Chapter Eighteen

Italina felt cold, empty, and desolate once the stabs of moonlight cut their way through. At night, the civilians bled into their homes like the Heavy Man bled out into the flimsy wood floor of The Bells Brother’s Pub. With the exception of the occasional ones and twos, the crowds were scarce to none. And, in each glance around the streets and each step they made upon the marble sidewalk, it was like looking at a new city other than the one they had been only a few hours before. The walkways were covered with dirty boot prints and even the smell of the city felt less thick and heavy, benefited by the lack of rivaling scents having to battle back and forth.

“How long do you think it will be before knights start to arrive at the pub?” Secrat asked Brutus.

The Thief looked at his hand, checking to see which fingers he could move on his bad hand and which ones he couldn’t. Unfortunately, he discovered that he couldn’t move most of them.

“If the civilians leaving the pub made a complaint about fighting, they would stop by eventually just to look at things. But, at the same time, you gotta think they get a lot of these sorts of complaints, especially on a day like The Aer Festival. But, if anyone says anything about there being murders, anything at all, they will put a hustle in it. I have to assume The Aer Festival is a major money maker for the city, that kind of bad publicity would be a priority. They could be there already, in fact,” Brutus claimed knowingly.

Brutus limped with every step he took, like a dying antelope waiting to be put out of its misery. Unfortunately, that mercy would never come. Brutus couldn’t be put out. Secrat Copé certainly wouldn’t be allowed to do it. He needed Brutus to stay alive, if for no other reason then at least long enough to confirm to the others why he would be dying. Brutus looked like hell. His eyes nearly forced all the way shut by the swelling on his face, his cheeks were various shades of purple and red.

“Well then, we best not roam about the streets for very long. If Ezic and Ricar provided a bullshit description of us like I asked of them that will buy us some time,” Secrat stopped, hearing chuckles from Brutus.

“You don’t think those two lily liver types are going to vouch for us or try to do us any favors, Italinians don’t give a horse’s ass of gratitude.”

Brutus Ess’ voice was loud as usual, the alcohol still working its way through his system.

“Well then, why did you help them?” Secrat asked, thinking over how much easier things would have been had Brutus stayed out of it.

“Sometimes people disappoint you,” Brutus said, a real non-answer. “It is for the best that you get used to it young.”

Secrat decided to ignore the comment, deciding it wasn’t worth the energy. “They said they were from Olzaric. A couple knights in Italina won’t be enough to intimidate them, not after what they have likely seen.”

“A rustling leaf would be enough to intimidate that giant,” Brutus quipped.

Copé had no real defense for him.

Several feet later and Secrat did begin to take sight of individuals in a larger abundance. Before long, there were a lot of them, in fact. However, they were not up and about moving, but, rather, on the sidewalks were makeshift tents and pallets. Secrat supposed that Italina had to overcome some of its gaudier contrivances for such an occasion. Secrat could remember the knights of Italina often harassing him in his younger years when he slept on the street. They were combating the ‘homeless problem’ was what they claimed. For today, Secrat assumed they had to swallow their pride to accommodate everyone.

Men, women, and children all found refuge as they stared up at the skies. Secrat did the same. For some in Italina, it made for a romantic setting, and had Copé had more time to take in Italina’s elegance – be it the clear skies (not blocked by trees unlike Acera) and other man-made decor (a person couldn’t walk more than a few blocks without running into a large water fountain), he may have gawked at the extravagance it had.

“I just don’t get what the fuck he was so damn sad about. The bastard was crying like he had just murdered a saint and not someone who was trying to whip his ass,” Brutus blurted out, not interesting in waiting to see if Copé would ever respond to his initial statement.

As said, the setting was romantic for some, but not for Brutus, who was beyond such romanticism.

So as not to disturb anyone or to have to deal with the ones sleeping off on the sidewalks, Copé ventured off from the marble sidewalk and down to the roads where they would only bump into horses and wagons on occasion. He was thankful that it wasn’t completely pitch black outside. There was a full moon in the sky and it shined a bright light that, unobscured, lit their way.

