Rokkoh and the Final Year, Chapter 9

The crowd parts. Conversations hush and hang broken. Curious yet fearful eyes follow as Cy leads me through the atrium. Is this what it’s like whenever the Baroness enters a room? The ability to draw such attention, their terror sending the air cold, the wordless respect given… I could get used to this. It won’t be for long, of course. Only two more months until the carriage comes to deliver me unto my future.

Out from the throng break two figures. One tall, one less so, both dark skinned and black haired, both concealing their excitement. Max and Kym pull me into a three-way hug and welcome me back with happy smiles. Does he know she visited most nights for the last three weeks? Would she have told him? Did he perhaps act as her scout to make sure she had safe passage? I won’t ask; better to preserve the secret if it exists between the twins. 

Returning to the daily regimen comes with relative and surprising ease, save for the new silent attention whenever I enter a room. The quiet gawking fades after the first few minutes each time, that time growing shorter with every passing day. However, in the back of every group who does their best to avoid my gaze, there always seems to be one of Wassim’s crew watching me. Jibara and Janco, wingless gargoyles, pantomime their intentions. This often includes crushing, stomping, breaking, or a mix of all three. Telarria simply stares with squinting hateful eyes and a murderous look on her fox-like face. Pinnow, on the other hand, sends a pleasant little grin my way whenever we see each other. Does he even remember what happened? Or does he blot it out entirely, a memory locked away deep in a dark old strongbox never to be seen or mentioned again? I would prefer the latter if I were him, but even my month in the Frozen Chamber keeps it in the back of my mind. 

In the following weeks, the others let loose their fear and avoidance. The gaps they place between themselves and me close inch by inch. Some even go so far as to offer me a passing hello in the halls. Normalcy, or at least something resembling it, returns. By the end of the month, it’s almost as if nothing ever happened.

“They’re staring again,” Kym warns in a whisper.

The dining hall around us buzzes with conversations. Huddled at a table near the exit is Wassim’s crew, all but Pinnow shooting daggers at the three of us. Their leader remains absent, but they leave an open seat for him. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Wassim since my return. Not that I’m complaining, of course. But I do wonder from time to time where he’s hiding. Does he hide away in his dormitory all day, too afraid of crossing Kym’s or my path again? Does he remain in the infirmary, still recovering from his injuries? Surely he hasn’t died. There’s no way the Baroness would allow me to wander free if that were the case.

“Let them,” I shrug, focusing back on my meat sandwich. “That’s all they do nowadays. They don’t even go after the littler kids anymore. Not since…”

Kym’s eyes cut to mine. They plead, beg me to not bring up the subject. How can she, or we, move on from the incident if it gets brought back up again? 

“Not since the evil king was deposed of his wicked throne?” Max suggests a beat later.

“Where has he even been?” I ask before I can stop my curious tongue.

“Don’t know,” Max shrugs, taking a bite of his own sandwich.

“Don’t care,” Kym adds. Her food sits on her plate, suddenly unwanted. Her fingers roll a red grape around the plate, the end of her digits gently kicking it around as if the little fruit was a ball. “Wherever he is, he deserves to be somewhere worse.”

Dropping the subject, the three of us fall into silence. Max and I avoid the awkwardness by enjoying our lunch. Kym continues her little game until it bores her and she rises from the table. She holds her hand out to me as I finish my last bite.

“C’mon,” she says. “I wanna go to the Overlook and watch the water.”

Wiping my mouth as I swallow, I take her hand and follow as she leads us out of the dining hall. Max stays behind, and I know the eyes I feel on me are not his. A glance to the table nearest the doorway finds three sets of controlled violence. However, I shrug it off. They’re too afraid to act without Wassim, I reason with myself. How pathetic, their lack of autonomy. Good little soldiers, sure, but nothing more. They would rust in their armor if they were told to stand out in the rain. Perhaps that is what their last order had been, but it matters not. Soon, I will be gone and their actions will have no consequence to me.

                    *                       *                         *

A knocking, soft yet urgent, wakes me to the darkness of my dormitory. Beyond the door, the rest of the boys’ wing sleeps in the quiet moonlight. Though a small space, my room has been my personal comfortable solitude for fourteen years. The bed sits under the tall window, white streaks of light illuminating the sole door. A small dresser sits along the wall to the left, a cold candle atop waiting for its next rendezvous with a lit match. On the wall to the right hangs a lone painting: a woman with flowing golden hair who, though is faceless, smiles upon me with an earnest care and love. Skrolba, Mother to the World. Mother even to orphans like me.

The rapping comes once more. A dull candlelight glowing in the gap between the bottom of my door and the floor shows two shadows there. Something slips through the small empty space, the sound of paper sliding along stone creeping through the air. The shadows move away then, leaving behind only the candleglow and the piece of parchment. I brave the cold stone floor against my bare feet to retrieve the note.

“Meet me in Sister Signe’s old classroom in the western hall,” it reads in an elegant flowing script. The signature at the bottom names Kym, and my heart leaps from my chest into my throat. Could this be it? After so many months, when I am so close to my leaving day, are we about to make our unspoken romantic intentions known? Will we finally step out of the shadows of secrecy and into the glorious light of unbridled and unabashed truth? Even if it must be done in the middle of night, perhaps that is what is more comfortable for her. I will not argue with that; the destination matters more than the path.

Gathering my slippers, I head out. The silent still air surrounds me as I sneak my way through the boys’ wing and out into the atrium. Despite my excitement, I move slow and quiet; I can’t have someone hearing or spotting me. Leaving Kym waiting all night would certainly ruin any chance of progression.

Sister Signe’s old classroom sits on a whole floor of abandoned classrooms. She had been the last to move her lessons when I was still little. The other instructors had left their rooms behind before I had arrived at the Tower of Lost Children. Lingering rumors suggest there had been an accident, but the specifics are lost to time. Nowadays, other rumors spread about this forgotten hall, chiefly those old romantic stories Augustin used to tell.

Old muscle memory leads me to the correct room. The door creaks open on rusty hinges. The moonlight cascades through large glass panes and silhouettes her figure. Kym sits with her back turned to me as I step inside. Desks remain in their old posts, a grid of five by five. She sits atop the desk in the direct center. The eagerness and excitement in me wanes; there is something off about the air here. I can’t feel her nervousness, her anticipation. As I draw near, her silhouette becomes clearer, and it’s wrong. The shape of her lacks the proper curves. The hair, while black, is cut too short. White bandage wrap hides under the shaggy growth. 

The door shuts with force behind me. The sudden sound grabs my attention, and I turn to find that fox-like sneer and red hair of Telarria. Murder shines in her eyes, clear and present. Out from the shadows step the gargantuan twins, Janco and Jibara, the same look on their mirrored dumb faces. Pinnow reveals himself slower, fear and uncertainty scrunched up on his little face. Regret and apologies follow once we see each other. 

“I never pegged you as the brightest,” comes the wicked and snide voice from the silhouette, “but I’m surprised you fell for the bait so easily.”

Turning on the desk’s top, the rest of the bandages come into view. Most of his face is hidden, but his rum eyes glint from within the surrounding white. A small gap is left for his mouth, which I’m sure is curved into a twisted grin. He watches me for a long moment, and I can feel the seething vitriol in the air around him. 

I need a game plan. I need to figure out a way to get out of here. Telarria has the door blocked, but a strong wind could push her over. Pinnow likely wouldn’t stand in my way. Wassim might still be too weak to present any physical danger himself. The only true obstacle are the twins. Taking on just one of them is enough of an ordeal, let alone both of them. I could outrun them maybe, but I still would need to get past Telarria. If only I had some of Kym’s magic to help me out. Perhaps if I’m quick enough and catch them off guard, maybe I could just shove Telarria aside and make a run for it. It’s worth a shot.

Turning on my heel in a flash, I make my attempt to escape. A wall, tall and wide and made of flesh, blocks the path now. Janco (or Jibara, it’s hard to tell them apart most of the time) gives me a little wave with his thick digits, a sinister taunting grin accompanying the gesture. A hand just as large grabs my shirt collar from behind, wrenching me backwards. I crash into the front line of desks, the impacting sending a shock through my spine. A heavy fist comes into view too late for me to dodge. Blackness flashes before my eyes as the strike cuts across my jaw, and with the follow-through comes the taste of blood in my mouth. He chuckles as I take a knee, blinking as the room comes back into view. Wassim cheers on Jibara in the background, encouraging more of the beatdown.

That same hand forces me back to my feet with another fist ready. I spit the mouthful of red up into his ugly mug, taking a quick moment to revel in his disgusted look. The satisfaction does not last long; another hit comes and knocks me down once more. A stream of bloody saliva trickles from my mouth as I collapse to my hands and knees. A body slams into mine, smaller but with enough momentum to knock me flat on the floor. Face up, I find Telarria on top of me. Her nails glisten sharp and deadly in the moonlight. Fingers like talons dash at my face, but I raise my arms in time for my forearms to take the brunt of the attack.

“Stop it!” cries Pinnow. “Make her stop, Wassim!”

“Shut up!” Wassim barks. “He deserves this! You’ve seen what –”

Sudden silent stillness cuts through the room, and the temperature drops. Telarria’s claws cease their slashing. Despite the sharp pain from the many little cuts on my arms, I part them. With her bloody fingernails at her sides and her eyes rolled into the back of her head, Telarria sits frozen on my lap. The others watch, unmoving in either confusion or terror, as an obsidian tendril of smoke billows from the top of her head. Transfixed on the oddity for a long moment, my eyes soon follow the focused black cloud across the room to Pinnow’s small outstretched palm. Furrowed brow and narrow vengeful eyes glowing with a sinister green, he concentrates on the girl.

Janco and Jibara break from their horrified trance and make their way toward the little one. His free hand points to them and shoots a new column of smoke at them, splitting in two and planting into each of their foreheads. They stop in their tracks and fall to their knees, limp and helpless.

“What are you doing?” Wassim asks in a shaky breath.

The glowing green eyes dart to him, and without hesitation or warning a new tendril shoots into the bandages. Pinnow holds the four of them in their spots for a long time, and I’m too afraid to move or say anything. His face soon loosens, the glowing dulls back into his regular shade of emerald, and the smoke dissipates. Released from the strange magical hold, they all collapse to the floor. Telarria falls to my side, freeing me.

Getting to my feet, I make slow steps toward Pinnow. His eyes downcast, his shoulders slumped, he seems tired and ashamed. The last thing I want is to reignite that ire. He either does not notice or does not care as I get close. Power, dark and mighty, emanates from his little body but quickly retreats back into himself. I had never felt anything close to it before, especially not from him. Great things come in small packages, I remind myself.

