It’s a thoughtful gift,” Griff commented, leaning over to pat the sleeping creature’s head. Its silken fur felt pleasant between his fingers. “A living pillow fit for a boy whose sleeping habits worry me.”

  “He’s as bad as you are, father,” Prometheus teased.

  Griff provides no rebuttal; the dark crescents under his eyes are evidence enough. “Speaking of my youngest son, where is he?” he asked, changing the subject. “Where is your uncle also?”

  As they traversed through the hallways, students bowed their heads and gave warm greetings to the patriarch. Griff acknowledged the students, but was distracted. He had been away from home for many months, having traveled to the continent of Faux Point, and it had not been for pleasure. Almost ten years ago, Patriarch Bomin of Heartsease had asked Griff to seek out the criminal Domino Adeola. It took many false leads until finally one avenue bore fruit, yet it had not been what Griff was expecting.

  “Uncle Edwin is studying the scriptures on level four,” Prometheus informed Griff. “As for Wukong, he's gone off to explore Lake Kai with the sons of Heartsease and won't return until two weeks from now.”

  Prometheus’ words made Griff pause. “They convinced my son to forgo studying for leisure time at the lake?” Griff asked in bewilderment. Wukong does not readily leave The Cornucopia unless a class explicitly instructs him to do so. He is adamant about training and studying; his plan is to venture into the world after graduation. Until that time, he wants to learn as much as The Cornucopia can offer. “How’d they achieve that?”

  “Son Cian, he found a book in the library that interested them,” Barnabas replied. “Although it is authenticated, they still sought to follow the written instructions that would take them to a lost relic in the lake.”

  Griff looked at his eldest in curiosity. He has never heard a rumor of Lake Kai holding a lost relic. Even if it was proven false, such a rumor should have been prevalent. “What’s the name of the book?”

  “The Voice of the Silent Mouth,” Prometheus answered on his brother's behalf.

  Prometheus did not see how his father had gone silent, the older man's steps slowing. “I perused through the book, and I must admit the author writes with a conviction that made me want to believe them. I suspect that's what fascinated Cian enough to follow. I do wonder who wrote the book. The author didn't provide their name or how they came across their information.”

  “Prometheus.”

  The man turned around at the sound of his brother calling his name. He was going to ask what he wanted, but saw Barnabas looking at their father. Griff's complexion is naturally pale, as is the appearance of the people of Davar, yet he somehow lost more color than his sons have ever seen.

  “Father?” Prometheus said tentatively.

  Five people. Five founders of a pact that sought to bring humanity to its knees and allow for sin to reign over them. It had happened over a thousand years ago—a world war that was the catalyst for how they all live now. All tribal leaders are well-versed in the war. It became custom amongst the tribe to read the diaries left by Matriarch Davar. She'd been thorough in recounting events and had collected interviews from the other patriarchs and matriarchs at that time. Barnabas has only just begun reading these diaries in preparation for taking over from his father. Although twenty is considered the age of adulthood, and the leaders of the tribe instruct their heirs early on how to behave, the reading of the diaries does not occur until the age of thirty. It is because the war was not black and white. Some of the first leaders' actions can be considered morally ambiguous. By thirty, a child of a patriarch or matriarch should be mature enough and settled in mindset to handle what Matriarch Davar had written. So as far into reading as Barnabas is, he had not gotten to the Founder Shiloh, to what title that man had been given, what the frightened people revered him as. The one who speaks without his lips uttering a sound—a silent mouth with a voice. Barnabas would not have reacted had Prometheus told him the name, so neither brother had known to forbid Wukong and the sons of Heartsease from following the book.

  Wukong, the name passes through Griff's mind like a whisper as his face turns to stone. “Barnabas and Prometheus, seek out your uncle and tell him to don armor and weapons. The two of you will also do the same,” Griff commanded. “I will find Zhi Hao and regather my company. We'll meet outside in front of The Cornucopia.”

  Griff turned and hastily retraced their steps. His sons did not try to stop him or voice their concerns. They know their father, and the tone in which he ordered them is that of a leader preparing for a fight. Both went to do as he asked.

