《A Fragrance for Four Seasons》 1. Zahard might sing 1. Zahard might sing The chime of vintage bells brings with it a wintry draft and the fragrance of spring-kissed cherry blossoms through the old, creaking front door. Daybreak has barely stretched its first legs over the horizon, no more than a shy lemon blush in the vast blue and already, the sound of impending work comes knocking. Akraptor yawns, tensing and untensing, blinking the sleep from his eyes. It¡¯s rare for a customer to show up this early. There¡¯s usually enough time for him to finish his first cup of tea before they arrive. ¡°Good morning, welcome to Hon¡¯s Four Seasons,¡± he mumbles from the back of the store, hair-tie between unwatered lips, fingers making a haphazard scramble at containing his long dishevelled loose curls into some semblance of a high ponytail. ¡°I just need a second, I¡¯ll be right there with you.¡± His greeting is met with nothing but unnaturally light footfalls upon concrete. The timid type. All the better. It¡¯ll give him time to slip into a mood more suitable for service. He exhales, ceasing haste, giving his rigid fingers time to find their dexterity before re-tying his hair into a more presentable state. Breathe in. Straighten out his apron and uniform. Breathe out. Rising to his feet, he shakes the weight of last night¡¯s wine from his legs and makes his way around the tulip shelves, the lilies, the lavenders, the roses, before shuffling behind the front counter. All the while, the customer has somehow managed to avoid him, navigating the opposite end of what is already a relatively quaint space. ¡°I¡ª¡± He chokes on a dry spell, coughing the morning rasp out of his throat before continuing. ¡°I¡¯m at the front if you need me¡­¡± He trails off, catching a glimpse of small dainty feet in flats through the gaps under the shelves. A lady? Or a child? He traces his jaw with a thumb. There was a whiff of perfume when they entered. A lady it is, then? A lady whose scent captivates him more than any flower he¡¯d ever grown. ¡°Umm¡ª¡± Her voice breaks him out of his daze. Slender. Her legs are slender, lean muscle hidden behind a sheen of the fairest skin he has seen in all the years he¡¯s travelled the Outer Tower. A loose-fitting, light-blue cotton skirt falls just short of her knees, and tucked neatly under the hems of the dress is a plain white button-up shirt. ¡°Just let me know when your eyes have feasted their full,¡± she sighs. Akraptor jerks his head away, cheeks warming. Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. ¡°Sorry.¡± He mutters. ¡°What was that?¡± she moves closer, stopping just across the counter. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean to look¡ªI mean stare¡ªor look for that long.¡± ¡°Right.¡± She doesn¡¯t sound convinced. Akraptor winces. ¡°I don¡¯t usually¡ª¡± He draws a line from his temple and points in her general direction. ¡°I¡¯m not that kind of¡ªit¡¯s just early for me. Sorry. I¡¯m sorry.¡± Her laughter is birdsong to end the longest night. There is no sweeter melody, no richer tune, a sound that might end all wars, and those to come, with notes that might spur all the flowers in his shop into dance and convince Zahard to sing for them. The pink in his cheeks melt away, his heart becoming a hearth for an emotion he has never felt before. Fingers curling around the edge of the counter, Akraptor finds the courage to lift his gaze. As soon as he brings it level, his breath catches in his throat, the beat in his chest jumping to speeds that escape rhyme or reason. He is terrified; that if he breathes out, he might blow her into dust, that she might be some figment of his imagination and vanish into thin air, that the winds of Fate might steal her from his modest floral abode, or some inexplicable phenomenon of the Tower might whisk her away this very moment. She raises both brows, playful silver eyes glimmering with the ephemeral sparkle of a diamond, lips settling into a gentle smile. ¡°A bouquet of roses, please.¡± Who¡¯s the lucky guy? Akraptor wants to ask. He decides against it. Professionality comes first and foremost. ¡°Who shall I address them to?¡± he asks instead. ¡°Hmm.¡± She places her hands on her hips. ¡°I was thinking, maybe they could go to you?¡± The blank expression on Akraptor¡¯s face does not do the ab-workout beneath his shirt justice. It takes every fibre of his being just to prevent what would have been a disastrous reaction on his part. ¡°I¡¯m kidding,¡± She throws her head back dramatically in a fit of what sounds like forced chuckles, hair like strands of moonlight swaying with the tilt of her head. ¡°Can¡¯t a girl buy flowers for herself?¡± ¡°Of course.¡± Akraptor nods, resigned to a courteous smile. He pulls an order form from the stack underneath the counter and retrieves a pen from his shirt pocket. ¡°May I get your name?¡± ¡°Gwy¡ª¡± she pauses mid-syllable. Akraptor looks up. Gweh? ¡°Gwen.¡± She is resolute the second time she says it. ¡°My name is Gwen.