“Thank you,” I say, soft and careful and earnest. “Are you okay?”

Untold years of hardship darken his youthful face, shadows of hidden wrinkles playing on his skin and giving way for just a moment. When his gaze meets mine, he offers a faint smile. But gravity lingers in the emeralds, unable to defy or deny what just transpired. Enigmatic past horrors hide there still, giving fuel for a curiosity that knows better than to ask. Not now, likely never. So it shall be, for not all mysteries can be solved.

“It’s way past bedtime,” he says simply as he heads for the door. “We should get back to bed, Rokkoh.”

“But…” I start but trail off quickly, looking between the four on the floor. Motionless, I pray that they still breathe.

“They’ll be fine,” Pinnows shrugs off my concern, stopping at the door and turning back to me. “They’ll wake up in the morning and forget any of this happened. They won’t even remember the note or the plan.”

“Won’t they just try something else later?” I ask, making my way toward him. Pinnow opens the door as I step over the sleeping twins, soft snores rumbling from their noses.

“Only time can tell,” he answers without really answering. “Come on.”

While I tiptoe through the halls, Pinnow strolls as if it were midday. Hands in his trouser pockets, a small smile on his now-carefree face, and humming a tune, he seems unconcerned of the idea of being caught. Does he do this often? Does he take nightly walks through the stairways and passages, from wing to wing? Does he get up to mischief, or does he simply enjoy the peace and quiet? How does he avoid being seen? Does he use that strange magic to get out of trouble? What is he even capable of?

“Relax,” he chuckles. “We won’t get caught. I thought you were braver than this. Novhina know you’re not a stranger to getting in trouble in the first place.”

“I didn’t say anything,” I mutter, stopping midway back to the boys’ wing. 

  “What’s going on, Pinnow?” I press when my curiosity grows too large for me to contain any longer. “What did you do to Wassim and the others? Are you going to do the same to me? Why didn’t you just do that to Wassim back in the kitchen to make him stop?”

Pinnow stops as well, hanging his head for a moment with a sigh. He turns around, and for a moment I expect him to wear a look of childlike innocence and ignorance. But that heavy darkness returns, and suddenly he looks old and worn down. A once-restored relic that has again fallen into disrepair. Is this how he is meant to look? Does he hide under a veil of youth via a carefully crafted magic?

“Rokkoh,” he breathes, almost sounding defeated, “it’s a difficult and complicated story to tell. We don’t have the time and I don’t have the energy. Feats like what I just did take a lot to target one person, let alone four. And fear can even paralyze the most weathered soldier. Just know that they won’t be coming after you or your friends. That’s all that matters.

“Now, please, let’s get some sleep.”

I hesitate for a moment. I am certain that I can trust him, but something still lingers in my mind: if he is able to perform such impressive magical triumphs, how long has he been training and how has he managed to do it in the first place? Kym had joked about studying things from a book, but does the library truly hold such tomes? It had been my understanding that only simple restorative arts were taught at the Tower of Lost Children, and even then it was a selective group who were awarded the privilege. 

“I’ve been here a very long time,” Pinnow answers my unspoken ponderings with another exhausted sigh. “And all the best things are hidden, but not necessarily hidden well. You just need to know where to look. I’m tired of questions, Rokkoh. I’m going to bed whether you’re coming or not.”

True to his word, he carries on toward the boys’ wing. After a few steps, he straightens his posture and seems to regain his pep. Not wanting to be found alone, I follow. We make it back without being spotted, silent as the grave, and part without a second glance at each other into our rooms. My own exhaustion kicks in as I undress and crawl back into. The adrenaline in me drains to the last drop. Mother Skrolba watches over me as she does every night.

Continue to Chapter Ten

Rokkoh and the Final Year, Chapter 8

Seven days down, twenty-three to go. Walking laps around the Frozen Chamber helps keep the cold at bay during the day. At night, a small fire and multiple layers do their best. Through the bars at the top of the Frozen Chamber, the sun gleams in its cold stare. Snow drifts here and there up above, but an invisible barrier keeps the little flakes from forming hills inside the single-cell prison. Nighttime smoke, though, has thus far been able to escape and not poison me in my sleep. The bars tease and taunt, the space between them enough for someone to slip through if they squeeze. But getting up to them is an impossible task.

The surrounding stone sits smooth in its surmounting circle. Scaling the walls proved to be a fruitless endeavor long ago. A fight that left broken noses and bruised ribs a few years ago landed me within these walls, though it had been summer and this place’s moniker had been Baltevmt’s Maw at the time. I had only spent one day baking in the heat then, and I had thought it could not be any worse. I never thought winter’s bite could cut to my bones so effortlessly, even with the layers. That’s a mistake I won’t soon forget.

The sun’s light wanes. As the moon takes over and fills the land with its own luminescence, my stomach begins to beg. The tray Cy left behind for my afternoon meals sits patient and empty near the ring of rocks and ashy remains of last night’s fire. My bedroll and additional blanket wait there as well. A waste hole is quarantined by the entrance, an iron door with a tiny square barred window.

Snow crunches from beyond that door, but the darkness of the little window is too much to show who approaches. Metal jingles a high jig for a moment before scraping into the iron door. The lock there clicks, the hinges screech in protest, and through the doorway steps the figure. With a snap of two fingers, the small fire pit lites and comes to life. Cy points to the empty tray, and I fetch it for him without hesitation. For it he hands me a new one, this one carrying a fresh bowl of soup and half loaf of bread. He steps back toward the door, pausing within the frame to remove something from his pocket. A miniscule vial makes his huge hands look even bigger; its odd pink contents pour into the waste hole before returning to his coat pocket. Without a word, Cy closes the door and locks it once more. His footsteps fade after a few steps, and I return to solitude.

The soup brings warmth with its flavorful vegetables and broth. I take it slow in front of the fire, let myself enjoy the thawing of my limbs. Despite my careful rationing, the slices of bread soak up the liquid remainders all too soon. I relax back against the wall, stomach full and body warming up.

Crunching returns from outside, this pair of feet lighter on the snow. Just as soon as it comes, it disappears. My eyes glue to the iron door. Why is Cy back and trying to be quiet? Has the Baroness changed her mind and decided to let me back inside early? What spurred on this sudden change? Did Wassim come clean and take responsibility for his actions? Seems unlikely, in hindsight.

Something brushes against the outer wall, but the sound comes and goes so quick that I wonder if I had heard anything at all. My eyes stay on the door, ready for it to creak open once more and reveal Cy’s wide and tall frame. But there is only silence. Not even the wind cuts through the dark of night with its eerie whistling. Only the crackling fire remains.

“Psst…” The hushed attention-grabber draws my eyes upward. Legs dangle over the edge and in between two of the bars. Wrapped in a thick coat and sitting atop the wall is Kym. She gives a little wave with a gloved hand, and I simply stare in wonder. Pushing herself from her perch, she lands with precision and ease near the door.

“Hey,” she says with a cool little smirk. 

Wide but blank eyes just stare at her. This isn’t real. She isn’t real. My mind has finally snapped after a week-long bout of isolation and has begun hallucinating. At least it went with something nice and calming instead of diving headfirst into nightmare territory. Perhaps that will come later, when I least suspect it.

“You really oughta spruce up the place,” she jokes as she looks around. “Get some flowerpots or something. Install a window at the very least.”

“I’ll get right on that,” my voice finally returns to me. A lopsided grin grows on my face, a puff of cloud riding out of my mouth with the small chuckle that escapes me. 

Kym steps closer, rounding the fire and taking a spot next to me. We sit, silent, watching the warm glowing dance before us. She reaches over and takes my hand, her gloved fingers slipping between mine. She scoots closer. My heart lightens and races at the same time.

“How long you got left?” she asks, the sound a welcome addition to the crackling fire.

“About three weeks,” I tell her. “The Baroness gave me thirty days, and I’m only a week in now.”

“Think you’ll last that long?” Her question comes with the flavor of humor, the taste of a smirk mixed with the words.

“Probably not,” I joke back. “It’s really boring in here. Nothing to do but keep the cold from killing me. I don’t even get a book or anything. I would hang myself from the bars up there if I could figure out a way to get up there.”

Kym laughs and smacks my shoulder. She wraps her free arm around mine, hugging my arm and resting her head where she hit me. I relax my own head and let it rest on hers, and we settle back into the comfortable quiet for a while.

“How did you even get in here?” I finally ask when my curiosity grows too great.

“Magic,” she says, simple and nonchalant, as if I should have known, as if it was obvious. I can’t tell whether she’s joking or if she means it; the truth hides in her delivery.

“Magic?” I repeat. “Found a flying spell in the library?”

“Found loads of spells,” she nods. “Found one to give someone nasty warts. I might do that on my last day.”

“Sounds fun,” I say. “You’ve got plenty of worthy candidates. Do it to them all if you can. They’ll probably go into a huge panic to figure out what happened. It’ll be funny. They’ll talk about it for years, make you a legend.”

“Then we’ll both be legends one day,” she says. The lightness in her voice, the playful jest, withers for a moment. She tiptoes toward gravity, a heavier and darker sincerity. She hugs my arm a little bit closer, a little bit tighter. 

“Word’s been going around lately,” she says, hushed as if someone might overhear. “People are saying you tried to kill Wassim. First time Sister Signe had ever seen someone beat up like that since she worked with the Brawlers Circuit.”

“You’re making it sound like I actually did it,” I note.

“Going with the lie is better than revealing the truth sometimes,” she shrugs with a light sigh. “I’m still surprised you took the fall for it.”

“What else was I supposed to do?” I ask with a faint smirk. “Let you spend a month in here instead? Then I’d be stuck with just Max, and I don’t think he would be the biggest fan of moments like this.”

“Just pretend you’re Augustin and maybe he would be okay with it,” Kym returns to a humorous tone.

“I’ll have to dye my hair first, grow it out a bit,” I suggest. “Don’t know if I have the time for all that.”

The crackling of the fire takes over for us for a long while, allowing us to ease back into that familiar comfortable quiet. The flames continue their performance for us, formless orange ballerinas. That old thought returns: now is the time for that first sweet kiss. She’s already so close, closer than ever before. Perhaps the way she clings is a sign of her readiness, of her want for the same thing. Just lift her chin and her face will be right there. I even have a free hand to help get us there. All it takes is that simple motion, that soft nudge. Just take control of the moment, help it become what I want it to be. It would be so easy…

“I really appreciate what you’ve done for me,” Kym confesses. Small, sheepish, grateful. All new things for her, or at least seldom and unfamiliar. I return the notion with a simple kind word, and we relax back into the silent fiery observation.