  —————

  Edwin stood at the forefront of the raft; the wind from the soldiers' rowing gently moved his robes. His face is impassive, yet there is a tiredness in his eyes, and his clothes are not as put together as they usually are. His stance is also rigid, and it worsens as he nears the raft Edwin remembers his youngest nephew building. Wukong had been in a foul mood on the day of the raft competition. His competitive relationship with Cian brought out the best in him, but also petulance that most thought him beneath—a friendship Wukong refused to acknowledge and would go to the grave denying. Edwin can almost hear the whispers of Wukong's annoyed mutterings—can nearly see the frown on his face. An illusion that is swiftly broken once they see the other raft is empty, and the three diving pipes that are slack as if no one is on the other end. Not wanting to presume the worst, Edwin hopped aboard the other raft and immediately pulled on a pipe in a pattern that was supposed to signal to the diver whether they were safe. He waits, but there is no responding tug from the other end. “Help me to pull in the pipes,” Edwin ordered sharply. The six soldiers rushed to do as they were told. Half of them joined Edwin and began lifting the pipes from the water. Soon enough, their legs are surrounded by the rope-like apparatus, reaching the ends of the pipes.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  They search the raft after, finding dry rations, waterskins, clothing, Wukong's guitar, Cian's violin, and the book that brought the children to the lake in the first place.

  Edwin made an informed decision, taking one of the pipes, and stepped off the raft. The water hit him and he blinked his eyes against it, allowing him time to adjust to the shift in environments. Edwin then put the pipe into his mouth as he swam downward. He kept going until he reached the wall of darkness, unaware that it was the same one the children had passed through. Unlike them, Edwin found the danger of swimming into the unknown too great. It made him wonder if the children had been brazen enough to venture into the darkness and had become ensnared by it. Did they lose their senses, causing disorientation that led to panic and the release of their diving pipes? Did they drown? He did not want to think of the worst happening to the children, but Edwin is a practical man. Their patriarch—his brother—is already frayed. Griff had endured war and the loss of his wife, his beloved, but when it came to his children, the man faltered. Edwin does not blame his brother. It is testimony enough to his brother’s resolve that the man can put on a courageous air in front of his soldiers. When he is alone, the walls crumble, and without anyone but Edwin to see, Griff suffers. As the second-oldest child, Edwin must bear the burdens of leadership when his older brother is unable to do so. So he returns to the raft and directs his party to head back to the shore. If they are to investigate the bottom of Lake Kai, then they will need more people.

  Edwin prays for the Lord to strengthen him, because if their search leads to cold bodies, he is unsure of what his patriarch's reaction will be. The thought prompts him to shut his eyes for a moment before blinking them open with clarity. One task at a time. Edwin had to take each task one at a time.

  —————

  Griff had acted concisely upon arriving at the lake. He had directed Prometheus to take twenty soldiers with him and go around the lake from the left side. The same order was given to Barnabas, but he was to take the right. As they went, they were meant to spread out and call for the children, as there was a possibility the children had never headed out onto the lake, or if they had, then they might have come ashore somewhere else. While his sons did this, he sent Edwin out onto the water to follow the instructions Prometheus said were written in the book.

  The patriarch stayed on the main shoreline, sending the soldiers left with him to retrace their route but veer off the path in case the children were simply camping. Hours passed as each group completed its assigned tasks. The hours then turned into days. With each passing moment, not knowing the state of his son, Griff felt an overwhelming weight settle on his soul. His turmoil brought up memories of his wife—the moments leading toward her death.

  Cordelia had been a woman of warmth. The people flocked to her, her gentle nature coaxing them to find peace in her presence as she taught. She would give lectures about the importance of history, that without it, humanity could not learn from its mistakes and become better for it. Her lectures ran long, but none of those listening seemed to mind. Griff, for example, could listen to her speak for hours—her voice a most beautiful melody. It was no surprise that she made a great mother. There were no words to describe her joy when she became pregnant for the first time, nor how she felt once a physician explained she would bear twins. It had been joyous to toil through pain in bringing Barnabas and Prometheus into the world, their cries causing her to smile broadly. Then time passed, war waged, taking Griff from home, but after the fighting, he embraced his wife. Cordelia fell pregnant once more—a blessing after so much bloodshed, yet wrought with new danger.