¡± 2. No Prettier Roses 2. No Prettier Roses Where the stem meets the offshoot, Akraptor carefully snips away at the overgrowth with a pair of pruning shears, his focus rendering him virtually deaf to the world outside his little garden. He is so taken in by the precision-work of trimming that he doesn¡¯t feel the pebbles bouncing off his back, until one hits him square in the head. ¡°Would you stop that?¡± He turns around with a scowl, only to find ¡­ nothing. Squinting in bewilderment, he pans the perimeter, from fence, to grass, to porch, and onto the opposite fence. ¡°Up here, silly.¡± His heart begins to pound. How long has it been? Despite their exchange having lasted no more than a few minutes, her voice is not one he can ever forget. It visits him at dawn, when the finches serenade the morning, at dusk, when candlelight flickers against the brisk of spring, and in dark of night, when the lines fencing fact from fiction are not so clear. Standing tall, atop the weathered, moss-covered rooftop is the only lady whose countenance he cannot keep his eyes from. Gwen. He has whispered her name to the winds of all four seasons, but he¡¯s never had the chance to call out to her in person. But now that the opportunity presents itself, instinct and practice begets a different response. ¡°We¡¯re closed today,¡± he says blandly, suppressing the urge to cringe in retrospect. ¡°I know. That¡¯s why I¡¯m up here.¡± Akraptor glances at the ground, then back up at the roof. It¡¯s a two-story building. ¡°How did you get up there?¡± She shrugs, strands of snow-like hair falling off her shoulders. ¡°I just ¡­ jumped.¡± ¡°You ju¡ª¡± Akraptor deadpans, slack-jawed. ¡°You¡¯re not a normal person, are you?¡± She throws herself off the roof, much to his dismay, and lands gracefully. ¡°I guess not.¡± This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. Akraptor doesn¡¯t realize how tall she is until she walks up to him. He used to tower over everyone in his neighbourhood, but she might even reach his ears. He clears his throat. ¡°How did you even find me?¡± Her expression changes, twisting with displeasure, and still, she is beautiful with a frown tainting those lips. ¡°That¡¯s right. Why did you move in the first place? I searched for you, floor by floor, for the past two years.¡± ¡°You searched for me?¡± Akraptor cannot fathom how much it would¡¯ve cost to scour the continental floors, one by one. This was not something a young woman like her could do on her lonesome. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°I¡ª¡± she stops, as if to compose herself. The words that leave her mouth next are crafted with temperate thought. ¡°I couldn¡¯t find prettier roses.¡± Akraptor can¡¯t help but burst into laughter. ¡°That¡¯s a pretty lame reason.¡± She scoffs. ¡°What about you? Why did you move?¡± His lips flatten into a thin line. ¡°Rent was getting expensive.¡± A silence settles between them. Akraptor quivers under his breath. She is enchanting, in her white sculptural blouse, sleeves cut at the elbows, and dark blue jeans. It¡¯s hard to believe she is standing before him, willing to share the same space and meet his unworthy gaze. ¡°Coffee.¡± She says abruptly, crossing her arms. He lifts a brow inquisitively. ¡°You¡¯re getting coffee with me,¡± she repeats. Her tone is firm, but her eyes betray the butterflies. ¡°You owe me at least that much. When are you free?¡± Akraptor finds himself smirking. Perhaps she¡¯s more human than he thinks. ¡°I don¡¯t drink coffee.¡± ¡°What do you drink then?¡± He hesitates, even though he¡¯s had the answer the moment she asked the question. ¡°Tea.¡± A look of triumph crosses her face. ¡°I know a good place that makes both.¡± She turns, a lively spring to her step, waving a hand in farewell before leaping back onto the rooftop in one stride. ¡°I¡¯ll send you an invitation in the mail.¡± An invitation? He chuckles. Who does she think she is¡ªa daughter from the 10 Great Families? ¡°What if I don¡¯t come?¡± he asks. She shoots him a confident look and holds the stare, daring him to refute. ¡°You will.¡± 3. A Leap of Faith 3. A Leap of Faith Akraptor sits alone by the window at a table that sits two, a cup of barley tea before him and another of coffee across further down. He watches the wisps of steam weave threads in the air, intertwined for the briefest of moments, blissfully ignorant of just how finite their union is. Thumbing the small plate that holds his cup, he pans to the window, eyes jumping from one pedestrian to another, conducting a subconscious search of the busy street four floors down. He hasn¡¯t had to think so much since his days at the orphanage, only now, the solutions to his dilemmas aren¡¯t so tangible. This makes their fourth meeting. He hasn¡¯t had much to tell her, she doesn¡¯t tell him much about herself, and neither of them talk about what these weekly meetings really mean. They¡¯ve spent most of their time staring at their drinks, sneaking glances at one another, and talking about flowers. Flowers. The crown of his boring, simple life, and the distraction from