“If you thought so very lowly of them,” Secrat began again, unable to let the point go. “I don’t see why you bothered putting your nose in their affairs. All of those bruises on your face could have been prevented!” Secrat this his hands up and did all sorts of vaguely meaningful hand gestures.

He had never been the best at verbal confrontation and knew not if Brutus was even looking to see said expressions.

“It would have saved us a lot of time and a lot of blood,” Secrat added.

“Yeah, it would have,” Brutus concurred. “But now I know where you stand.”

“Oh, and where is that?” The Thief wasn’t truly upset, or at least, the adrenaline coursing through him coupled with the alcohol helped numb him to it.

“Father Toucan Veras believed in you and still believes in you. Some of us think of it as favoritism, but no one thinks it is all favoritism. It is a terrible thing you did, yes, yes, very sad, but you still escaped the wagon and killed Elson Man. And before that, what had you done? You killed a man who exceeded your size four times over. That is special, … hell, some might argue it makes you some kind of a wunderkind thief.” Brutus smiled some at his fancy verbiage, but then, his voice changed to add: “But then you damn near got me killed.”

Brutus Ess touched down at the wounds on his stomach, remembering how he got them.

“If you need a reminder, that was your own ignorance that led to you being stabbed. If you would have died, it would be your own stupid hands with blood on them.” Copé tried his hand at sounding assertive and definite with what he said.

It would not be to his benefit for Brutus Ess to come back to The Red Flux campsite and make such malicious claims.

“Why?” Brutus asked, making eye contact with Secrat, offering a condescending half smile, “Is it because daddy dearest forbade you from taking a life?”

They continued their way further into Italina and saw men mopping the marble floors. Ah, so that is how they keep them so clean. Secrat thought the act was rather eccentric. Copé stared back at Brutus, expecting him to comment on it, but the burly thief said nothing. The animosity would end eventually, but it would probably be sometime after they arrived back at the wagon with Taison. If Secrat replied, he would only be pouring more alcohol on a roaring flame at a time when being inconspicuous and diligent was more important.

“Do you remember that boy, … the boy earlier on the real big wagon? The boy who said things about a group who slaughtered children and experimented on folk?” Brutus said, being the one to break the silence, per usual.

Brutus stopped speaking only long enough for Secrat to nod.

“Who does that sound like to you? Does it sound like The Carvers? No,” Brutus answered himself. “No, that is not their forte, that is not where they shine. The Carvers aren’t curious minds. They aren’t trying to make anything or accomplish anything productive with what they’re doing. They are savages. They get off on it. The Carvers would scalp heads, cut eyeballs out, sodomize people with spears, did all that shit. But they weren’t trying to accomplish things other than spread hate and fear, and have control. Specific things, like large tents and mad doctors, that is very different. They don’t do that!” Brutus sounded mirthless and empty.

He looked the same way Secrat now knew Brutus Ess always looked in intense moments. It was a look that gave Secrat a fairly good ideas to why Toucan demoted him and gave Samuel Syi the position as his right hand man.

Secrat let out a sigh, they couldn’t arrive to the gates fast enough. Unfortunately, they still remained a way away.

“Not the Carvers but another group on the outskirts of Hardan? That, I would believe. Do you believe it? Because I believe it. All of Italina probably believes it too, I think. But were his words heard? Deliberately ignored, most likely. They don’t need to listen. They feel they have that privilege. They feel protected because a barrier keeps the ugly outside world from them, and that disassociates them from the monsters. But they deliberately ignore it, which, in turn, if you ask me, means they themselves become the monsters.” Brutus stopped for a moment, his facial expressions were making his bruises ache. He continued: “They stick their heads in the ground, not realizing that it is their Kings, their knights, those are the ones that wave the way for all of the atrocities committed beyond the gates.

Secrat couldn’t disagree, looking at the marvelous city on the moonlight. Meanwhile, outside was a broken, forgotten wasteland.

“But they are better than us, aren’t they!?” Brutus exclaimed with a drunken hiccup. “Even The Carvers are better than us!”

“No, they are not,” Secrat replied fast, feeling defensive.