  She had grown ill after giving birth to Wukong. A summer sickness that had spread amongst the people. It had been perceived as a mundane ailment, causing people to simply experience a sore throat and cough, something that could be cured with hot tea, lemon, and honey. That is not to say those infected did not take precautions. They covered their mouths, washed their hands with hot water, and avoided doing their tasks amongst the healthy populace. However, Cordelia had still fallen ill, possibly because the attending healer had not been aware of their infection when treating her. Griff never found out. What he did know was that the troubles of labor had left her too weak, turning the mundane into a battle of life and death. He remembers sitting on her bed, holding her against his side with Barnabas and Prometheus in attendance. Wukong, since he was still but a baby, was not allowed near his mother for fear his young body would contract the sickness from her. He knew it had been hard not to see Wukong once more, but she had kept calm, asking that they love and protect one another. It was a sorrowful goodbye, but they will meet again within God's kingdom.

  Griff had been entrusted to watch over their children, and he could not fathom how he managed to let Wukong slip away. The Cornucopia is open to all who seek to learn, and the library is easily accessible. No patriarch or matriarch before Griff assumed that danger could come from a book. Especially not when they are all supposed to have been authenticated. The Council of Authenticators had been created once the library of Davar had been built. With people all around coming forth with written texts and history to be watched over, the tribe had to be sure what they were taking in. Initially, a soldier was also posted at the entrance of the library to ensure that no one stole from it. As the years progressed and integrity prevailed, the guard was eventually removed. This trust had been breached. No book had been stolen, but placing one without Davar knowing is just as horrible.

  The rules will need to be changed, and soldiers will need to be reposted. Griff cannot allow for something like this to happen again. The only silver lining is that out of all the students to find the book, his child and Son Cian are the most likely to survive whatever ordeal the book’s path would have them face. Son Keegan also has his attributes that shine bright when needed. The three children are not entirely helpless. It is a small comfort, but one he grasps onto tightly.

  “Grandmaster Edwin has returned!” A voice exclaimed.

  They had erected a camp near the shoreline to provide somewhere for the soldiers to rest after a long day of searching. Griff was in a tent in the middle, standing at a wooden table with a map of the area laid flat. He had been scribbling notes and marking off areas they had already scoured when Zhi Hao's voice met his ears. The pencil in his hand clattered on the table as he hurried out of the tent.

  At the shoreline, Griff can see in the distance two rafts approaching. The sight brought a smile to his face because surely it meant Edwin had found the children. His hope splintered as the rafts neared, and he could not see his son’s face amongst the others. “You didn't find them?” Griff asked. His question carried across the water without an immediate response. Not until Edwin was close enough to disembark did he come to kneel at the feet of his brother. “My Lord, we found Wukong's raft, the children’s supplies, and three diving pipes in the water,” Edwin said. There came a pause as Edwin stood up, going from servant to brother as he looked into Griff’s eyes. “I swam beneath the surface, trying to spot…anything. Lake Kai is deep, and I could not swim further because, toward the bottom, there is a wall of blackness. We would need lanterns and more men to scour the darkness.”

  Griff swallowed harshly. “You believe they went in, don’t you?”

  Edwin maintained his resolve as he nodded. “It makes sense that they would. If they were adamant in their goal, and I know Cian is not one to give up so easily. That is not to say they are not fine. We do not know what lies in the darkness, so there is still hope for them.”

  Hope.

  Griff felt strained, but Edwin’s words provided a new direction for them. “Zhi Hao,” Griff said. The lieutenant had been standing away to give his patriarch privacy with the grandmaster, but came forward immediately at the sound of his name.

  “Yes, my Lord?”