her secret-filled one. It¡¯s surface, but it works, because through the petals, and the stems, and leaves, down to the roots, Akraptor discovers her love for life. They are the ideal organism, her eyes shimmer like moon-touched waters. The petals enrapture, the stems and leaves support and protect, and the roots nourish. When the roots fulfill their purpose, the petals blossom and because of their beauty, people water and nurture them, rewarding the roots with water and nutrition. If we could live the same way, wouldn¡¯t that be wonderful? Shouldn¡¯t the tower¡¯s inhabitants receive something in return for breathing life into what would¡¯ve been a dark, empty prison without them? Instead, we grow like rose bushes. Rainclouds swallow the light in her eyes . Pretty from afar, but thorny up close. ¡®Why do you like to buy roses, then? he asks. ¡®Because they remind me of¡ªshe pauses, stone-faced for a second longer before breaking into musical laughter. ¡°I don¡¯t know what they remind me of, I¡¯m just being pretentious. I like them because they¡¯re pretty, and they smell nice. What more could I ask from them? It¡¯s not their fault the tower turned out the way it is.¡± Akraptor¡¯s ears perk at the echoes of distant commotion. He glances at the caf¨¦ entrance. The reverberations are getting closer. Kneading his palms into the armrests, he keeps his gaze glued to the door. A few moments pass, and the ruckus fades into the calm of the afternoon. His tensed shoulders sink back down, and he breathes a long sigh. Is he disappointed? He isn¡¯t sure. What was he expecting? Maybe she¡¯d finally realized her worth. The door he¡¯d just turned away from bursts open, sending him reeling to one side. Gwen stomps through, a sour expression weighing upon her brows. Akraptor watches her with wide eyes, as she cuts through the room instead of maneuvering around the perimeter like she did with their previous appointments, all semblance of subtlety forgotten. They have the entire caf¨¦''s undivided attention. ¡°Gwen¡ª¡± he begins, sliding his chair out, but she doesn¡¯t let him finish. ¡°Let¡¯s get out of here.¡± She fastens a deceptively strong grip around his wrist and practically yanks him to his feet. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± He follows her lead as they cut right back for the entrance, but he can¡¯t rid his stomach of the anxious knot tying itself. Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. She doesn¡¯t say another word until she¡¯s led him down the stairs, out the building, and past four blocks, where she suddenly pulls him into an alleyway and pushes him up against the brick wall. ¡°Gwen, please.¡± Akraptor pants, squinting through the dim space. ¡°What¡¯s happening?¡± ¡°Shut up and stay still,¡± she flattens a palm against his chest and leans into him, cheek brushing against his broad shoulders. She¡¯s close¡ªway too close. At this distance, she might even hear the chorus of drums pounding within his chest. They stay like this for a minute, then two, and then he loses count because he can barely form a coherent thought without being swept away by his fantasies. ¡°Gwen,¡± Akraptor gasps. ¡°I can¡¯t breathe.¡± ¡°Oh¡ªsorry.¡± She stops pressing against his chest but doesn¡¯t take her palm away, nor does she make any effort at widening the gap between them. ¡°Try not to make too much noise until I¡¯m sure the coast is clear.¡± ¡°Are you being chased?¡± Akraptor asks through laboured breaths. ¡°Kind of. It¡¯s ¡­ complicated.¡± She grimaces. ¡°My family has a habit of sticking their noses in my business. Akraptor finds himself tracing the features of her face with an attentive gaze. She really is otherworldly. He wishes her beauty was the extent of her secrets, but he¡¯s not great at playing dumb. He¡¯s not sure how much longer he can just pretend that he doesn¡¯t have suspicions as to her identity. ¡°Gwen,¡± he chooses his words with care. ¡°Are you from ¡­ an important family?¡± She glances up at him, drowning him in those pools of swirling mercury. Through the ethereal depth, he detects a flash of dread. ¡°If I am, will it change how you feel?¡± Akraptor feels the blood rise into his ears. ¡°How I feel?¡± ¡°About me.¡± Words abandon him like sparks run from a flame. ¡°Akraptor.¡± The determination in her voice is like an anchor, a strong foundation for the seed of courage that has just begun budding. ¡°I¡¯m an impulsive girl. You probably know that by now. I¡¯ve made many impulsive decisions to get to this very moment right here, and I don¡¯t regret any of them, but I still need to know if I should make this leap of faith. So if I¡¯m from a¡ª¡± ¡°It won¡¯t.¡± He hesitates; there¡¯s more he wants to say, but he knows that once those words leave his mouth, there¡¯s no taking them back. A leap of faith. All his life, he¡¯d been living to survive. He¡¯d never considered his own happiness. ¡°Meeting you¡ª¡± A small tide wells up in his heart, unceasing, unwavering even in the face of a storm. ¡°¡ªwas the best thing that ever happened to me.