“The Carvers leave a legacy of pain and heart ache wherever they go. The Italina people do nothing but obliviously coast. And we, The Red Flux, seek repentance to the God’s through excuses, lies, and technicalities,” Brutus said dryly.

“The Red Flux is a group contrived of good men. Could you imagine Lukas Lewis bleeding out a child and stamping their head onto a pike!?”

“No,” Brutus admitted. “Though, I could imagine you doing it.”

“Alright,” Secrat said.

Secrat could feel the red hotness of his temper poking through the inner confines of his mind but he stuffed it back down. He could not hide his irritation physically, however.

“Barbarism is the way of life in Maharris. It always has been and it always will be. You either flourish or perish, you kill or be killed, and that’s that. You take offense to it, but you understand that. These walls around Italina, they only contain it to the Wilderness. You understand that. Toucan doesn’t understand, but he does understand one thing …”

Secrat hushed Brutus Ess with his hand, but it was in vain. There was a small army of men, a small army of knights, at least ten of them, all of them in one large carriage pulled by several horses. Lanterns hung from the sides of the carriage.

“What!?” Brutus hollered out, and it was needless to speculate whether they were aware of their presence or not.

“You two, come with us,” one of the Italinian knights demanded, yelling loudly and with a forceful voice.

Brutus silenced himself, realizing, at last, his misconduct.

“They found us fast,” Brutus said beneath his breath. “So much for giving ’em dummy descriptions of us.”

“This is your fault,” Secrat said.

The Thief felt his snarl form, his teeth grinding. Having to escape from all of this would be tough enough already but having to account for the beaten and maniacal Brutus would stack the odds out of his favor. Brutus and Secrat both scrambled in the opposite direction of the carriage. Brutus walked achingly, and soon, Copé led him off into a narrow alleyway between adjacent buildings. The knights pursuit of them would thereby have to be conducted on foot. Brutus Ess did his best to keep up with him. Copé would only slow down so much for his sake. He wanted Brutus to make it out of Italina alive, but it would not be at the expense of himself. Although Brutus’ limp made him lag behind some, Secrat could at least tell there was a pep and effort in his step now.

They heard the knights leap out of the carriage. At least some of them had, although it was likely not all of them. They could hear the sound of their sabaton’s slapping down against the marble. Their footsteps were large and seemed synchronized.

Brutus and Secrat bled deeper into the alleyway as it approached its end. The hyperventilating happened early on from Brutus Ess as he followed not too far behind. Secrat, on the other hand, roamed his eyes about the darkness. The moonlight supplied so little and, likewise, The Thief struggled to form a game plan or an answer to their survival. His mind felt drained and his body felt sore, but he knew his life depended on making the right choices.

Breaking into a home and hiding out there until things settled down could work, but they would never be able to kick in a door discreetly and it was hardly like Secrat’s nervous state would be calm long enough to pick a lock.

The civilians could help. That was The Thief’s next thought. The civilians could help – by disappearing into them, he meant. They could camouflage Secrat and Brutus until the coast was clear. It had worked in the Whispey Deserts, after all. Then again, there were more in search of them now then before and the crowds had only become scarcer as the night raged on.

Secrat and Brutus found themselves back on the roads, leaving the alleyway behind them. The knights were on their tail – Secrat was able to see the light shine on from the alley as they turned the corner. As the high exhaustion only increased, Secrat could feel his feet moving slower. He fought the fatigue the best he could. He pressured on and pushed through the pain. There was nothing left for him if he didn’t. Copé turned around and saw a single member of Italina’s knighthood staring back at him. As he did, Secrat acted without thinking. He spiraled his body and threw a knife in his direction. It was a fool’s act, he knew. Even in the best case scenario, it would offer him nothing and only act as a small distraction. The Thief knew that on some level before throwing the blade. Next, he raced toward the knight, running at him with a second wind. Soon after, the knife struck the silver armor of the knight, who instinctively tried to block it. Secrat drove a boot to the knight’s chest and unsheathed the knight’s sword from its scabbard. He brought the weapon out and slashed at him with the sword. It took very little – the knight went down at once, without even as much as an audible sound of dismay.

