THE FORSAKEN LAND OF GENèSE | LOST KINGDOM

  600

  Muffled thuds shook the barrier intermittently.

  Each strike was stronger than the last—the barrier wavering against the creature’s ravenous hunger.

  "And you are certain of this?" Solvanel asked.

  Dust was coming down from the rafters—lines of cobwebs floating in mid-air.

  “Not a doubt in my mind,” responded Saint. “Look, kid, I hate to reject your offer, because I respect the truth—I do. But if we make it out of this alive, you really need to work on your honesty."

  The shepherd tilted his head. “Have I not been honest enough?”

  “Too honest,” confirmed Saint. “If the crown works the way you think it does, then I’m surprised it hasn’t taken your head off, already.”

  Not so surprising.

  While he was chasing the Essaifamès, Solvanel reflected on the times he was punished by the crown. First, it was when he was about to mention the demoness. Second was when he was about to say the existence of the being called ‘Not’.

  If Solvanel kept away from those topics, the crown allowed the young shepherd to speak freely... he hoped.

  During his rant, he replaced the demoness with a powerful laissé-soi. He didn’t mention much about the composition or Serpentine. And he certainly didn’t go near the topic of ‘Not’.

  "If it can make the current me like you, then that power would be amazing," Saint admitted. "But it sounds to me exactly the way it reads."

  His flame spoke his rejection ten words ahead.

  "I've seen what it's like to be a dog.” His voice grew harder, colder. "That’s a nasty power, kid. Don’t pretend like it’s anything else.”

  A silence settled between them.

  "Man, woman, or child—anybody who thinks that they’re the master deserves to be hung by a leash. If you’re thinking about making use of that power, then the same goes for you.”

  Twelve Pillars (0/12)

  Grants the user total dominion over another flame.

  Disobedience comes at the cost of death.

  'Total Dominion.'

  It was likely a misinterpretation.

  After all her moral grandstanding, he doubted the demoness would bestow a power that cruel. And if she did, she wouldn’t have called it a fitting bestowment for his plight. Solvanel had no interest in being a master. Shepherds are meant to lead, not command.

  Rereading his own composition, however, he understood why one could think as such. At the same time, he was clearly on the wrong end of this man’s personal bias. And the situation at hand didn’t allow for such blatant generalisations.

  BOOM!

  The shadespawn was destroying the barrier as they spoke.

  The benefits at the bottom of the ability’s composition far outweigh the downsides. But then again, his rejection was likely unrelated to the terms of the ‘contract’. Saint Myles had shown himself to be the kind of man who drank himself silly and harped on his lack of belief in this world.

  This drunkard wasn’t standing on moral ground.

  It was an aversion to responsibility!

  Fine. In that case.

  “The answer was neither.”

  Saint blinked. “What?”

  “You asked if my speech pattern was natural or a constant fa?ade.” Solvanel's voice was calm, but distant, as though he were answering from the other side of a long hallway. “The answer is neither.”

  He paused, carefully choosing his words, his tone, his pace of breath, even the posture that accompanied the way he spoke. “This manner of speaking was never intended to fool others. It was meant to change me.”

  Saint raised a brow, intrigued despite himself.

  “Before I set out on this journey,” Solvanel continued, “I studied the heroes of sacred text, learning to emulate the way they acted, thought, and spoke. In time, they became a part of who I am. So, no… it is not my original voice. But it is no longer 'pretending'. This is a fa?ade that became my nature.”

  The older youth leaned back slightly. “Why are you telling me this now?”

  Solvanel’s gaze sharpened behind his wrappings. “Why?” he echoed. “Are you going to tell me that you haven’t been doing the same?”

  No response. The shepherd went on.

  “You are ‘pretending’ to be something else. However, while I am ‘pretending’ to be something familiar, a finer version of myself, you are ‘pretending’ to be a stranger. Worthy of a click of the tongue and contempt.”

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  And what a performance it was!

  Accepting responsibility, then dropping it at the next…

  If Solvanel were on the other side of this offer, he would have accepted it in a heartbeat.

  Anything that brought him closer to his dream was a sacrifice he was willing to make—even if it meant he would no longer play the role of the shepherd. Being in the shadows of a more brilliant light.

  He thought for a moment they shared some similarities, but these two young men were nothing alike. He was a wandering wastrel. No ties. No cause. And no past worth mentioning.

  “Did you ever stop to ask yourself whether this ‘pretending’ is still a fa?ade?” He asked, frowning—curiosity or disdain. “Or have you fallen so deep into character that you are no longer capable of self-reflection?”

  The barrier’s silence crept into the area between them.

  Saint’s flame twitched, anger boiling in his chest.

  An inferno shrouded in an ember, wanting to see the light of day again.

  In the end, it was the ember that spoke. It chuckled. “Good question. Why don’t you ask somebody who cares, kiddo?”

  Anyone without this discarded view would have believed in its amusement.