In time, yawns come from us both. Slowly, we trade them back and forth. We pass them off, waiting to see which of us will break first and declare bedtime. A matter of willpower, I tell myself, of which I have plenty. Though we have equal offerings of the tired sigh, I shall prevail. Kym will succumb first. I just know it.

I blink. Previously sitting upright, I find myself laying on my side and my thick blanket draped over me. For a moment, my visitation seems like a dream. After all, it had been too good to be true. But underneath the blanket, I am not alone. Nestled under the blanket’s warmth and protection, back to my stomach with my arm around her, lies her figure. Cuddled up close, keeping a tender hold, she sleeps. Or I think she sleeps. Her face remains hidden out of my view, and she makes no noise. But I can feel the slow inhale and release through our coats.

“Kym?” I whisper.

“Yeah?” she returns the tone.

“What happened?”

“You passed out,” she answers, adding a breath of a giggle. “So it’s bedtime. Shut up and sleep.”

“Shouldn’t you get back to the Tower?” I ask. “Won’t they notice you’re gone?”

“I don’t care,” she shrugs, adjusting her position to get more comfortable and close. “I’d much rather just sleep here. I’ll head back in the morning before any of them wake up. Easy.”

My eyes refuse to stay open any longer. As I drift off, Kym says something too far away for me to understand. The Frozen Chamber fades, leaving only false memories, fabricated lifetimes, indecipherable hidden meanings, and subconscious yearnings. They come and go, gentle as the midday tide, swapping characters and scenery at random to fit the jumbled mess. 

And when I awake, Kym is gone. 

                    *                       *                         *

The day passes with its hours stretched like taffy. Boredom is my new worst enemy as the sun makes its daily trek across the cold sky. For a while, I stare at the smooth stone walls, doing my best to figure out how Kym was able to get out. The door remains locked from the outside. No pillars could assist in climbing to the top. In the end, the only explanation that sounds somewhat reasonable is the possibility of jumping and catching the bars or the edge. Try after try after try, my legs launch at the wall and attempt to project me upward. Even with my longer frame, it’s not enough for my hands to reach the bars. More times than not, there is not enough power in my jump to get far at all. Magic, I resign, must be the answer, of which I have none.

Cy makes his regular mealtime visits, delivering trays of food and taking back the empty ones. He tips out the pink contents from his little vial on the way. He comes and goes, wordless as ever. After the incident, what does he see when he looks at me? Does he still see the scared little boy I had been when I first came to live at the Tower of Lost Children? Does he see me as the violent monster the rumor mill depicts? Or am I something in between, perhaps a mixture of the two?

Darkness falls, and the night has begun. Another serving of soup (this time a beefy stew), another helping of bread slices, another lonely dinner. Eight down, twenty-two to go.

“Psst,” the sound comes, sending my heart into a frenzy. Atop the wall, as with the night before, is Kym. Donned in her thick coat, she hops down from her perch and effortlessly lands a few feet in front of me. 

“I didn’t hear you coming,” I tell her. “I heard you last night.”

“What can I say?” she shrugs as she approaches. “I’m getting better at being quiet and sneaky.”

A strap runs across her front from shoulder to catty-cornered hip. Reaching behind herself, she reveals a knapsack. She takes a seat next to me and digs in. Rifling through its contents, she first pulls out a pale blue book and hands it to me with smiling eyes. 

“The Riveting Tales of Sir Goodwyn Braithe of Tart-tangle,” I read the spine. My own smile shines. “How did you know?”

“I notice things,” she answers, a charm to her vagueness. “Like your interest in heroic stories.”

“Thank you,” I say, wrapping my arms around her in a warm hug. She returns it, eager and welcoming.

“You’ll probably finish that by tomorrow night, I’m guessing,” she says as we part. Going back to her knapsack, she reveals another book. She holds it in her lap, opening to a dog-eared page. “I’ll bring you something new whenever you finish. That way you’ll have something to do during the day.”

Kym smiles, bright and eager. I can’t help but mirror it. Such a sweet girl, such a good friend. I would do anything for her, if the situation with Wassim was not proof enough. And her showing up two nights in a row leads me to believe she would do the same for me. The fire is nothing compared to the warmth she gives.

The two of us lean into one another as we read by the fire. When the yawning returns, this time infecting Kym first, we put down our books and return to our snuggling position. We wish each other good night, and soon set sail for Slumberland. In the morning, Kym has disappeared once again, but knowing she will return come nightfall fills me with a happy excitement.

Continue to Chapter Nine

Rokkoh and the Final Year, Chapter 7, Part 2

This is part 2 for the seventh chapter of the current Rokkoh novella. If you have not yet read part 1, please click HERE to catch up!

FUCK THINK WHAT AM I GOING TO DO THE CLOSET MAYBE SHIT GOTTA HIDE HIM GOTTA PUT HIM SOMEWHERE NO ONE WILL SEE FUCK FUCK FUCK

A chill trails down my spine as I breathe in deep. Eyes wide and sweat building on my brow, I can’t stomach to look at Wassim. My heart leaps into my throat and throbs there, sending its pumping into my ears until all I can hear is its rhythm. Subtle yet awful metal permeates the air and stains my nose. The smell threatens to upheave my dinner the longer it lingers. Turning slow, my eyes drift toward the discarded pot. A crimson puddle gathers underneath its dented cast iron surface. Its handle retains the warmth from Kym’s hands, the rage and power palpable.

Droplets lead to where I don’t want to look. Lying still, as if sleeping, he waits. Splayed out, prepped and ready to serve for mealtime. His shirt, white with the top few buttons loose, is speckled with the red. His tan skin blushes more and more on the way from shoulders to neck, neck to jaw. His face…

Oh fuck, his face…

“What have you done?” comes a voice, cold velvet, from behind. The sound stills my frantic heart, and I am frozen once more.

Peering over my shoulder, I find four figures stare from just inside the doorway, horrified. The smallest of them stands on the far right, the older woman’s white and red nurse’s smock layered on top of a pale blue dress. She looks as if she is about to vomit; I don’t blame her. Telarria sheds tears in anger next to her, standing a few inches taller. The bear Cy puts a protective hand on the girl’s shoulder, ready to squeeze and hold her still in case of an outburst. At the end, prim and proper as ever, is the Baroness. Copper hair up in a stylish bun, decked out in an intricate colorful nightgown, she looks simultaneously disappointed and validated.

I beg my brain to come up with something, anything to explain the broken boy and the bloody pot. I plead my tongue to say whatever my mind can’t create in the hopes it will suffice.But their collective gaze renders me speechless. My fingers around the pot handle loosen and let go of the makeshift weapon. A numbness makes its way from the top of my head down to my toes, seeps from my pores and coats my skin. I just hope Kym made it back okay.

“Cy, escort Rokkoh to my office and wait for me there,” the Baroness orders. “Sister Signe, check on the boy.”

His thick hand goes from Telarria’s shoulder and comes for me. For a moment, I expect her to rush forward in her rage, claw at my face until I am left just as ugly and bloody as her beloved. The others would even let her do it. They would watch on in glorious justice. After all, I would deserve it. But she remains in her place as the meaty digits take hold of me rough, narrow fox-like eyes trained on me as he drags me from the room.

Cy’s long legs leave me struggling to keep up. I have to nearly break into a run to not fall behind or just let him pull me along. He would be better off just carrying me, but I guess there is little satisfaction in it. There is a power in jerking someone around, making them follow you through corridors, up and down staircases, and finally shoving them through a doorway. He points to a chair on one side of a desk, the one on the either side (a high-backed and flawless thing made to look like a throne of sorts) reserved for the Baroness. I dare not disobey. He pulls the door shut, its loud slam followed by the turning of a lock.

A window behind me lets the moonlight in. Tall and curved at the top, it offers a view of the gorgeous icy sea. The road runs near it, the snow plowed to keep the path clear. At the bottom of the window, peeking just over the windowsill, is the top of the Frozen Chamber. The bars checkering the open hole sneer at me, knowing my fate.

 The Baroness’s office, while small, is well-kept with everything in its place. A faded painting of a handsome older man with platinum hair and pale skin squints dark eyes down his long, pointed nose. He judges from his plush seat, a wine glass full of red in his hand.

Below his frame sits a writing desk, its top covered by neat stacks of paper, a quill, and an inkwell. On occasion, for the most minor infractions, writing lines under the judging man would be the punishment. Most youngsters got their first taste of discipline at that desk, myself among them. If memory serves, I had been five years old and said a naughty word taught to me by an older child. And now look at me. Twelve years later with a record marred by petty thievery, curfew violations, and the occasional fight, I wonder how my stay at the Tower of Lost Children would have been had I heeded that initial lesson.

Before me, on the large desk, is a column of older weathered tomes. The letters running down the spines are elegant markings, some sort of Elvish I cannot read. Theories of the Baroness’s past creep in for a moment, a sneaking nighttime time, but recede just as quickly.In the center of the desk waits another set of stacked papers and quill resting its tip within the depths of an inkwell. Curiosity suggests I peek at what is written on the top page, but the small print makes whatever is there illegible. A wine glass, tall and wide, sits empty and patient next to a bottle tinted green. It bears no label or decorative markings, but running down the seam is a streak of scarlet. A bead of the red nestles itself where the glass meets the wood, a lone rebel breaking rank to embark on its own mission.

Several paintings hang on the expanse of wall behind the desk. Some are landscapes: waves of golden wheat; a dark yet delighted deity in the clouds over violent waters; a white cliffside city with tall towers glistening in the setting sun. Some are more portraits: one of the Baroness herself hangs in the center, around which all the other works of art gather; a small pale-skinned girl with freckles and two ginger braids; a brunet boy with haunting eyes; the two children accompanied by parents who look just like them.

Where are these places? Who are these people? Other than the portrait of the Baroness, what links all of these together? My gut tells me that they are not randomly collected pieces, but each a glimpse into a life long gone, places left in distant memories. Clues to a mystery perhaps better left unsolved. After all, following the breadcrumbs could lead to the disillusion of her mystique. Or, arguably worse, one’s demise. Knowledge is priceless, but the lengths I would go for it have their limitations.