He could have been simply playing dead. In fact, that wouldn’t have surprised Secrat Copé, given how inept the average city knight was. In the end, it didn’t matter, as long as he kept playing dead.

As the knight was falling, Copé saw something out from the corner of his eye, and without stopping to think, on impulse again, he brought the sword in front of his face on the defensive. As he did, a sword came down fast on him, blocked by his own. It was fast, however, and the attempt at a sneaking attack had caught him off guard.

Copé fell.

Once his eyes readjusted, he saw that at least ten knights were now headed his way. He made certain to dodge the next preemptive strike of the knight, causing for the knight’s blade to dig into the dirt ground. Secrat crawled away before scrambling back up to his feet, racing off and ahead of Brutus Ess. He would risk losing Brutus and being kicked out of The Red Flux again over his own death.

He knew that his escape had to be imminent or not at all. Sooner or later, the numbers would outmatch him and his fatigue would definitively halt him. However, as his eyes figuratively poked and prodded at their surroundings, looking for something to come loose. Nothing did. He saw no hiding spots to choose from, and sure enough the guards would have his head soon.

He ran down the road. This time running in front of a chariot. His heart was racing. Secrat made eye contact with the man at the reigns, then looked over at the guards running after him in their pursuit. His mind went over all his options, having trouble making sense of what would work and what would only serve to slow him down. He wasn’t given the time to make the decision, however, and could only watch as Brutus yanked the man out of the chariot.

It was an older gentleman. The frail old man fail feebly at Ess’ whim, offering no defense or means to fight back. The old man only let out a cry for mercy. Brutus held a knife in his hands. Secrat rested a sword over Ess’ shoulder, touching the brim of his neck with the blade. Brutus turned around and looked at him, that prick smile on his face.

“Ain’t that the son of Toucan, always kind and merciful,” Brutus said before a quick pause, “Except most other times, when he isn’t.”

“We don’t have fucking time for this,” Copé said, his face cold and serious.

Brutus smiled bigger and looked like he was about to say something, but was caught off guard when he heard the sound of the old man fleeing behind him. He may have been old and he may have been frail, but the old man proved he could move when he wanted to. With a frown, Brutus took a look at the hurrying guards, accepted his loss, and climbed quickly into the chariot.

Secrat did as well, and with Brutus Ess at the reins, Secrat Copé was left to swing his sword toward the nearby knights, keeping them from completely engulfing the chariot’s mobility. It was a small chariot, one that could only seat two and had only one horse moshing it forward. It was up to fate now whether the knights would realize all they needed to do to thwart them was behead the horse. Fate and Copé swinging his sword at anyone who came anywhere close to it.

The knights were gathered, slashing their swords against the chariot, breaking off pieces of the wood with ease. The doors were the first to be pried off. Copé swung his sword at the neck of one of the knights and felt it slice between his helm and the top of his armor. It would kill him, for certain, but apparently on its own time. The sword became stuck in the man’s neck. Secrat tugged, desperately trying to free it, but with the men swinging their blades in his direction and the chariot fast on the move, he lost hold of it in the fumbling mess. On the bright side, he did manage to seize grasp of the man’s helm, prying it off his lifeless head. The item was useless, however, and as the horse whinnied and began creating distance between them and the knights, Secrat tossed helmet out at the crowd of men, managing to successfully take one of the knights off of his feet.

Maybe it wasn’t so useless after all, thought Secrat.

The knights ran after them, but slowed their chase in time, weighted down by their heavy armor. The distance only became greater and more and more robust as the seconds went on. The Thief felt the air dissipate out from his chest, how long had he held it in there? His breathing regulated and became steady. As did Brutus Ess’, but his took a little bit longer to calm down. Copé looked behind them. The knights were all gone, most likely headed back to the alleyway from whence they came, loading back up in their large patrol wagon. Finally, Secrat allowed himself to feel the closest thing to relief that he had in what felt like an eternity.

“We will have to get some distance and then, scrap the carriage,” Secrat explained.

He stopped again; his shaky hands took his mind off the pain they usually felt.

“We will have to stick it out. We have to break in somewhere. Someplace where the family isn’t around. We can hide out there until daybreak, maybe. Think about the rest once we have level heads.”