  “Regather my sons and their men. Then take a horse-drawn cart back to The Cornucopia and retrieve underwater lanterns and diving pipes enough for twenty soldiers.”

  Griff watched as Zhi Hao went to do as he was commanded, before turning to his brother. “Was the book amongst the belongings you found?”

  “Yes,” Edwin replied. His brows furrowed in contemplation. “Although the pages were crinkled and warped, I believe from having fallen into the water at some point, it was still legible for me to read. There is an earnestness to the words that makes it seem like the author only wished to find the relic. I could not find any allusions to Shiloh other than the title.”

  “A well-written snare,” Griff said. “The only thing I can't understand is the purpose behind it. By chance, it was found and could have been overlooked for years.”

  “Do you believe it relates to Domino?” Edwin asked.

  “It might be, and that is what concerns me.”

  The tribes and clans have become comfortable in their era of peace, and they trusted the tribe of Nemesis to maintain their laws. Such complacency had been foolish because although Nemesis is a large tribe, they are not omnipresent or omniscient. Things slip by. Evil deeds are not always noticed. It cannot be a simple coincidence that the children found the book at the same time he found Domino. There is a shadow encroaching on this era, and Griff admits it troubles him.

  Griff moves to speak again when there is a horrible trembling of the earth. He braces his legs and moves his arms to keep balance as the quacking continues. This region is not prone to earthquakes, but since the search for the children began, they have become quite frequent. It does not last long, and everything returns to normal soon after. The short-lived trembling further cements his feelings of wrongness because it is a coincidence that they only begin now?

  “Come,” Griff said. “I want to read through the book as Zhi Hao does as I commanded him to.”

  —————

  The horse's chest heaved as Zhi Hao urged the beast forward, encouraging it to maintain a hastened pace. He has headed around the left side of the lake—the direction Son Prometheus took. Although he has not seen the patriarch’s son in days, the man and his company cannot have traveled far. They had to move slowly while scouring the woods, so as not to miss any signs of the children. Thinking of the lost children caused a clenching in his heart.

  As a lieutenant to the patriarch, Zhi Hao is always by his lord’s side, a willing servant and observer. He views his position as an honored one and gives his best, for Patriarch Griff is a deserving man. His patriarch is not a blade of grass that bows to the wind—he is like a mountain that defies the weather, standing strong before it. That is why it has pained him these last few days to see his lord so distraught. There are no outward signs to convey the emotions his lord is feeling—the man keeps a stern facade, unwilling to show weakness. A needless thing because his men would not think any less of him. A child is loved by their parents, and no decent person would hold a parent in contempt if they showed distress. If anything, it is remarkable how clear-headed their patriarch has been thus far, issuing effective commands to locate the children. That being said, Zhi Hao would be considered a disgrace if he could not read the subtle signs of his patriarch’s mood. He has spent the majority of his life shadowing the older man, having begun when he was ten, acting as a squire to his father. The previous captain of the guard instructed Zhi Hao on how to be the patriarch’s shadow, to feel and think the way the patriarch does, all to be a better servant. His patriarch wanted his son to be found safe, and Zhi Hao prayed that they would see the boys alive… somehow, in the depths of the lake.

  “Son Prometheus!” Zhi Hao cried out. He pulled on the reins of his horse to slow its pace, but continued to ride through the camp. It had taken less than half a day of travel until he had reached the cluster of tents and soldiers. “Where is our Scion?”

  A group of soldiers, messing around a fire pit and cauldron, looked up at their towering lieutenant. “He and the third shift went into the forest an hour ago,” the soldier holding a ladle said. The man pointed in the direction of the woods. “Follow a straight path and eventually you’ll hear their voices.”

  Zhi Hao nodded in thanks before urging his horse forward.