The door swings open, hard and fast. The Baroness stands in the doorway, silhouetted against the hall’s candlelight like an encroaching nightmare. She waits, still as a statue, for too long. Though her eyes are shadowed, mine lock on to where they should be. Back erect, hands neatly folded, her pose is not what delivers that ice into my veins. It’s the silence, the stillness, the unyielding gaze, the pending brief trial, the unknown punishment fit for the heinous crime.

The door closes behind her as she steps slowly to her side of the desk. She takes a seat with a sigh, tired hazel eyes going to the green bottle. She pops the cork and fills the wine glass, the crimson liquid innards filling it nearly to the brim. She inhales its aroma for a moment before taking a sip. A long breath escapes her nose, her eyes closed, as she enjoys her precious red wine. Setting the glass down, the hazel orbs turn sharp as they open and find me.

“What did you do?” she asks, a hint of frenzy behind her calm demeanor. Trying to keep her composure. As far as I know, there have been no incidents to this extent. Sure, Max, Kym, and I have gotten into our share of scraps over the years, but never anything like this. 

I hesitate. Like back in the kitchen, my mind goes blank. I need to come up with something, fucking anything. My heart picks up its rhythm again, and I think of Kym. I can’t let the Baroness know she had actually assaulted Wassim. I can’t let her get in trouble for this. She still has several months left, and I don’t want any of that time to be spent paying for what she did. Me, on the other hand, that’s a different story. Just a couple of months left now. I can handle whatever comes my way. I’m almost gone anyways. What could it hurt if I take the fall for her? 

“He deserved it,” I say, plain and honest. 

“Why?” she fires back quick.

“He’s a cunt.” The word sends a sourness through her, pinches her face in disgust.

“Language, young man,” she warns, returning to the stoicism. “Why did Wassim deserve such a violent attack? What did he do to provoke you?”

“He cornered Pinnow,” I answer, again providing the truth. “He was trying to force Pinnow to drink. So I stopped it.”

Her hazel eyes narrow at my explanation, her lips puckering as she analyzes. She rests her hands on the desk and leans forward, an inquisitive eyebrow arching.

“And why did you not notify any of the adults of Wassim’s harassment?” she grills. “We could have intervened and avoided this debacle.”

“Really?” I breathe out a chuckle. “So you could come and tell us to stop squabbling and get back to our rooms? Wassim and his friends get off on picking on the smaller and younger kids. They don’t change. They take their punishment and go back to doing it again. Wassim deserved what he got. Deserves worse, honestly.”

“And if he were to not survive, would you feel any guilt? Any remorse?” She has already decided my answer as she stares me down. She just wants to hear me say it.

“His grave would be a waste of good land,” I tell her.

“What about Kym?” she asks without missing a beat.

“Kym?” I repeat. The question rattles me, knocks me off my guard.

She knows. Fuck! She knows! I need to think of something… she only watched. She tried to stop me but I told her to get out. She ran off when Pinnow did. That should work, she’ll believe that. Right?

“What if it were Kym?” she asks. “What if someone did this to her?”

“Oh, um,” I stumble for a moment. “That’s different. She’s my friend.”

“Ah,” the Baroness breathes, relaxing back into her chair. “Your friend.”

Accusations fly silent from her piercing gaze. Wordless little daggers looking for places to slip through and sink in. The red of her lips stretches out of the pucker and into an easy grin, satisfied but still wanting more. Her eyes, those hazel devils, glow in her lust for secrets I should not tell.

“Where was she during all of this?” she asks, a checkmate only a few moves away.

“What do you mean?” Sweat builds on my brow. I swallow a gulp of nothing in hopes that she can’t hear my heart quickening, though I am not confident.

“You two are always together,” she says, slow and cool and cruel. “And Maxwell. It has been that way since you were all little. Especially ever since that Augustin boy left. So where was she? Where were either of your friends?”

Okay, you’ve got this, Rokkoh. Just tell her she watched and left. Easy. Simple.

“I don’t know,” my tongue lets loose the lie.

Dammit.

“She was in her room already, I guess.”

“You guess?” she repeats. “What were you doing before you went into the kitchen?”

“The three of us were reading in the library,” I respond with the truth. “Then they left after a while. I stayed a little bit longer,and then headed to bed when it got late. On my way, when I got to the atrium, I could hear voices from the kitchen. Wassim was trying to make Pinnow drink something and I stopped it.”

The Baroness goes quiet for a long time. Her eyes narrow once more, a slight change to her examination. I can’t tell if she’s trying to find the lies or intimidate me. If it’s the latter, the trickle of sweat down my cheek should give her satisfaction. If it’s the former, she likely will find them soon enough; they weren’t buried very deep, after all. 

“According to Telarria,” she sets in, taking hold of her wine glass once more and giving it a swivel, “she and Kym crossed paths in the girls’ dormitory. Kym appeared scared; she was shaking and had a hard time telling Telarria what had happened. Do you know anything about this?”

The Baroness sips from the glass again, taking a longer pull but keeping her eyes on me this time. She doesn’t want to miss the moment I crumble and dissolve into a mess of broken trust and blubbering honesty. The queen readies herself on the board, sliding into the necessary square that will ensure victory. My king must be guarded, must be protected by all means possible. A fight to its inevitable end, and I will do what I must.

“How would I know?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. “I was busy bashing Wassim’s skull in with a cooking pot.”

The unabashed bold statement breaks her from her drink. She sets it down hard. A splash of the red wine leaps over the walls of the glass and finds a more comfortable spot on the wood of the desk top. The glass leaves a ringing, a mournful note for the escapee. She glares for a long, silent minute. The ice from her stare turns to flames, burning holes into me.

“Cy!” she calls out. The door opens once more, his massive figure stepping into the room. “Take him to the Frozen Chamber.”

Cy’s huge rough hands rip me from the room. I can only hope that Kym won’t be the next one pulled into the Baroness’s office for interrogation. And, if she is, she does not meet the same fate. The company would be nice, though.

Continue to Chapter Eight

Rokkoh and the Final Year, Chapter 7, Part 1

As with chapter 5, this chapter will also be broken up into two parts due to length. Enjoy!

Late afternoons of stargazing on the beach transition into brief walks in the snow and fireside book reading in the library. The typical seasonal shift, only now Kym and I sit closer. Sometimes she leans into my body while my arm drapes around her shoulders, other times my lap becomes her footrest. Through it all, no matter what position we take on the divan, there is a comfortable wordless happiness between us. Similar to the feeling before the night of the trip to Allendar, but stronger, warmer, more addictive. As the winter winds blow and the snow piles up outside the Tower, as my days dwindle with the fading reclusive sun, I need her more and more. Every second spent away from her is another second closer to the day I ride the carriage to Allendar alone to begin my adult life. As we inch day by day to that departure, we in turn inch toward a stretch of months before she and Max are free of the Tower. We cannot waste time, not now that this vulnerable honesty binds our souls evermore into that wondrous storybook destiny.

Max, to my surprise, pays no mind to the romantic development. Sometimes he even encourages it. On more than one occasion, he has offered to give us space or disappeared unannounced. But on the days where he finds something else to occupy his attention, there is often a hint of some hidden intention. He tries to keep it under his skin, but every now and then it seeps from his pores and bleeds chartreuse with envy. It infects his energy, pulsating out in waves until he goes off to steal a snack from the pantries or vanishes like an expelled spirit. 

Yet through it all, despite the subtly screaming jealousy, there is no malice. On the other side of the coin is glee, relief, an exhale of a long-held breath. Finally, the blind can see, the deaf can hear, the mute can sing. After all this time, all the years spent in our little troupe, Kym and I recognize and accept the special bond between us. Sometimes, when he thinks I’m not watching, a proud little smile graces his lips. How long has he seen it and said nothing? How long has he been waiting for me to hold her hand, to sit beside her, to just be with her? How long has he known but kept the secret to himself?

I hope he can have the same someday. I hope he can find a person whose hand he can hold, someone to sit beside, someone with whom he can simply be. He deserves that more than anyone else I know at the Tower. Perhaps when he sees us together, he thinks of all the time he would spend with Augustin. That camaraderie, that strong connection, that kinship. I have to admit I also find myself missing our fiery friend from time to time, but he and Max were always closer than Augustin was with Kym or me.

In only a few months time, it will be my turn to leave like Augustin did, like all the others do. The twins will remain then, an island lost amongst the ocean. They will be fine, I’m sure of it, but I still worry that Wassim will intensify his harassment once I’m gone. Worry not for Kym or Max, but for the little bastard. Nothing would hold them back, save for the harsh scars on their backs and each other. Maybe one of them will teach Wassim a lesson that will leave the halls of the Tower safer for everyone. One can only hope.

“This book is boring,” Max yawns, shutting the tome in his hands with a loud clap. “It’s putting me to sleep. I’m going back to the dormitory.”

“Don’t get lost,” Kym says, not taking her eyes off her own pages. It’s a blend of sincerity and sarcasm, and I can’t tell which side has the majority.

“Don’t stay up too late,” he tells us as he gets up from his thick stuffed chair. He casts the book onto the short table, its thud enough to wake someone. For a brief second, I catch that bittersweet look in his eyes and weak smirk. But he is gone all too soon, taking his mystery with him.

Kym pulls her feet from my lap and scoots along the chaise until she’s next to me. Without breaking away from her book, she takes a gentle hold of my arm and places it around her shoulders. She leans into me, getting comfortable, wordless and serene. Perfect.

We stay here for a long time, her body nestled into mine as we read. An occasional peek leads me to believe that her book involves assassins and their penchant for regicide. A thrilling tale, I’m sure. The story that grabs my attention when she does not follows a knight of a long-forgotten kingdom. The tale’s hero, Sir Goodwynn Braithe of Tart-tangle, meets his nemesis for a duel. Daedalus Korvane, the villainous fiend, had besmirched the good name of fair maiden in front of Sir Goodwynn, hence the scheduled battle. After an exchange of verbal jabs, the duo square off and prepare their swords. The lady, Duchess Francesca la Norte, watches from the dueling grounds’ gallery as the two men run toward each other, her heart pounding.

A quiet sound, a tired breath, eases from Kym’s lips. She closes her book like a soft kiss and sets it in her lap for a moment. The gentle hum in her tickles my bones as she fights off the encroaching and inevitable predator known as sleep. Her chest rises and falls with every slow and deep lungful. Despite the engaging scene on the page, the one in my arms silently, and probably unintentionally, demands my attention.

“Think it’s bedtime.” Her words vibrate under my skin.

“Yeah, I think so too,” I tell her. “Gotta get up, though.”

“Mm-mm,” she sounds, shaking her head a little. “Too comfy.”