¡± She exhales deeply, taking a step back. That¡¯s all the affirmation she needs. ¡°My name is Gwyneira.¡± His stomach lurches. There is not a soul under the first fifty floors that hasn¡¯t heard the name. ¡°My father is Arie Hon, one of the Great Warriors who journeyed with King Zahard. I¡¯m a Princess candidate. Well¡ªwas. From the moment I met you, I knew I wanted to change that.¡± She offers him her hand. ¡°Hon Akraptor. Will you walk this dangerous road with me?¡± Akraptor may be in love, but he isn¡¯t stupid. He knows the world will turn against them, against him for what¡¯s about to happen. But he doesn¡¯t care. If every rose bush he¡¯s ever pruned has led to this very moment, he will not see that effort to waste out of some fickle fear. He will be the roots to her petals, and today, he shall drink. Taking her hand in his, he leads her down the alleyway, and out into the world that awaits them. 4. Spring-kissed Cherry Blossoms 4. Spring-kissed Cherry Blossoms Akraptor still hasn¡¯t figured out why she looks at him the way she does. It¡¯s soft but intent, devouring his every detail, filling him with the warmth to last forty winters. He doesn¡¯t understand why she holds onto his arm as tenderly as she does either, always pulling him close, leaning her head on his shoulders, dreamy sighs slipping through lips full with colour. What has he ever done to deserve such fortune? Why did she choose him, of all people? Leaning against the doorway, he watches her read in the living room, engrossed in a book. Her smile is infectious and addicting, telling tales of milk and honey, but he¡¯s yet to work up the courage to tell her. She sits by the window on an upholstered sofa, a pillow on her lap and the subject of her attention propped atop. An honest thought crosses his mind, and he blushes. He wants to do more than just tell her. But he doesn¡¯t want to interrupt, nor does he have the confidence to do so in the first place. ¡°Don¡¯t just stand there, Aky.¡± Gwen murmurs without looking up from her book. ¡°Come here. Sit with me.¡± A hollow feeling bores its way into that diffident thing churning within his chest. What story is contained within the ink on those pages so as to steal her attention in such fullness? He puffs through the side of his mouth. Is he really jealous of a book? ¡°Aky,¡± she drawls, eyes finally turning from her book, shooting him a look that spells both longing and annoyance. ¡°I miss you. Come over here.¡± I miss you. He turns the phrase over and over in his head, swallowed by the ecstasy of being wanted by her. A sheepish grin spreads across his lips as he shuffles across the room, bare toes curling into the soft carpet. He drops to a kneel, leaning into the sofa, nestling his head into Gwen¡¯s sweater. ¡°Look at your wilted face.¡± she scoffs lightly, stroking his cheeks with delicate affection. ¡°You¡¯re all smug now, aren¡¯t you?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know about smug,¡± he mumbles into the fabric. ¡°But it sure is snug in here.¡± Gwen runs her hands through his dirty grey locks. ¡°Don¡¯t tell me you were jealous of my book?¡± The small pause in thought is enough to allow his insecurities to slip through. He starts speaking before he can stop himself. ¡°Gwen, why me?¡± Her hands pull away, and a finger finds his chin. ¡°Aky, look at me.¡± Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. He obeys, almost flinching at a gaze turned stern. Her face is framed by the golden rays seeping through the window next to them. An angel. She couldn¡¯t be any less. His heart falters. How could he ever hope to match her worth? ¡°You think too little of yourself.¡± Her words shake him from his dejected trance. Behind her stern expression is a look that embraces him, bathing him with a fondness he hasn¡¯t felt from anyone else. ¡°I don¡¯t know if you ever look in the mirror,¡± a teasing smirk wriggles its way across her lips. ¡°But you have a pretty face.¡± His heart skips a beat, teeth sinking into his lower lip to keep his elation from running free. ¡°I¡¯ll admit it,¡± she continues, fingers fastening around his shirt collar. ¡°You do have a resting expression that might scare some people away.¡± The way his heart is racing, he could pass out at any moment. She pulls him closer still, the tips of their noses almost brushing. Her voice drops to a whisper. ¡°But when you smile,¡± She murmurs, ever-nearer. ¡°All I want to do is¡ª¡± Kiss you. Eyes half-lidded. Bated breath. Lips slightly parted. He doesn¡¯t know who initiates it, but when they meet, he is drawn in as the seas would draw in a sinking ship, a slow descent into furor, surrendered to currents of what may come. She is the heavens, the hells, and all the depths in the world, and he dives headfirst, willingly, unafraid, eager to explore more of the unknown. The walls become a stage for their tangled waltz, her hands grabbing fistfuls of his untied hair as he swims in her passion, scent of spring-kissed cherry blossoms in his lungs, a fragrance for all four seasons. There