  “As I thought,” finished the shepherd. “I have been blind in the darkness for years, while you close your eyes in search of a way out. I won’t allow myself to be lectured by a man who claims no stake in my world. Your only wish is to leave things as they were when you came.”

  Silence settled between them.

  “Thank you for rejecting my offer. You have saved me a great deal of disappointment. We will proceed with your original plan for now.”

  Solvanel focused on his flame, circulating the golden strands into the space behind his eyes. The composition came to life.

  Beyond the surface of the barrier, there were the etchings in the composition.

  Serpentine characters swirled inside the wall, none more prevalent than those that made up the word ? Aegis ?. It was larger than all the rest. A lifelike personification standing bronze and bold in the centre of the crystalline lattice. The very embodiment of the word ‘shield’, protecting the other characters from the monster’s assault.

  BOOM!

  Among those characters were those of the word ? Silencieux ?, meaning silent. Located in one of the corners, as far away from the noise as possible. And the word ? Obstrué ? meaning ‘obstructed’, hidden in the protector’s shadow.

  BOOM!

  Sure enough, the characters of ? Aegis ? were crumbling.

  Solvanel ignored his instincts, tightening his grip on the Blue Scarab’s Husk.

  ? Aegis ? was dispelled alongside the other characters which made up the barrier’s composition, bidding their post a solemn farewell after aeons of service.

  The lost kingdom’s ambience flooded back in.

  Before this, there wasn’t much to the ear apart from the howls of imaginary wind and footsteps in the sand. Now, there was horror in the background of the silence.

  A horde was moving through the streets, dead bodies groaning in anticipation and delight.

  Beauty of the Feast was the loudest of them all.

  Bloody feet tapped on wood.

  A patient, lethargic pace, unfit for a being of ravenous desire. Its stomach sent a warning up the staircase, while its voice sent up a lure. "Il était une dame Tartine. Dans un beau palais de beurr' frais. La muraille était de praline…"

  It wasn’t the voice of the late mercenary, Cedrick Goodhall, but the voice of the noblewoman who was on the other side of that table. Her voice matched her original appearance—better so in song than in speech.

  "Le parquet était de croquets. La chambre à coucher. De crème de lait…"

  Warmth blanketed every syllable. Her lips dressed them for a ballroom.

  To hear was to be enchanted. And to listen was to be drawn in.

  “Le lit de biscuits. Les rideaux d'anis…"

  Solvanel’s thoughts were turning fuzzy, several indecencies pirouetting in his head. How wonderful would it be to be limp on her platter? To feel his body melting on her tongue? To be swallowed by a beast with an unending appetite.

  And be ground to dust in its razor-sharp teeth.

  ‘Wait… pardon?’

  The shepherd shook his head.

  His grandmother’s keepsake was glowing faintly in his right hand.

  Letting himself be swallowed. If it wasn’t for the crook, he might have done it.

  Did the demoness have a point, labelling him a pervert?

  No matter. Sir Saint was already halfway down the staircase!

  Solvanel did the first thing that came to mind.

  If the crook got him out of the beast’s trance, then it just might work. He channelled his grandmother’s memory while raising the crook, bringing it down on Saint’s head.

  “Ow, what the-” Saint snapped out of the lure. “What happened?”

  “Is this your so-called plan?”

  He shook himself lucid. “No, but it gave me a better idea.”

  They returned to the top of the watchtower. Saint knelt by the precious metal bar, running his hands over the lustrous surface. “This thing really is silver, right?”

  “I am unsure.”

  While the bar in his right pocket mimicked some of its properties, it was quite lacking when compared to the Solid Flame mentioned in the script. It was written as the bane of darkness. No shadespawn would enter a city, much less ascend a tower where the divine metal hummed quietly at the peak.

  Thus far, he’d only been borrowing the name.

  "In that case, can I borrow it for a second?"

  Solvanel's mouth opened, but nothing came. He had risked the lives of his sheep for this detour, brought them into harm's way for the sake of what this man now asked to hold.

  Yet his connection to the silver bar was a proxy. Coming here was never about riches or power, but insight—discovering another one of the steles.

  "Don't worry," Saint said. "I'll give it back."

  Suspicion rooted in experience made its demands, urging caution where it was due. He was considering whether to look upon his flame for signs of deceit.

  Saint couldn’t blame him. By rejecting the kid’s offer, he established a glaring incongruity between them: A wastrel and a shepherd, both being self-proclaimed.

  If he were truly committed to being a wastrel, his only interest in this silver bar was either to avoid it or take it and run off. And since asking to hold it was a denial of the first, then clearly…

  A man was far more trustworthy when stripped bare, and his eyes were capable of doing just that. Honestly, he’d be a fool not to peer into him. See if this was the inferno or the ember talking again.

  But in the end, this young shepherd stuck to the same childish ways that had earned him the wastrel’s ridicule. This man wasn’t going to be one of his pillars. But he trusted him all the same.

  Solvanel approached the silver base, deciphering the carving at the top of the stele.

  ? Leviticus. ?

  The guidebook of the priests.