Those two little words breathe a warmth into me. It fills me up and leaves a grin on my lips. Perhaps this is the moment I’ve been waiting for. Could this be the setup for the simple yet sweet event? Once we take this step, what comes then? The endless possibilities swirl around my imagination, glimpses of rings and a woodland cottage looking most appealing. All it would take is that precious little kiss. If only our positioning were better…

Kym sits up, arching her back as she stretches. Releasing a relaxed little moan when she is done, she sets down her book on the small table and turns to me. Her tiredness shines bright in her dark eyes, eyelids hanging a little lower. Another yawn escapes her; she shuts her eyes tight and covers her mouth with an open palm. All that remains of my heart is a happy little puddle. As the thought of taking the opportunity the moment presents, she gets to her feet.

“Escort me to my room, Rok?” she asks, a playful pout on her lips. She holds out her hand, slender digits begging to be held, and I take it. My book joins the others, and we stroll hand-in-hand out of the library.

The halls at this hour are often quiet; most children have already filed back into their rooms for the night. Tonight, it seems, is no exception. Kym and I make our way down the spiral staircase, passing the floors for classrooms and activities. Small torches line the rounded walls, their tiny flames providing impressive light. At the very bottom, the arched doorway leads into the atrium. From here, larger archways lead to the dining hall, kitchen, pantries, and gender-segregated dormitories.

The girls’ wing waits near the kitchen and pantries. As we draw near, hushed voices trickle our way. We slow in our steps at the growing exchange. Two voices come; one overpowers the other in an aggressive slurring while the other remains meek, almost scared. One look between the two of us, perplexed and curious, and we quicken our pace past the dormitory door. A peek beyond the swiveling wooden gate of the pantries reveals only food. Further down the hall, we pause in the doorway to the kitchen.

“I said I didn’t want any,” the smaller voice pleads.

“Come on, stop being such a prude,” the other voice insists.

He towers over the other, balance questionable as clumsy feet barely keep him standing. He breaks from his pressure for a moment to take a swig from a bottle. Wassim’s profile comes into view then, eyes closed and a drunken devilish pull on the corners of his mouth. His greasy slicked-back hair comes loose at spots on either side of his head, disheveled from his alcohol-fueled foolery.

Behind him, face scrunched up with the fear that pins him to the wall, is little Pinnow. He looks so small, so young compared to the inebriated tyrant. A mouse cowering before the cat. Luckily for the mouse, two hungry wolves eye the cat, their razor-sharp teeth begging to rip and shred until there is naught but blood and fur.

“Hey!” I bellow out as Kym and I storm in. Our hands break apart, four fists prepared to strike.

Wassim whirls around mid-gulp, the bottle leaving his lips. A trickle of dark liquid trails down his chin, escaping the greedy maw. His eyes go wide for a moment, caught like a deer in a trap, and I imagine he expected Cy or maybe even the Baroness herself. A brightness lights Pinnow’s face when he sees us, bathed in relief. He remains at the wall, however, for the cat may still paw at him.

“What are you doing to him?” Kym snarls.

Wassim relaxes once he realizes who stands before him. His eyelids droop low as a big dumb grin spreads on his face. He even raises the bottle to his lips once more. He lowers it after another long and greedy pull. He holds it out to us, a peace offering perhaps. When we ignore the offer, he takes it back.

“Weren’t doing nothing,” he says with a glance back to Pinnow. “Were we?”

Silent, Pinnow looks between Wassim and us. That fear returns, that pleading.

“Just enjoying a drink Telarria hocked for us,” Wassim explains as he faces us once more. “Girl had to run off, though. The twins were keeping watch but started fighting about something, so she’s calming them down. So it’s just been Pinnow and me. But hey, how’s about we let bygones be bygones and you two join us? There’s plenty left still. Maybe it would even help loosen you guys up and we can have some special fun once he passes out.”

“Are you okay, Pinnow?” I ask, looking past the drunk teenage boy and ignoring his vulgar suggestion. 

“He’s doing great!” Wassims exclaims, tussling Pinnow’s yellow hair with a rough hand. “Just a little shy when it comes to the wine. Always thought the little folk loved their wines and booze, but I guess this one is just being a little stubborn. He’ll give in, though, they always do. Just gotta learn how to relax a bit.”

Wassim returns to Pinnow, the bottle in his hand tipping upward at the little one’s mouth. Pinnow squeals, his lips closed tight as the wine drips off his chin. A small hand attempts to push the bottle away, but Wassim presses it further into Pinnow’s face.

“Come on, just drink!” the bully shouts, a touch of glee in his voice. It makes me wonder if he takes joy in his sadism, or if he is even aware in his stupor that the little boy does not consent. Regardless, past offenses alone have earned him a good ass whooping. His treatment of his so-called friend, doubly so.

My firm hand whips him around hard enough for his grip on the bottle to loosen. Slow eyes go to the clash of glass versus stone, the contents of the wine leaving a large splat mark. His face goes sour, tinged with rage and contempt. My other hand remains in its tight fist, pulled back and building momentum.

Kym holds an open palm up, her fingers mere inches from Wassim’s face. In a blink, light emanates from her hand. It burns bright, enough that my strike fizzles out of its motion so I can shield my eyes. Wassim yelps and steps backward out of my grip, issuing slurred insults that come out incomprehensible. The light dims a second later, and I uncover my face. Pinnow crouches with his face hidden in his knees. Kym stands triumphant, narrow eyes shooting daggers at Wassim. The latter rubs his eyes, trying to get rid of the stars. 

“You fucking witch!” Wassim spits, still blinded by Kym’s light. “I knew there was something wrong with you! Witch bitch!”

Kym holds out a hand to her side. From a hook hanging above a wash basin, a black pot speeds through the air and into her open hand. Caught in awe by the wordless summon, I can only watch as the pot swings and crashes down on Wassim’s head. His voice gets lost in the stomach-churning yet just DING. He stumbles back once more, falling to a knee and looking between the two of us in disbelief. 

For a moment, the four of us say not a word, make not a sound. Frozen in time like a painting. Then the screaming comes. Wassim’s whole body shakes with his battle cry as he rises to his feet. Hands balled into fists, he charges. Another swing catches his face, and the bull collapses to the floor. Limp and moaning, all fight bleeds out of him.

Something plays in Kym’s eyes as she watches Wassim. Curious, hungry, deviant. Opportunity. Her grip on the pot handle tightens. Her lips pull into a faint smirk. An unfamiliar darkness shines there, filling her narrowed eyes as well. She steps forward, slow and deliberate, and looms over the broken boy. She waits there, her back turned to me, for a long contemplative moment.

Pinnow eases out of his position, finding Kym and her pot. Confused and frightened as ever, he whispers her name in a shaky breath.

“Run along, Pinnow,” she says with an eerie calmness. 

He doesn’t hesitate, taking flight with the pitter-patter of his tiny feet. Once Pinnow’s echoing footsteps fade into silence, Kym moves. She steps over Wassim, feet on either side of his torso. She looks down to him for a long moment, her tiny curls hanging. She doesn’t speak, and I don’t dare to. Cold rushes through the kitchen, trickles into my veins, and a pressure sets upon my heart. Slowly squeezing, a too-tight hug growing stronger and stronger.

But Kym seems unaffected. She gets to her knees, resting on Wassim’s lap as he gives up on trying to even wiggle away. She absorbs his powerlessness, unmoving for a long time, until finally she takes the pot handle with both hands.

“Kym, what are you doing?” I manage to ask. The torches dim at the question, or perhaps the tension in the air makes that effect.

“I think you were right, Rok,” she says, that unnerving evenness coming again. “Someone has to stick up for the others. Someone has to teach this fucker a lesson he won’t soon forget. He deserves this.”

“You’ve done enough,” I urge, the pressure not enough to silence my tongue. “Leave him be. Someone will find him and take him to the infirmary. He probably won’t even remember who did this to him. You don’t have to be the hero.”

“Not everyone wants to be the hero.”

The pot rises high into the air, wielded like a mighty sword in the stories from my book. And then it falls. Its ringing clash stops my heart, the pressure holding me tight in my spot and rendering me speechless. The pot crashes down again. And again. 

And again. 

And again.

And again.

And oh fuck, dear sweet Novhina, again.

MAKE IT STOP MAKE IT STOP MAKE IT STOP 

Her breath comes out jagged when she’s done. Her body gives little shakes, muscles too tired to continue.

He doesn’t move anymore. He doesn’t even breathe, as far as I can tell. 

The pot clangs to the floor, dented and splattered scarlet. 

She weeps.

The cold dissipates and the pressure relieves. The chokehold on my heart lets go at the sound of her sobs. The torches on the walls brighten to their natural illumination. The surrounding silence takes over, only allowing enough room for Kym’s tears. 

Careful, with a gentle touch, I help Kym rise to her feet. My hands on her shoulders, I guide her away from what is left of Wassim. She turns in my loose hold as we step closer to the doorway. Tears build up and overflow, her eyes lost between horror and unapologetic. Her crying breaks with a soft little laugh, her downturned lips briefly spreading out in a small smile every now and then before returning to the frown. Our eyes meet for a moment, hers drowning in fear while mine bleed worry. She melts into me, the tremors and tears coming softer.

“I don’t know what came over me,” she whispers. “What are we going to do?”

My heart gallops as I hold her gentle and close. Love and panic helm the stampeding cadence, the two of them taking turns as the leader in an endless back-and-forth.

“Get to your room as quick as you can,” my words finally come hushed but urgent. “I’ll take care of this.”

She pulls away, leaving us linked at our hands. We stand there for a heartbeat and trade wordless care and concern. She nods once, reaching beyond the veil of uncertainty and taking hold of what resolve she can find within herself. She doesn’t look back at the archway leading back out to the hallway. She disappears around the corner, and in the distance I hear the open and close of a door.

Continue to Chapter Seven, Part Two

Rokkoh and the Final Year, Chapter 6

The night’s air bites harder now, its teeth sharper to cut to the bone. A starry sky watches from above, and below bricks hold me. Propped against the stone wall of a building, my tired eyes open to Kym’s worried face. She crouches before me, her dark eyebrows scrunched up.

“Hey, you.” She lets a small smile tease on her lips. “You’re awake.”

“What happened?” The words come slow and groggy.

“You went ghost white after the show,” she tells me. “I kept asking if you were okay, and you kept mumbling something about an obsidian crown. You were really out of it, and I got a little scared, so I asked the Baroness if I could bring you outside for some fresh air. You were able to walk just fine, but as soon as we got here you just conked out.’