is no room for words, nor is there any need for them, for their demands write themselves on every gesture, every gasp exchanged, every mark made, kisses showering his neck, his collarbone, tearing past the shirt that undresses itself and onto his bared shoulders, his hands caressing the back of her head, leading those supple instruments back up to where he can taste her himself, a taste that has become his nectar and ambrosia, his sustenance, her arms lifted to the ceiling¡ªtoo warm, she whines through the kiss and though this is his first time, his hands have already snuck beneath the hems of her sweater, tugging it off her slim figure, fingers roaming down to the clasp that keeps her modesty intact, but she pushes him away, sitting him square on the sofa because no I¡¯ll do it myself, and in one smooth motion she reveals herself to him, not just the lace-white straps and cups but all of her, Eve exposed to Eden, and when he¡¯s done the same, she straddles him like he is her throne, lips chasing after his own, biding time for the deed both are anxious about but yearn for. It is not like the stories told in the folds of hushed adolescent conversation. It is not like a knife into butter, nor a passionate, romantic ordeal. It is a laborious struggle, an ugly dance, a painful, embarrassing trial and error that requires focus and coordination, far from the idyllic scenes that play out in those gratuitous, lecherous, cinematic depictions. But when they are finally joined, when a rhythm is found and motion becomes as perpetual as the ebb and flow at sea, nothing in the Tower, at that moment, is capable of stopping them. 5. God Amongst Gods 5. God Amongst Gods Arms that lead the wind in a drunken dance. Hands that trail like a peacock¡¯s tail feathers. Body balanced on one leg, turning in a slow descending pirouette, the other leg straight, toes pointed out, drawing circles in the fallen white. Even when the body is close to the ground it doesn¡¯t waver or tremble, as if weight is but another trifle in the grand procession, possessed by a singular focus. When it reaches the lowest point between the cusp of flesh and earth, the body unleashes all the energy withheld, one arm outstretched, thrust and flight, a powerful but light prance from one foot to the next, resuming the dance upon landing. Akraptor recognizes this dance. He¡¯s seen it when Gwen practices, faster and stronger, but beautiful all the same. Now he¡¯s watching their daughter make those very movements. She must¡¯ve learned by simply watching, because Gwen has never taught her. Three-years old and already a genius in the making. He glances at his beloved, who sits beside him on the park bench, head resting on his shoulder, a proud grin spread across her face. ¡°I¡¯m glad she takes after you,¡± Akraptor murmurs. ¡°She¡¯s a natural. Not to mention, she¡¯s got your looks.¡± Gwen laughs. ¡°You¡¯re saying that as if she doesn¡¯t have your smile. Boys will chase after her like kites chase the wind, just to catch a glimpse of her joy.¡± ¡°They wouldn¡¯t dare. I¡¯ll stop every single one of them with my bare hands.¡± ¡°With those delicate hands of yours?¡± Akraptor turns his head with a slight frown. ¡°Delicate?¡± ¡°You do her hair better than I do,¡± she teases. ¡°And don¡¯t think I¡¯ll ever forget the way you held her when she first came into this world.¡± Akraptor can¡¯t deny it. He remembers but a series of blurred images through a gaze clouded by a wellspring of happy tears. Flesh of his own flesh. Blood of his own blood. And eyes that match her mother¡¯s silver stars, more beautiful than any that embellish the night sky. She is the best thing he has ever done after marrying the love of his life. Every little print left by those small fur boots in the snow is evidence of that. He leans his head against Gwen¡¯s, a long, content sigh leaving his lungs. Would it be too greedy of him to want for such small joys to never end? Perhaps deep down, he knows it is, and still, he continues to dream. They¡¯re just small joys, he tells himself. Fate would not be so cruel to pay heed to the dreams of an insignificant soul like him. So Fate bestows upon him an answer, in the form of that thin stick in the child¡¯s hands, a dried offshoot of a tree branch¡ªsomething of a sky-splitting blade. As it sketches new constellations into the milky blue above, the space created by those long strokes manifest a door of light. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. The tree-birthed sky-splitting blade meets another weapon of similar caliber¡ªthe real culprit of torn space¡ªa sword that cuts the very air itself. Akraptor pales. His lips part to deliver warning, but his voice is lost. The shinsu around them has become so thick that it has become difficult to breathe. The child jumps in delight at the sight of a playmate, unaware of the existence before her, a being that escapes all logic. In utter horror, Akraptor surges off the bench, but fingers fasten around his wrist, pulling him back down. He turns to meet Gwen with fiery panic, only to find those usual steadfast eyes quaking with fear. He¡¯s never seen her like this. Trembling. Unsure. Vulnerable. The entity that steps out of the bright torn space is neither tall nor built, but still, he towers over them. Without realizing it, both he and Gwen have been reduced to their knees. A presence capable of distorting one¡¯s perception of time. This is the might of a god amongst gods. A High Ranker. ¡°Gwyneira.