  The man and steed covered much ground until they could hear shouting in the distance. There were shouts of names: Son Wukong, Son Cian, and Son Keegan. It was a periodic sound, allowing enough pause for a responding cry from the children if they were in earshot. Zhi Hao kept his eyes focused ahead, but unlike him, his horse did not miss the gaping hole in the ground. It made a quick grunt as it tucked its legs beneath, its haunches rippling with power before pushing against the ground to jump over the hole. The horse lands gracefully, and Zhi Hao keeps a death grip on the reins to prevent falling off the saddle. “Easy,” Zhi Hao said, as he pulled on the reins to turn the horse to the side. From where he sat, he looked down at the hole and felt a draw not to leave. It is a nagging feeling that demands obedience. Since Zhi Hao is not one to ignore what could very well be the Spirit of God speaking to him, he decided to stay and watch.

  Minutes passed by as Zhi Hao waited—the voices he had been following grew fainter in the distance. That was not enough to deter him. His eyes remained fixed on the hole, and he strained his ears for any peculiar sound. Then he heard it—shuffling, the sound of earth dislodging, and grunting. Zhi Hao dismounted from his horse and stepped closer to the hole. “I can see the trees!” a familiar voice called out. Two responding voices follow, and Zhi Hao feels his breath escape him because he recognizes those voices as well. “Quite pushing me, Cian! I can only move as fast as Wukong goes!”

  “Then tell him to crawl faster!”

  From the hole pops up the head of Patriarch Griff’s third son, covered in dust and caked blood on his face, but alive. “Youngest Scion!” Zhi Hao exclaims, diving forward to help the young boy. Son Wukong flinches at his touch, but relaxes once he sees who is helping him. “Zhi Hao? Thank God.”

  Zhi Hao pulls his Scion up and then assists Son Keegan, followed by Son Cian. The lieutenant checks over each boy and notes their various states of health. Son Wukong has a gash below his lip, and there is one across Son Keegan’s back, but his face is pensive when he steps away from Son Cian. The third boy sustained the most injuries and appeared ready to fall over. “I need you three to stay put,” Zhi Hao said. “Son Wukong, your brother, Son Promethesus, is just up ahead. I will fetch him and his men, then we will carry you to their camp, where one of the healers will see to your injuries.”

  “Alright, but please do so with haste,” His Scion replied as he moved to sit on the ground. Zhi Hao had helped Son Cian lean against a tree, while Son Keegan sat at the base, beside his brother. The lieutenant looked over the children once more before bowing and mounting his steed. He took off with a promise to be back quickly.

  Zhi Hao was unaware that moments after his departure, one of the sons of Heartseas collapsed to his knees, unconscious.

  —————

  Cian had been told he was asleep for three whole days while his brother and Wukong slept for one.

  After falling unconscious, Wukong and Keegan looked after him while waiting for Zhi Hao to return with Teacher Prometheus, which he eventually did. Then came the scramble to carry the children back to Prometheus’ camp so that the Field Healers could do their work. Field Healers, unlike civilian healers, are soldiers in equal standing with Physicians—a rank lower than Archdoctors and two below Surgeon Primus. They were able to give aid to the boys, but in Cian’s case, they had no equipment for a sanguine infusion. Apparently, Cian had lost a lot of blood, and it became a test of faith for Prometheus’ men to travel back to where his father’s camp was, and then back to The Cornucopia. It had been the quickest route, but those guiding the cart carrying Cian’s body had been apprehensive of him going into shock.

  He is grateful to have been unconscious the entire time, ignorant of what was happening around him. Better to be asleep than to feel pain as they sutured his wound and wrapped broad stripes of linen around his torso, enough to be snug but not so much he could not breathe. It would have been even better to have been asleep for several days because when he did wake and finally felt the pain, he never wanted to break another rib. His attending healer had told him he had broken three, and by Christ’s mercy, they were clean breaks—if they had been unaligned, Cian would have had worse to deal with. Not that recovering was easy.

  For another four days, he was too injured and weak to venture off his bed. It made him feel anxious because Cian can be relaxed when he needs to be, but four days in bed was pushing it too far. It had helped that Keegan visited him daily, offering conversation as a form of entertainment. As much as he loved speaking with his brother, Cian was beyond relieved when the healers allowed him to walk. His legs were stiff from disuse, and he needed Keegan's help to steady himself, yet that did not stop him from marching forward. He could not go fast or far—that did not matter because any movement was better than no movement. It was during his first day of walking that Cian went to the washroom, a facet of life he took for granted, until he was unable to do it on his own. He had been splashing water on his face when he looked up into the mirror above the water basin. A choked scream nearly tore past his lips.