Her eyes dart to the mouth of the alleyway, faint voices trickling in. 

“You weren’t out long,” she continues. “A few minutes maybe. Sounds like the show is letting out now. We should get back to the Baroness.”

“Yeah, good idea,” I agree as I get up. Jelly legs wobble under me, but I’m able to stay up after a moment of questionable balance. I sturdy myself with the wall again, Kym taking hold of my arms to help. That worry flashes in her eyes again, and for a moment that old thought occurs. Now could be that moment. Now could be the chance. Here we are, alone, with little time before we need to reconvene with the others. It would be so easy. Just lean forward and let our lips find each other. For a moment, I think I see her desire for it, mixed in with the concern. Maybe it would make the both of us feel better, in our own ways.

“Well hello there, lovebirds,” a snide, irritating voice calls from the end of the alley. With a disgusting smirk and an arm around Telarria, Wassim approaches. 

“Was the performance too intense for you, Rokkoh?” Telarria asks with a sneer. “The singing was bad, but it wasn’t that bad.”

“Do everyone a favor, Wassim, and fuck off,” Kym snarls as I straighten up.

“How rude,” he feigns offense. “You really need to lighten up a bit, Kym. Let loose, relax. Life is more fun when you’re not so uptight.”

“Yeah, we’re only teasing,” Telarria adds.

Kym and I go to pass the couple, but Wassim sidesteps to block our path. A darkness fills his eyes, something sinister playing on his grinning lips. Despite my fatigue, everything in me longs for little else than to see my fist bruised from knocking his teeth in. If I could muster the strength, it would be effortless. I wouldn’t even have to reach very far; he stands within a swing’s length and is only a few inches taller than Kym. My only worry is if Telarria got caught in the crossfire, but then again sometimes collateral damage is unavoidable. Sure, the Baroness would find out quickly; the evidence would be unmistakable. But sometimes the punishment is worth the crime.

“Tell you what, gorgeous,” he lowers his voice. “How about you let go of the fainting spell here and come see how fun life can really get with the right company? I’ll even be nice and have Telarria keep him occupied so he won’t get too jealous or lonely.”

Kym’s grip on my arm tightens. Her angry hold becomes less supportive, now more of a way to hold herself back. She grits her teeth underneath her scowl. But her restrained flames feed my own pyre. Whether by passion, adrenaline, or divine fury, my body finds its strength. Pushing away from the wall and closing the small distance, my left hand takes a firm grasp of his shirt collar. With a pull I wrench Wassim even closer, lifting him until his tiptoes dangle barely above the ground. For a brief but sweet moment, his eyes go wide in surprise and fear. His breath catches for a moment, a gasp escaping him as he rises. 

Fuck, this feels good, this power, this righteous terror.

“Children!” the cold voice cuts through the chilling air. My hand releases Wassim’s shirt at the sound; he stumbles only for a moment when he lands on his feet. At the end of the alleyway stands the Baroness, scowling eyes staring us down. Cy helps the two younger boys into the carriage.

Kym moves forward and pulls me along. The Baroness’s icy glare watches as we pass and climb into the carriage. Once the whole party has filed in, the horses kick off and we all return to the quiet of the ride into Allendar. This time, however, Kym interlocks her fingers with mine, a nice little respite amongst the silent tension.

Continue to Chapter Seven, Part One

Rokkoh and the Final Year, Chapter 5, Part 2

This is part 2 for the fifth chapter of the current Rokkoh novella. If you have not read part 1, please click HERE to catch up!

The sconces along the walls turn low, the flames shrinking and dimming the place. The audience quiets with the growing darkness, reduced to only a few hushed conversations floating amongst the otherwise silence. A solitary hum rings out from behind the curtain. Confident and bold, yet subtle and foreboding, the low note stretches for a long moment. The red cloth like a giant’s blanket separates at the middle and pulls to each side. A cityscape is painted in the background, its details so precise that it almost looks real. Banners hang to and fro, little triangular flags spanning the spectrum of colors pointing to the ground from their curved line. Tables are set with a smorgasbord, and though their scent does not carry from the stage I wonder how much of the food is clever prop work.

Standing alone, adorned in a black gown and mourner’s veil, a woman stares at her feet. As the curtain disappears, the long note dances slow into a funeral song. Her head raises gradually; she takes her time before her eyes fall upon the full theatre. Red lips part within the veil, eyes sparkling with genuine tears. A melancholic melody escapes the Mourner, soft and somber, but she sings in some elven tongue I cannot understand. Based on my limited operatic knowledge and the name of the performance, I imagine she is delivering the prologue, the introduction to the story. Her eyes scan throughout the audience, connecting with a few there. She soon finds me, and she lingers as a word hangs in the air. My heart goes cold, sending a chill throughout my body. Is this some sort of magic meant to charm me into liking her song, or the whole act, more? Did any of the others get hit with this mysterious wave, or was it reserved for whoever she landed on for that last note that fades back into the music?

The Mourner’s gaze breaks from me as the cello cuts. I take in a gulp of air, unaware that I had been holding my breath. Kym nudges my arm, silent eyes worrying. As the Mourner strides to the side of the stage and disappears there, I offer Kym a faint smirk. She returns it, relieved, and takes my hand. I can’t deny that it does make me feel better. 

Blaring horns hit us hard with their bright calling. The cadence, reminiscent of regal trumpets, signals the entrance of a tall man. Long, elegant robes of red and black trail him as he comes in from the right, a rough hand twirling the pitch hairs on his chin. Built strong, yet wearing a look of worry, he paces amongst the food tables. Atop his head, nestled amongst the obsidian hair that hovers above his collar is a crown looking to be made of dark volcanic glass, rubies shining from the band. The points of his elven ears pierce through the black ocean, and his fair skin strikes bold amongst the surrounding dark colors. King Gallo Strand of Eastfall, in all his strength and glory before his inevitable demise. The history books claim him to have been a good king, but ultimately unlucky. Will this production be loyal to those stories or paint him in a different light? Or will it focus on that unluckiness?

Excited voices come from the left, and soon a man and a woman appear. The man sports a well-fitted suit of greens and greys, as well as a golden crown studded with dazzling diamonds. Like the other man, his hair is black, though King Raghnall Thorne’s style is trimmed short and beardless. The points of his ears do not hide. The woman at his side is draped in white, the train of her dress a long silk. Golden hair that covers the ends of her ears flows far past her shoulders, part from each side braided into one thick weaving. Both glow with warm and radiant tan skin. A colorful bouquet clutched close to her breast, Marina beams at King Gallo from across the stage. Their eyes meet, and in an instant his anxiety is replaced by such a pure awe. In a way, it reminds me of myself when I see Kym after a hard day sometimes.

The horns quell, giving room for the strings to breathe life into a sweet romantic melody. King Gallo, marveling at her beauty, sings in a clear baritone. Nothing but elation lights his face, which Marina mirrors as she joins in. The two take slow steps toward each other, their voices intertwining and playing off each other to form a heartwarming ballad. Her impressive bright soprano lifts high while his baritone keeps them grounded. Words of love, I’m sure. King Raghnall smiles quietly to himself, arms crossed over his chest in pride and delight. For a moment, his eyes go to a bowl of fruit. As the others remain focused on each other, he plucks a couple grapes from a bunch and pops them into his mouth.

From behind the grape-thief comes an older man clad in a plain orange robe tied at the waist with a thin rope. Sewn into the front his robe is a silver symbol: two figures hold each other close, their torsos crossing over one another to form a point. The symbol of Dalogbe, Novhina of Love. I’ve only ever seen it in books before. Bald-headed but with a long white beard, wrinkles grace his warm russet face. The Priest’s ears are longer than all the others’ and curl downward at the ends. His jovial expression grows brighter at King Raghnall’s surprised jump after a quick clap on the shoulder. The couple step apart, allowing the Priest of Dalogbe space as he sings what I imagine is a congratulatory speech in a high tenor. His hands wave far out to his sides, and a dozen people arrive from both sides of the stage. Every one of them showcases their glee, and all but the couple fill the theatre with a happy song. 

The Priest waves his hands once more, cutting their voices and sending the tune into a quieter and more graceful one. He looks to the couple for a moment, and they close the gap once more. Marina’s hands slip into those of her betrothed as the holy man sings to the crowd, his eyes searching for someone. King Raghnall raises his hand and chimes in with a low bass. As soon as the onlookers’ attention is off him, he sneaks more grapes. The Priest returns to the couple, singing to each of them for a brief moment. They respond, eyes aglow with nothing but ecstasy and love. They don’t even look at the old man, either not able or unwilling to break away from each other. 

The Priest calls to King Raghnall once more, beckoning with a curling of his outstretched fingers. With a cheerful call back, he steps forth. Passing through the crowd, he digs into his pockets for something. As he reaches the clergyman and the lovebirds, he holds an open hand out to them. King Gallo and Marina each reach into his palm and lift a ring to the light; Marina holds a simple gold band, and King Gallo lets the diamond set on a silver band shimmer in the light. King Raghnall returns to his position, catching eyes with a redheaded wedding guest on his way. 

The Priest’s hands lower to rest on the bride’s and groom’s shoulders. They take turns sliding the little round metal hoops onto each other’s fingers, singing something sweet and presumably binding. The choir and the characters let loose a string of joyful noises. The music builds up a powerful chord with them. The Priest raises his hands to the heavens once more as the couple turns to face the crowd. I know they’re only actors, and none of this is real, but the exhilarating exultation pulls on my heartstrings. For a moment, I envy them, their unlimited bliss. One day, maybe that feeling and freedom could be mine.

The final note rings out, the onlookers’ arms raised high as if to praise the newlyweds. King Raghnall, however, eyes that same redhead. With a cool smirk and an easy hand, he pulls her to his side. She looks up at him, bites her lip, and follows as he sneaks off the stage. Those remaining break into cheers as the tune concludes, and the red curtain closes. The audience’s applause fills in the gap of the performers as their voices fade.

The velvet recedes once more, and we quiet ourselves before the stage is fully revealed. The tables of food are gone, replaced by a desk whose top is littered with bits of parchment and rolled up scrolls. Peaking through the windows of the stone wall backdrop is the sprawling cityscape so real that for a moment I wonder if it is some sort of illusion. Hung up all around are portraits of elden rulers, six in total. Each man in the paintings hosts dark hair and the glistening black crown set with rubies. Three panels stand along the wall, each holding a large map: one of Eastfall with its cities and topography; another shows Eastfall’s neighbors, Everglow to the north and Elkenrast to the west; the last displays the whole of the continent.