¡± It¡¯s a voice whose depth and weight both soothes and constrains. ¡°You¡¯ve grown up.¡± The pressure surrounding them dissipates. They can breathe again. ¡°Elder Brother.¡± She answers, voice quivering. ¡°I¡ª¡± ¡°The Family Head¡¯s patience has run thin.¡± Akraptor swears there are hints of pity, perhaps even sorrow in the man¡¯s tone. Were he and Gwen once close? ¡°I have been ordered to retrieve you,¡± the man continues. ¡°You must return to the Citadel at once.¡± ¡°Mommy.¡± A small face with full cheeks peeks out from behind those flowing white robes. ¡°Who is this big mister?¡± Gwen doesn¡¯t say a word. It¡¯s not that she won¡¯t¡ªshe can¡¯t. The Names in her Family are not to be spoken lightly. Tradition honors that notion and blood seals it with threat of great consequence. Akraptor gestures for his daughter to walk around. ¡°Sweetheart, come over here.¡± She clutches the stick close to her chest and waddles into his arms. He hugs her tightly, kissing her forehead. Her warmth is the only glue that keeps him from falling apart. ¡°That¡¯s my girl.¡± The man clears his throat. ¡°I have orders to bring your daughter back as well. Along with this man.¡± This man. In the eyes of the Family, he was no husband, much less a father. Heat swells in his chest, venom at his lips. He glares at their unwelcome guest, and the moon stares back, cold, unmoving, a god gazing upon an ant. Daring him to grow wings. ¡°Come on then,¡± the man sighs, turning his back to them, gesturing for them to follow. ¡°The Family Head will wait no longer.¡± When he disappears through the door of light, an inkling of hope begins to grow within the heart that remembers how to beat again. They could run. How far, Akraptor doesn¡¯t know, but they wouldn¡¯t know if they didn¡¯t try. Then, he remembers the thickening of shinsu. The overwhelming power that could snuff the life out of him with a mere thought. He remembers fear. For his life. For Gwen¡¯s. For their daughter¡¯s. Akraptor glances at Gwen, who nods reluctantly. With their daughter between them, they rise to their feet to discover the Fate that awaits them on the other side. 6. This Darkest Night 6. This Darkest Night Swords that pierce that heavens. That is the only description Akraptor finds fitting for the buildings in the Citadel. Broad foundations that slowly narrow into sharp pointed tops, cased by metal, polished to a silver sheen. This place is full of them. A forest of giant blades that defy gravity. And they have been brought to the very centre of this metallic ecosystem. A wide, circular platform spans beneath their feet, isolated from the rest of the city, some semblance of a grand, empty courtyard. The three of them stand at the centre, flanked by four uniformed guards. At the edge of the platform are a set of chalk-white marble steps, a prelude to the bleached throne that sits at the very top facing the other way. Two men stand next to the throne, both unnaturally tall. One is lean, dressed in a simple white coat, hems lined in black, and grey pants to finish. The other is built like a brute, muscles bulging beneath an upper body wrapped entirely in bandages, wearing a murky-blue hakama embroidered with black thorned vines. Akraptor watches the man who led them into the Citadel stop before the very bottom step and fall onto one knee, a fist pressed against the ground. ¡°Father.¡± His voice is solemn. ¡°I have returned with Gwyneira as you have ordered.¡± A numbing silence fills the air. Akraptor doesn¡¯t even realize there¡¯s someone sitting on the throne until a pale hand drops from the side, waving lazily. Without warning, the closest guard levels their blade at his throat. Gwen cries out in alarm. ¡°Father, please! Have mercy on him.¡± Akraptor widens his eyes. The man sitting on the throne must be Arie Hon. The strongest of the Great Warriors, second only to the King himself. ¡°I am told that we share a name.¡± The Family Head¡¯s voice is not as he¡¯d imagined. It¡¯s hushed, almost gentle in a sense. Uncomfortably so. Whisper of rain in the chill of spring night. The quietness makes it impossible for Akraptor to discern His intentions. ¡°That is not entirely accurate,¡± Arie Hon continues. ¡°But enough to appeal to my curiosity. Enough to keep you alive for now¡ªHon Akraptor.¡± Akraptor tries to swallow, but his throat is parched. The first encounter with Gwen¡¯s brother might as well have drained all the moisture from his body. ¡°What is the child¡¯s name?¡± Akraptor freezes, gritting his teeth. He can feel it. The moment he betrays her name, she will no longer be his. Tears well in his eyes, far from the tears he first shed for her. He gasps as the blade against his neck draws blood. ¡°Her. Name.