Brutus said nothing, which Secrat took as them being in agreement.

The horse turned left at Brutus’ command. Off a few hundred feet, Secrat was able to take sight of one side of the walls surrounding Italina. They would make one more turn and ditch the carriage. However, mere seconds later, their plan was flipped on its head and the large carriage holding all of the knights reeled in front of them. Startled, Brutus yanked at the reins, swaying the horse to the right in a different path. He yanked more and more at the reins, harder and harder as his worry grew. Secrat stood on the chair of the chariot and took out one of his knives. He didn’t know exactly what his intentions were, but he knew something had to be done.

However, as he heard a loud gasp from Brutus, followed by the words, “What the fuck!?”, his attention was pulled back to what was happening in front of him. What was in front of him?

“What the fuck!?” Secrat said, finding himself mimicking Brutus.

There was a bright green aura that reached out from the blackness of the night, bringing along with it a mesmeric tint that appeared to be neither inviting nor friendly, but was beautiful regardless. In an instant, the world began to slow down. This was not figuratively or an expression. It was not a trick of the mind in the face of trauma. The world slowed down. The bright, but full greenness was ever so intoxicating, starting to pour forward like a wave crashing toward them. That was its power, Secrat thought, without even knowing exactly what he meant. The roads became stained with emerald, and soon, the skies followed afterward. Everything now. Everything belonged to it. Greedily, it took everything and made it green letting everything soak in the majesty of its power, or perhaps generously for the same reason. They could hear nothing and as Secrat’s mouth tried to open, the force it took to do so was immense. The action was slowed. It was not that he couldn’t do it, but that he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to take his eyes off the aura.

An arrow landed in front of Brutus and Secrat, it had missed the mark. They both could watch the arrow and reflect on its arrival to them. They could see what it meant to them, where it was headed, and that it would miss them. Secrat turned his head and then, all at once, the noises went from silent to loud again. The hollering, the galloping of horses, the loudness, the footsteps, all of it, and then, fast, an arrow swooped over his head.

He turned his head back toward the emerald world, and watched as the arrow landed in front of him and Brutus again. It was slowed down again. His eyes were once more facing the green. Although the arrow once again missed Brutus and Secrat, the same could not be said about their horse. The arrow went through the poor creature’s head and soon after, the horse’s head ruptured. Exploded might have been a better word for it. The horse’s head exploded, slowly, and Secrat saw all of it. He saw the blood spurting out of it. He saw the fragments of its skull disperse, all of the pieces, the brain. He saw all of it turn to mush and fall down on the walkways.

Copé’s eyes went up and he lost himself in the deepest tint of the color. His lids felt heavier and heavier. He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes. It was starting to become a bother to keep them open. He yearned to drift, and drift, and … his arm was tugged by Brutus, who dragged him off from the carriage and to the dirt ground. Secrat found himself back to normal in that instant. The dirt looked like dirt again. It looked like dirt and nothing else. Still, when he closed his eyes, all he could see was the green. All he could see was the remorselessness and never-ending nature of green. His eyes burned like wax beneath a flaming candle. The image was carved into his psyche. It was scarred into the cave walls of his brain. That green.

When he opened his eyes again, he saw Brutus running off from him. The carriage of knights were not too far off now.

Out of desperation, Copé ran like hell. His eyes burned every time that he blinked with that god forsaken color. Each footstep, his eyes burned, with no signs of decaying or wearing off. Maybe it was forever. Maybe it was a permanent stain and he was officially a man poised to go mad. He went ahead of Ess, who he could now see rubbing at his eyes with the same struggles. That meant Copé hadn’t simply imagined the green in all its splendor. For now, Ess and Secrat ran with no particular destination in mind. They ran for their lives and in front of them now were only the walls of Italina. Beyond the walls was freedom – so close and yet so far away.

They heard the sound of another arrow being shot off again. Secrat was able to hear it from a distance – he heard the swishing and swashing sound of it soaring through the air. And before that, he heard the bowstring released as the arrow shot out from between his fingers.