Sitting behind the desk, mulling over the various bits of paperwork, is King Gallo. Dressed down to plain clothes, his crown still sits proud atop his head. Three loud knocks accompany quiet staccato strings and even quieter dark woodwind notes that stretch and fill the void. King Gallo hits hard on two consecutive notes, landing on the rhythm of the strings as they flare up for just a moment, and bids someone to enter.

The music softens and turns light as Queen Marina skips in with a smirk. A simple dress, made of lace in shades of pink and white, flows with every bouncy step. Flutes chimes in with a dancing birdlike melody as she advances across the stage. Her voice comes bright and happy, a springtime bird flitting about the room. She lands on the edge of his desk, curious eyes glancing over the papers there. King Gallo looks up from the piece in his hand, and the grave focus in his face washes away. The two, settling into an easy flirtation, go back and forth with what feels like a guessing game. After a few wrong answers, King Gallo rests back against his chair and admits defeat. Queen Marina beckons him with a curling finger, and he obeys. Rising to his feet, he steps around the desk. When he comes near enough, she pauses her playful melody and takes hold of his hand. She presses it to her stomach, holding it loosely yet dearly. It takes King Gallo a moment for the realization to hit. Wide eyes flash from her stomach to her eager face, his own surprise filling his entire being. He pulls her into a tight overjoyed squeeze, lifting his Queen off her feet as they spin in glee. The emotion escapes through his mouth when they stabilize, ringing high. She joins back in, her voice going lower so they sing in unison. The music underneath them flutters from one note to the next and so on. 

Their celebration almost drowns out another round of knocking. King Gallo allows them entry nonetheless, this time with enthusiasm. A figure clad in black chain armor marches in, his helmet tucked under his arm. Dark orange hair is cut short, the last hues of a sunset giving in to the night. A stern look glows in his eyes, a scowl turning his pale and clean face sour. Like the others, the tips of his ears come to a point. The profile of a great angry horned reptile is outlined in crimson across his breastplate, the sigil for the now-lost country of Eastfall. According to the cast list, this must be General Severin Bloodwood.

The music goes dark once more, serious and punctuated with rolling snare drums. A gruff baritone escapes him as he approaches, stopping a few feet away from the happy couple. The light melody turns sharp, accented by minor chords and unease. For a moment, the King’s and Queen’s faces flicker with worry and confusion. As the General utters one final word with a dramatic pause, the other two break from the brief caution and return to their smiles. They deliver a synchronized laugh that leaves the General puzzled. He doubles down on his concern, his voice growing stronger and adamant. A pointed finger takes aim at the regional map and focuses on a stretch of the Eastfall-Elkenrast border dotted with tree symbols. He is met with the same carefree sound. King Gallo steps away from his wife, clapping a gentle hand on the General’s shoulder with words of assurance. They seem to bring little comfort to the General, but with a sigh and a downcast look he concedes.

More knocks come, calling King Gallo’s attention. He gives the General another soft insistence, likely telling him not to worry, before going to the left edge of the stage. He opens the imaginary door there, and roars with excitement when King Raghnall appears. The latter gives the former a jubilant hug as he steps onto the stage, and Queen Marina sings a pleasant hello. General Bloodwood, however, backs toward the wall. He steals a distrustful glance at the guest before turning an unfocused attention to the maps. The music transitions back into an upbeat tune as King Raghnall crosses the room to greet Queen Marina with a kiss on the cheek and a hug. The two exchange words while General Bloodwood shoots a wide-eyed look of warning to his majesty. With a silent wave of his hand, King Gallo dismisses the General from the room. The man in black obeys, but not without one last pleading look of caution. He gives a final subtle bow and is gone. King Gallo watches the door for a long moment, his own worry setting in as his gaze returns to his wife and their friend. He wipes it away with a stroke of his black beard.

Queen Marina calls to her husband with a cheery sound that brings a small smile to his lips. Her long golden locks bounce as she strides toward him. He meets her halfway, taking her into his arms as they twirl with a playful little dialogue. King Raghnall leans against the desk, his hand reaching back toward the pile of papers and scrolls. Once such scribbling slips into his fingers and is swiftly pocketed as the couple do their little dance. King Gallo, with a hand on the small of her back, dips the woman and gives her a sweet before straightening them again. Queen Marina beams to their regal neighbor, and as she sings her hand goes to her stomach once more. King Raghnall’s face lights up when he understands. The three of them, singing altogether, meet in the center of the stage where the Kings shake hands and hugs are shared all around.

The velvet closes once more, the voices and instruments fading until only a quiet and simple monotone rhythm remains. Our applause, as before, drowns it out. As before, when the red pulls apart once more the crowd settles back into its silent awe and wonder.

The stage opens to the same scenery, though now the map containing the Eastfall-Elkenrast border is marred by red x’s along their shared woodland edge. The punctuated snare drum rolls in again, nestled amongst the ominous strings. General Bloodwood stands there once more. King Gallo has returned to his chair at the desk, head in his hands and covering his eyes. The General marks another X on the map, making it a total of four. He sings his irritation in an aggressive tone as he marches toward the desk. Angry eyes bear down on the sovereign. When the General comes near, only a few steps away from the desk, King Gallo raises his head and looks upon his General with a pained exasperation. He roars something back, overtaking the onslaught of words and silencing the ginger-haired man. Dark curls hang around his face as he rises to his feet, a snarl on his lips and bitterness on his tongue.

My heart races at the argument, part of my brain tricked into thinking the heated bickering to be genuine. Perhaps emotions off-stage are what fuels the exchange, both of them taking out personal grievances on the other. Or, maybe, they are both just that amazing in their craft. I’m inclined to believe the latter.

Queen Marina rushes in, not bothering to knock before intruding. She carries a bundle in her arms and a folded square of parchment between her fingers. The men quell their fight upon her arrival, though both still burn hot. The Queen holds out the note to her husband, tears in her eyes as she pleads with him. King Gallo takes the note, and for a moment all goes quiet. The strings hum barely more than a whisper. The crowd holds its breath. The color in his face drains to grey. General Bloodwood’s anger slips out of his grasp and fear soon takes over. Queen Marina looks between the two of them, holding the bundle close to her chest. She rocks it in her arms, a slow soothing motion. 

King Gallo’s words come laced with mournful morbid melancholy. Queen Marina’s tears break the dam and cascade in a flood down her cheeks. General Bloodwood stumbles back a step, his gaze aimless as his hand goes to the hilt of the sword at his side. King Gallo, after a long moment, clears his throat. He beckons his beloved, who rushes to him. The music builds behind them, bittersweet and somber. He holds her face with a loving touch, and she leans into it. He sings softly to her, his voice daring to break. Yet he holds strong, not allowing his own tears to go beyond his eyes. The two share a kiss, a parting gift, before he turns his attention to the bundle. He lifts it out of her arms, cradling it carefully. His strength weakens as shaky and tearful words escape him; tears soon fall. He places a sweet kiss upon the bundle and hands it back to his wife. Queen Marina makes her way to the door, pausing only to look upon her husband one last time, and disappears.

 King Gallo lets out an uneasy sigh as his eyes remain on the door, but reclaims his composure. He calls to the General, who snaps to attention at the sound. The King, wiping away the wetness on his face, gives a command and signals for the door. Determined with a new fire in him, General Bloodwood nods and obeys. Drawing his sword, he exits.

King Gallo turns back to his desk and rests his palms on the surface. That wavering voice returns, weak and subdued, with his soliloquy. In a burst of energy accompanied by a heavy thrashing line, he flings the papers and other items atop the desk to wherever they may land. He glances around the room, drenched in his lonely frenzy, pleading to the Novhina. He finds the portraits hanging from the stone wall and stands before the one on the far right. His fingers caress the oil paint, stretching but unable to stroke the man’s face there. King Gallo fades into a whisper, shaking, and collapses back onto his knees. He kneels before us, desperate eyes searching for something. He crawls toward the stage’s edge and stops in the center. Blue eyes reddened by the knowledge of what the future holds find me, and as with the Mourner my body runs cold. 

King Gallo reaches out a trembling hand. Everything in me tells me to take that hand, to help calm him somehow, to offer words of comfort I have read in books. I want to get up on that stage and hold him. I don’t want him to cry anymore. I want to help him stave off what’s about to come. I want to fight for him, with him. I want us to find the General and the Queen so we can all escape Eastfall and be safe. 

But none of it is real. I have to remind myself of that. Despite the strange magic that sinks its hooks into me, he’s a performer, an entertainer, an actor. He is not the real King Gallo. That was not the real Queen Marina. The history books have told me the ending of their tale. These elves are just reenacting it. They weren’t there, just reciting lines written by a bard. The emotion, the pleading, it’s all part of the act. 

He weeps. 

Pulling into himself, he rests back on his heels. The music cuts entirely, and only the sounds of his sobbing fill the theatre. Guilt seeps into my skin, courses through my veins. I should have done something, anything, to help. But what is there to do but watch and appreciate an actor’s brilliant performance? Surely there are rules to prevent audience participation, especially in productions such as this.

The clatter of armor wakes him from his reverie. Timid strings and horns follow soon after, and once again I’m able to breathe. Getting back to his feet, he turns to find the General falling backwards into the room. Arrows stick out from various parts of the black chain, less than half a dozen in total. King Gallo hurries to the General and catches him in time before the armored one hits the floor. Blood trickles out of the corner of the General’s mouth as he tries to say something, but the words come difficult and broken. King Gallo soothes the man as best as he can, wipes the blood from his mouth and chin.

Footsteps approach. A dozen men clad in steel armor and green cloaks enter the room, weapons out and eager to spill blood. They part down the middle and allow someone to walk through. With a golden crown adorned with diamonds atop his head and polished gilded steel armor emblazoned by the image of an eagle sitting on a tree branch, King Raghnall enters. A vile, vicious, victorious smirk darkens his face. He stops in front of the other two men, sneering down at them. His low, villainous bass resonates as he taunts them, mocks them. With a snicker and a wave of his hand, he summons one of his men. The soldier rounds on King Gallo and General Bloodwood and separates them. With a tight grip on the ruler’s arm, the soldier drags King Gallo forward and releases him at King Raghnall’s feet. General Bloodwood falls to the floor, motionless and struggling to breathe.