¡± Arie Hon traces the throne¡¯s armrest with a slow hand. ¡°Rose!¡± Gwen blurts. Akraptor looks at her with incredulous eyes. She gazes back, hopeless and resigned. ¡°Hon Rose.¡± ¡°Rose.¡± the man¡¯s fingers drum his ruminations into white stone. ¡°How ¡­ poetic. They¡¯re your favourite flowers aren¡¯t they, dear daughter?¡± ¡°Y-yes Father.¡± ¡°Of course.¡± Arie Hon laughs harshly, no trace of humour at the helm. ¡°You always loved the colour of blood. You must have forgotten, but you once promised to bathe the tower in crimson. Perhaps if you had kept to that resolution, you could have succeeded where Hagipherione failed. You could have surpassed Adori. What a waste. You threw it all away, and for a man, no less.¡± Those words hang over their heads like a guillotine. They are the condemnation, the verdict, and the sentence. ¡°Leave the child alive.¡± The Family Head exhales deeply. ¡°She will fulfill what Gwyneira has taken for granted.¡± Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! The brute of the two men steps forward. He raises an arm diagonally, a dense layer of shinsu coating its surface. Akraptor shuts his eyes, shielding Rose¡¯s gaze with one hand, clutching Gwen¡¯s hand with the other. He will not wait for the arm to fall. He knows his head will fly as soon as the brute swings. Gwen¡¯s fingers interlock with his, and the storm in his heart subsides into a slow, drifting calm. Knowing that she has accepted her Fate as well is oddly assuring. Whatever comes, they¡¯ll face it in unity. A great gust buffets his body, the roar of impact howling against his eardrums, and then ¡­ Oblivion. Has he died? There is no pain. Was death so swift, so easy, all this time? ¡°Arise, young one. There remains life left to live.¡± An ancient voice that shakes the very fabric of space that constitutes the entire Floor, reverberating like the hum of bees. It¡¯s not human. Not mortal. Akraptor peers through quivering slits, into the world of the living. The tingle of sensation returns to his arms, gradually trickling down to his white-knuckled fingers. Gwen squeezes his hand, pulling him close enough for their shoulders to brush. She whispers something inaudible and bumps his arm with her elbow, prompting him to look up. A porcelain-smooth, white body, humanoid in nature. An unnaturally-edged midnight suit that sprouts spindly limbs, and three-fingered hands that bloat like gauntlets. A long rounded snout, and longer ears. Akraptor has seen such a figure only in the picture books he¡¯d read at the orphanage that raised him, and in the murals of the local cathedral. The fae of legends, the harbinger of Fate, the First Administrator. ¡°Headon.¡± Arie Hon has risen to his feet. Ice takes to the blood in Akraptor¡¯s veins. It¡¯s the first time the Family Head has betrayed an inflection in his voice. That single utterance plunges the entire Citadel into silence. In the Family Head¡¯s left hand is a claymore whose wicked edges look as if they could cleave the Tower in two. ¡°You would interfere in the matters of my family?¡± Arie Hon hisses softly. ¡°If it concerns the Fate of the Tower?¡± Headon almost sounds amused. ¡°Absolutely.¡± ¡°Do you think I won¡¯t cut you down?¡± Arie Hon turns his head slightly, traces of a sharp jawline drifting between long strands of silver-white hair. ¡°Surely, you jest. You may wield the greatest sword¡ª¡± Headon waves his arm and out of thin air, he brandishes a golden staff with swirling emerald orbs at each end. ¡°But I wield the very Will of the Tower. Zahard himself dared not oppose my jurisdiction.¡± Akraptor would never dream of bearing witness to a Family Head¡¯s hesitation, yet here he stands with a sweat-soaked back, counting those few wordless seconds. ¡°My kin have never been involved with the Fate of the Tower,¡± Arie Hon finally speaks, resuming his stoic demeanour. To Akraptor¡¯s relief, the claymore has vanished. ¡°Why now?¡± ¡°I¡¯m not here for your kin.¡± A slit breaks from one side of Headon¡¯s head, making an unhurried crawl across his flawless snout, something of an inhuman, devious grin. ¡°I¡¯m here for this child.¡± Akraptor watches slack-jawed as the Administrator gestures at him with a free hand. ¡°Me?¡± Akraptor gapes, glancing at Gwen who looks just as surprised. ¡°Yes, child. Your death will serve a greater purpose than the whims of an aging swordsman. It will spur the Uninvited onto greater heights and break their limits. It has been ordained.¡± ¡°If it has been ordained¡ª¡± Arie Hon slips back onto his throne, disappearing from view. ¡°I will relent. But the mother and her child stay with me. I will allow them to live so long as this filthy commoner cuts his ties with them.¡± ¡°Wait¡ª!¡± Akraptor¡¯s lips quiver with emotion, his heart racing at the sudden revelation. What has been given to him is being taken away. Such is the way of the Tower. What can he do? He stands at the mercy of Fate, before the greatest powers within the known world. ¡°Send him to the Middle Area.