Even with every opportunity to react beforehand, Secrat didn’t contort himself to look or pivot his body in an attempt to dodge it. He was too afraid for that. He simply continued running, more terrified of the green than he was of his own death. A low, guttural sound rang in his eardrum. He recognized it immediately. Brutus had been hit. On reflex, The Thief looked back, seeing The Green again. Brutus Ess fell. His grumbles now were a jumbled jargon, the agony in his eyes delayed showing itself. Once it did, the blood fell out next, out the newly made wound in his thigh. Brutus fell to the dirt. The Green Dirt Ground. He laid, his eyes looked up at Secrat with worrisome suffering. A worrisome green suffering.

Secrat could feel his hands shaking. They rattled slowly, with the fear feeling more distinguishable and savored. The Thief turned away, his head facing away from Brutus. As his eyes looked back at the wall, things once again returned to normal. Time moved at its normal speed and things were once more the color they were meant to be.

The wall was thirty feet at the very least. It towered over Secrat with its height.

“I am sorry, Brutus,” Secrat said, keeping his back to him. “I will do everything in my power to find you. The Red Flux will not forsake you. Don’t try to fight off the guards, they won’t kill you unless you push the issue.”

“Fuck The Red Flux,” Brutus yelled.

Secrat did not respond. He ran. He ran forward. He ran fast. He ran toward the wall. The Green was after him. The guards would also surely reach him in due time. Brutus would be their distraction. Hopefully that would count for something. Either way, he ran. A string of arrows landed in front of them. Some of them were set aflame. He didn’t care. He had found things worse than death. Death was a sweet release.

At last, he made it to the wall. The wall, overwhelming and intimidating, he could feel his apprehension growing higher and higher, even higher than the wall could stand. It was not for a fear of heights. The granite walls had ridges, some here and some there. They didn’t have a lot of consistencies to their pattern though. The Thief pressed one foot on a small ledge and began his ascension. In a different time, perhaps, it would have been more trivial. Not this time, instead his hands nimbly made their progression. It was a slow climb, but he was far too afraid to look and see whether the guards were nearing him. He was far too afraid of the arraying aura. Of that green layer. The adrenaline alleviated his wounds, smashed and broken, it all seemed a distant memory that pulsated numbness.

“Attention!” A voice called out.

It sounded squeaky and high pitch, yet monotone and dead inside, like a voice with no life in it.

“Your arrest has been called upon, with just cause, for the murder of two currently unidentified men, the attempted murder of a woman, Alisa Margot, and stolen items that have since been confiscated. These include a statue from the named woman, various items of nondescript monetary value, a small fortune of coin, and a large, decorative case. As criminals, under Italina Law, the items’ possession has been revoked from you, stolen or not.”

The voice took no breaths in between the words it spoke and showed no flub or discrepancy in its voice. It was not human. It surrounded all the sides, coming from below, in the sky, from one side and the other. It was everywhere. Like King Harris had summoned God himself to handle Secrat.

In his ascension, Secrat felt his foot miss one of the ridges only a few feet short of the top. A fall from this height would kill him. He dangled off by one hand. He felt the sweat pour off of him, he only hoped his moistened hand wouldn’t lose its grip. His hand, not the broken one, felt ache. The ache of being tired and exhausted, the ache that said it would only be a matter of time before he could go no more. His eyes were pulled back to the emerald world. As he looked, it engulfed the city’s view to such immaculate levels, like the whole of Italina had been scorched by it. But, he saw something else as well, the way it looked, it appeared as though the buildings themselves were curved and angling down, the tops of them bending like trees. It was like they were alive. It was like the aura itself was alive and was pulling the houses at its whim.

Secrat regained stability for himself, his eyes back in the blackness of the night. But, the stains of color were beginning to bleed through all times, he could see green on his hands and on the ridges of the wall. His hand searched aimlessly at first, but with the aura, he was able to find the next ridge jutting out. As he found it, he fought his way up more, until finally, he found himself able to pull his body over the wall. The platform atop was narrow, unlike the front entrance which allotted the knights to stand in post. Throwing himself over, he found himself on the other side, officially out of Italina. The outside sanctity of the Unprotected Wilderness was ahead.