  His hair.

  When newborns enter the world, they are born with tufts of hair whiter than snow. In the sunlight, the babies will look as if they wear a blinding crown, utterly beautiful in its naturalness. As children grow, they will lose this pristine quality, and their hair will gradually change to an off-white color. It is impossible for one who knows sin to be without blemish again, to be like a witless infant. All one can do is seek purification, but man becomes dirty just as quickly. As a child enters adulthood and is given more responsibility, they are more prone to make incorrect choices. Their hair will fluctuate in color, and honestly, only the tribe of Heartsease seems to be the most adept at maintaining its off-white hue. His uncle and his soldiers are among the few who cannot make that claim, and now it appears Cian is with them. His hair has darkened a shade. An indicator to all that he has committed a higher sin. He is unsure what to think about the color as he runs his fingers through the loose strands of hair. With time, it can change back. Cian is but a child and does not have to face the path of a soldier or patriarch, so with enough prayer, he will become cleaner once again. It does not make it any less shocking… He had left the washroom with more focus on his walking to clear his mind.

  Now, after one and a half months, he could sit properly at a ground table.

  Cian is sitting cross-legged on a comfy cushion provided by Keegan. The cushion is angled to give a bit of support, allowing him to lean back slightly. Currently, he is doing that while staring at the blank sheet of paper before him, his quill twirling in his hand. Speaking of his brother, the boy is sitting across from him, waiting with a look of apprehension on his face.

  His uncle, Keegan's father, Patriarch Bomin, had been notified about the happenings at The Cornucopia. Through a letter sent by Messenger Crow, Patriarch Griff had immediately sent word of the children's disappearance and just as immediately sent word of their successful retrieval. What followed was a letter sent by Patriarch Bomin addressed to his sons. “I want you to tell me what happened.” That was all that was written in the letter. The request was simple and obvious. Of course, a father would wish to know how his children got into trouble in the first place, yet Keegan had not responded. He could have while his brother was recovering, but he had been instructed not to by that same brother.

  “How much did you tell your father about what happened?” Cian had asked Wukong on one of the days he was testing the limits of how far he could walk. The taller boy had been meandering around the halls nearest to the infirmary. It was a tactic of his to bump into a passing healer and inquire about Cian's well-being. Wukong was too proud to actually visit his rival, lest the boy think they were friends. Cian had found it amusing how nonchalant Wukong tried to come off, but resisted poking fun at the other's expense. He was more concerned with the question he asked. “I told him everything,” Wukong replied. Cian's face grew pensive because that meant he would have to rethink his response to his uncle. “Everything that I thought he needed to know,” Wukong continued. “Only the important details, while failing to mention the…lesser bits.”

  As much as Wukong pretended to despise him, Cian saw the other as a second brother. Wukong had most definitely told his father a lot, but what he did not tell him was about Keegan, how the boy had been a thread's width away from crossing a line that would have seen his hair turn obsidian.

  By Wukong not having mentioned Keegan's actions to Patriarch Griff, Cian could craft a narrative that would not be challenged. He dipped his quill into the ink and began writing. His words encompassed two sheets of paper, front and back. Before folding his work to be sealed and sent off, Cian handed it over for Keegan to read through. The other brother took his time reading, and when he finished, he looked at Cian. “We're not telling him?” The words were phrased as a question, but Cian took it more as a statement. He offered a smile. “There’s never a point in boring someone with things that could have happened. You didn't use the needle, so what reason is there to mention anything further to your father?”

  Keegan accepted Cian's response. It is nothing new for them to lie, or, better yet, withhold information to present a story that suits their needs.

  Cian sent the letter…

  His uncle sent one more in response, a week later.

  “May God expedite your recovery, my sons. When you are fully healed, you are to return home.”