¡± The silky-smooth voice continues. ¡°If Fate allows him to return to his loved ones, then I will have nothing to say about it.¡± ¡°You can¡¯t ¡­¡± Akraptor pleads, falling to his knees, hands dropping to his side. ¡°Aky.¡± Gwen swivels around and kneels before him, caressing his face. O stars above, he does not deserve her love. Her eyes, a light that fills this darkest of nights with an unfathomable warmth. Her smile, a promise of better days to come, no matter how distant. She presses her forehead against his. ¡°Find us. I know you can. I know you will.¡± ¡°No¡­¡± Akraptor chokes a sob, unfettered tears streaming down his cheeks. ¡°I can¡¯t lose you. I can¡¯t lose our daughter.¡± ¡°You won¡¯t.¡± Gwen breaks, tremors swallowing up her voice. ¡°We will survive, as will you. We¡¯ll always be close.¡± Her hands cup his own, slender fingers tracing the golden ring around his finger. ¡°As will I.¡± He breathes shakily. ¡°I wonder.¡± The mystical hum and its owner suddenly materializes between them. Gwen yelps, falling back onto her behind. Headon brings his head up close to Akraptor, cyan beads gleaming with muted mirth. ¡°Will you?¡± 7. Old Fables tell New Tales 7. Old Fables tell New Tales Somewhere amidst the labyrinth of narrow tunnels, staircases, and dimly lit passages of the Middle Area, there lies an expanse of lands that once belonged to the Inner and Outer Towers¡ªincomplete blueprints of what could have been, now abandoned by their divine architects to the forgotten archives of mediocrity. Monochrome fields of tall grass, wheat, and stunted trees entirely devoid of motion grow from beds of ashen dirt, miles and miles of lifeless imitation stretching as far as the eye can see. Akraptor wanders the grey seas, legs leaden with journey, a hand trailing the stalks. His gaze roams the discoloured distance, led by aimless swirls of shinsu-luminescence drifting above. Between the moments of light and dark, there are traces of a memory or two surrendered to time, but they fade just as quickly as they manifest. It¡¯s not something that bothers him anymore. There are no tears left to cry. Despite the lack of any climate whatsoever, his close-cropped silver hair stands as a phantom chill passes through his neck. He recognizes that chill. Sounds form syllables, whose culmination brings a familiar name to his lips. ¡°Headon.¡± A droning laughter fills the harsh silence. ¡°Won¡¯t you turn around to greet your first visitor in over a century?¡± The Administrator buzzes with enthusiasm. ¡°Has it been that long?¡± Akraptor replies, almost dismissive. ¡°Exactly one-hundred and fifty years.¡± ¡°I see.¡± There is a pause, before Headon breaks the silence again. Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. ¡°You aren¡¯t afraid of me anymore.¡± Akraptor scoffs. ¡°What do I have to lose? There is no escape from the endless Middle Area. Not without a guide.¡± ¡°Did you not make a promise to your beloved?¡± Akraptor stops, hand that was trailing the overgrowth now tracing the golden ring he¡¯d pierced to his right ear. He tried. For a long time, he did. He swears it. But for a man as ordinary as he, who has not even become a regular, the Middle Area may as well be a prison. ¡°What if I told you your sentence has come to an end?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t.¡± Akraptor clenches his fists without realizing it. ¡°Hope is too potent a poison for me to endure.¡± ¡°Oh come now,¡± Headon drawls. ¡°Your narrative used to be so much more colourful. How dull it has become to read your story.¡± Akraptor chooses not to respond. There is no victory, nor anything to be gained from quarrelling with a being that has lived an eternity. Then, the Administrator speaks the name, no more than a low, feather-light remark, yet it rings as clear as day. ¡°Arie Rose Zahard.¡± Akraptor swings a feral gaze at Headon, his face twisted with an expression he didn¡¯t think he could make again. The damned rabbit floats above the lifeless reeds, indifferent to the sudden surge of emotion. ¡°Is she alive?¡± Akraptor blurts. ¡°What about Gwen? How are they? Where can I find them?¡± ¡°That is all I am permitted to say.¡± Headon¡¯s beady eyes gleam with the brilliance of a cold blue star, the first real colour Akraptor has seen in ages. ¡°But one thing is certain.¡± Headon points up with a thick, bloated finger. ¡°The answer lies up there.¡± There is a chime of vintage bells, a wintry draft and the fragrance of spring-kissed cherry blossoms. Hope is a shy lemon blush in the vast blue, an image whose colours fill in from the corners. Akraptor remembers the fatigue that comes with daybreak, the exertion of yawning, of tensing and untensing, blinking the sleep from his eyes. He wonders how many seasons it has been since he¡¯s had a cup of tea in the morning. ¡°So?¡± Headon glides down into the reeds. ¡°Will this old fable tell a new story?¡± The Administrator extends a three-fingered hand. ¡°Will you climb?¡±