The sickly grass and dead trees had never seemed more inviting to him. Decaying nature had never been more filled with life. But then, the sound of screeching in an unrelenting tone, like a final bird’s dying cry that lasted forever. His eyes took a final look at the Italina he left behind; his curiosity had turned into obsession at the anomaly bestowed upon them. Brutus laid, in fear, his body, like everything else, distinguishable as a darker shade. He was a shade similar to the buildings at this point. Brutus crawled away backward, like the woman had done from him earlier when he yanked her out from the carriage. It would be seen as poetic justice to some. Secrat felt a small inkling of guilt that evaporated like water beneath the sun. Guilt would inevitably die by the hands of fear.

Copé looked down below him. The large carriage stayed, stopped in front of the wall with men with bows perched and fired arrows off. Unfortunately, their arrows were never high enough. And when they did, Copé found himself easily able to evade their slow, half heart attempts. Secrat stared deeply into the blank space forward. Where it all started, it would seem, he stared at the brightest flare. The spark. The beacon where all the greenery began. Until, at last, he saw the depiction of a dark figure. It was a figure ripped out from the aura, its own full color. It left the backdrop behind it, stepping forward like a black silhouette before a green canvas.

The figure’s stature looked like that of a strong warrior, a strong warrior from a time when strong warriors still existed. Not a messenger boy knight or a one who pried on the weak warrior, but a beast in silver armor. He had a muscular frame and a height more exaggerated than attainable. He was even taller than the giant from The Bells Brother’s Pub, and by more than a few feet. His gauntlets and armor was emerald, and his silver helm with a likewise comb. Those aspects blended with the scenery behind and around him. It seemed like he was a part of it in some way. Somehow. His eyes had a fiery orange like a roaring flame and his body seemed to visibly shake, like he was filled with something unsustainable and unpredictable. Not himself, not like the way Copé’s hands shook, but as if he was an unsettled creature, uncontrolled and without abidance to what must be. He had a dizzy appearance that made it look like there was more than one of him.

The Knight, or The Creature, whichever fits better, withdrew its blade from out of its scabbard. It too looked to be on fire. The Creature made its first step and vanished.

But it didn’t vanish. It hadn’t vanished. Copé realized this as eyes adjusted. The atmosphere was clogging his perception. The Creature simply moved that fast. It appeared and then, it disappeared. Each time, moving closer and closer toward Brutus, who acted afraid. Acted, Secrat thought of that word again. Brutus hadn’t acted. He was afraid. He had every reason to be afraid, as well. Brutus climbed to his feet, limping away weakly, but there would be no escape. The Creature met him; its sword laid on his shoulder while he stood. A plaintive cry came next. The searing and blistering pain of the flaming blade. Brutus dropped back down again, slowly.

Everything remained in its elongated pace. Everything except for The Creature, that is. Its speed was unhinged. The Creature’s helm was pointed down at Brutus and Copé saw the guards coming nearer to him. Brutus would offer no fight against them. And, in the next moment, Copé watched as The Creature’s eyes jerked up, beaming at The Thief.

Frightened, but not petrified, Secrat tried his hand at descending down the outside wall. His vision was obscured with little flickers of color. It didn’t ease The Thief, however. The Creature’s residual afterimage was etched into the inside of his eyelids. He stopped for a moment, rubbing his eyes with one hand, but the burn was intensified. His exposure to it only worsened the agony. The burn became immense, and his eyes watered terribly, but as they leaked down his face, they bled a bright green. His scared flinch cost him his balance, and he found himself descending helplessly.

The fall didn’t scare him. His mind was already elsewhere. It was traumatized and being traumatized elsewhere. However, he did know the landing would kill him. His hand reached for a ledge and found one. He felt the momentum spiral with his body and while he no longer fell toward the ground, the momentum shifted and led him toward the wall, knee first into the wall. At once, he lost his grip and slammed his back against the ground of the Unprotected Wilderness. The fall wasn’t too far, but it all happened too fast to fully know how much pain he was in. His mind bled the damned color. The knight, or The Creature with the flaming sword, that was where his mind belonged.

The Knight with the Flaming Sword.

Livius Reid.

An Aeonian.