King Raghnall takes his foe’s chin in his hand, making the unarmed man meet him in the eyes. King Gallo wrenches himself out of the light grasp and spits on the gilded steel armor, issuing a curse upon his former friend. King Raghnall offers a chuckle in return, a slow and disturbing thing. Taking a step back, he unsheathes the sword at his side. The music crescendos and scales into a shrill and terrifying sound. The blade swings high and makes its descent. The lights go out and the instruments go silent. My heart stops and I clench tight to Kym’s hand. I can feel her gaze on me, but my eyes are glued to the stage.

A short moment later, the scones reignite and light fills the theatre once more. The strings and horns return, this time carrying a light-hearted melody. The cast lines up across the width of the stage. The audience bursts into uproarious applause, giving an enthusiastic standing ovation. Though all the energy feels to have drained out of me, I find myself on my feet and clapping along with the admiration. After a simultaneous bow, the curtain closes one final time. As the scarlet velvet comes together, I feel the Mourner’s eyes on me as they had been at the beginning of the performance. Kym takes my hand again, shaking loose the cold in me with her sweet warmth. Her dark eyes ask if I’m okay, but I have no answer this time. Any response is wiped away by the dizzy feeling in my head, and soon her face fades to black.

Continue to Chapter Six

Rokkoh and the Final Year, Chapter 5, Part 1

Quick note about this chapter: it ended up being really long, so I have divided it into two parts. Although there is not a clean break, I have done my best to find the easiest place to separate parts one and two. Thank you very much for your understanding!

Uncomfortable, heavy silence fills the carriage as we ride for Allendar. Under the eye of the groomed bear Cy, we keep our mouths shut. After all, it is known to be a grave offense to speak while the Baroness reads. Her tome of choice is bound in leather dyed lavender, the title on the spin obscured by alabaster hands. The silk of her dress matches the hue, and I wonder if that choice was deliberate. Then again, things rarely seem accidental or happenstance with the Baroness. I would imagine that this trip itself was simply so she had an excuse to leave the Tower for a night. Or maybe it’s an elaborate scheme to get more traffic to the Tower of Lost Children so she can be rid of an extra orphan or two.

She has us dressed as nice as possible, our Showing clothes cleaned and pressed for this special occasion. For us boys, button-down shirts tucked neatly into black pants. It is the same for the girls, though long black skirts in place of the pants. This attire is usually reserved for Showing days, when prospective parents visit and peruse the Baroness’s wares. Otherwise, our wardrobes are filled with more casual clothing for day-to-day wear. Although our ranks have grown by at least one per month for the last year, few leave for a new life with new parents. My theory on marketing grows stronger at the thought.

The eight of us cram along the length of either side of the carriage. The Baroness reads quietly in the opposite corner of me, a small pleasant smirk on her red painted lips. Next to her sits a twelve-year-old boy named Henock. His short hair is brushed neatly to the left, brown waves. He twiddles his thumbs in varying rhythms, and his eyes avoid the rest of the group. Wassim sits next to him; his warm sun-kissed hand intertwines with the peach of Telarria’s. Hungry rum eyes watch her, a devious lustful look that spreads to his upturned mouth. She returns a bashful grin with a blush in her cheeks, evidence of colorful thoughts he sends to her. Her hair, a bold orange, is tied into a knot at the top of her crown.

On our side of the small space, Cy takes up enough room for nearly two men. His long maple brown hair speckled by little streaks of ash is tamed from the wild overgrown bush to a trimmed hedge in the shape of a well-crafted braid. His beard of similar color is straightened; as he sits, the ends settle in his lap. I have wondered more times than I can count how often he finds crumbs of old meals in that mane. Beside him, fearing his safety next to the bear, is Henock’s guest: another younger boy named Quinlan. Obsidian hair hangs just past his jaw, straight and curtaining his smooth sand face. The fear in his small dark eyes also may be in part to the beauty sitting between him and me. Though her apparel is plain like the rest of ours, she is radiant. The ringlets that regularly hang around her face are tucked behind her right ear, fastened by a barrette. Made of gold (either genuine or faux, I have no way of telling the difference), and bejeweled with three jade stones on either side, I marvel at it in my silence. She only wears it on those rare Showing days, a touch of flair to help her stand out amongst all the others. 

Unlike all the others, Kym closes her eyes. Dark eyebrows furrow, the corners of her lips curl down, and her hands cup together as if she has trapped a firefly. She holds the look for a long time, almost seemingly in pain, and it sends an ache through me. My hand reaches out to her slow and silent, but hovers near her enclosed fingers. Something flashes there, a small blue spark that comes and goes so quick that I question if I had seen anything at all. A trick of the low candlelight perhaps. But how? I wait for it to return, to verify its existence, but nothing but darkness waits in between her palms. My hand rests back into my lap, and Kym’s face eases into its resting position. Her fingers unwind and relax, and just for a moment I expect to see that tiny light again. There are only the lines curving like dry riverbeds.

Her eyes reopen, and she glances at me out of the corner. An inquisitive eyebrow joins forces with her little grin, asking me why I’m staring. My attention goes to her hands, perfect dark digits folded in her lap. She follows me there. Her fingers spread out, palms up, and I pray for the magic. Her eyes meet mine once more. Focused, determined, serious dark orbs lock on. Confidence plays on her lips. I cannot break away from her gaze, I won’t. And in a moment, in the same breath, she softens. Her hand takes hold of mine, a simple and sweet gesture. All is right in the world, and the following hour comes and goes too soon.

The carriage stops amongst the bustle of the city and buzz of excited voices. The doors open, the light of the tall lamps filling the space and outshining the low candles within. Stepping out onto the brick road, I turn back and offer my hand to Kym when it is her turn to exit. Buildings stretch to the sky all around us, storefronts advertise their various wares, horses clop up and down the road as they escort passengers here and there. A congregation of men and women adorned in luxurious regalia gathers outside a wide building made of stone. Its face is plastered with posters reading “This week only: the Urbain Brothers’ Elven Acting Troupe” in several languages. 

Kym and I make room for the others to get out, wandering a step further down the road. Soon, the Baroness corrals us all together and we join the throng. The doors open, men in fine suits welcoming patrons and ushering them inside. The Baroness, leading our little pack, hands one such man all eight tickets, making a note that our party ends with the large man at the back. He gives us each a polite smile and returns torn halves of the tickets as we pass through the doorway and enter the atrium.

A boy not much younger than me approaches shortly after our entrance. He wears a grin as if it is part of his uniform and offers to guide our octet to our seats. With a simple nod and a flash of what remains of our set of tickets, the Baroness allows his request. All around are similar boys, all dressed in sleek black vests over white shirts paired with black pants. Some extend themselves as an escort to whoever will let them, and others hand out pamphlets. We pass one such latter boy and accept his little gift. Is this a normal job for young men in Allendar? Do good looking boys from nice wealthy families get the privilege to be employed in fancy places like these? Or do they come from more meager backgrounds, earning their wages to put food on the table? Can they have a job here even with nothing in their past? Would I be welcome here? Not that I’m interested in applying, of course. The clientele are too rich-blooded for my taste.

We are led through an open archway, one of many that line the wall, and pass into a dim-lit room. Wide and expansive, its ceiling almost as high as the sky itself, and full of plush seats facing a stage, we are taken to the very front. Our group occupies a whole half of the row, and as we relax into the plush I say a prayer for whichever souls are stuck behind our behemoth. Though they will not be able to see much of the show, hopefully the music will make up for it.

As with our queue outside, the six of us are bookended by our adult chaperones. The Baroness sits to our left, surely to have the best of view of the show. Kym takes the spot to the right, and I provide a buffer between her and Henock. His friend Quinlan continues the line, looking uncomfortable with Wassim seated next to him. The bully pays him no attention, though, and instead focuses on and whispers things to Telarria. Cy looks around, eyeballing strangers here and there who likely return the odd look. 

A cacophony of voices swell and fill the theatre until it is no longer several voices in various tongues but becomes a wave that comes and goes with its decipherability. Trying to pick out the different conversations is maddening, my eavesdropper ears not able to keep up with the rapid and frequent change of dialects and speakers. I set my attention then to the cardinal curtain: long fabric stretching from the ceiling to the stage floor in an undulating expanse from left to right. Its bottom edge eases back and forth with an unknown gentle wind. Beyond it, nearly overpowered by upper class chattery, comes a twinkling of strings tiptoeing through the meadow of a sleeping beast. Though it wishes to go unnoticed, relying on the noise of the crowd, I can still pick up bits and pieces of violins, cellos, and even a couple horn instruments. Short little runs here and there, minute notes changing so incrementally, until soon it’s all gone and the rabble all around drowns it out. Rich scarlet words, regal yet blocky, scream out from the pamphlet. The letters, outlined in a piercing black, read: The Final Year of Eastfall: An Opera. Below the title, scrawled in a fine script, someone called S Lightfoot is credited as the writer. Though the library back at the Tower has a plethora of tomes, I don’t think I’ve ever come across the name. Perhaps this S Lightfoot is a small-time scribe, or maybe just new to the realm of the written word. Listed down the middle of the page and in order of appearance, taking up a bulk of the space, are the performers: Léonce Géroux as the Mourner; Arihel d’Jasso as King Gallo Strand of Eastfall; Eulalie d’Jasso as Queen Marina Strand of Eastfall; Unai Rousseau as King Raghnall Thorne of Elkenrast; Izar the Elder as the Priest of Dalogbe; Elyair le Faure as General Severin Bloodwood. The royal names are the only ones that stick out; I’ve seen them in my history books.

Continue to Chapter Five, Part Two

Rokkoh and the Final Year, Chapter 4

A carriage waits outside the Tower. Two young adults, a boy and girl whose names always escape me, stand at its backend. Two dozen pairs of eyes drink in their uncertainty and fear as the two of them adjust the bags on their backs. Most of us older kids have taken this spot at the mouth of the Tower several times to bid farewell to friends. Tears have been shed, goodbyes have been said, bonds have been lost here. I cannot count how many times I have witnessed the Departure Ceremony for orphans too old to stay at the Tower. The last time I had seen Augustin had been in this spot. There are still six months left before it is my turn to board the carriage and embark on my life’s journey. Gotta make them count.

Kym, Max, and I stand near the back with the few other seventeen-year-olds. A cool breeze blows salt from the sea through the air, a crisp bite that brings Kym an inch closer to me. Our hands graze each other, but the public rule remains in effect. Sometimes I wonder if Max suspects anything, and if so what he thinks. If he hasn’t noticed, is it by choice or by ignorance? And if he has, why does he hold his tongue? To be fair, there’s nothing really to admit. Beyond holding hands, we haven’t done anything to offend him. The almost-kiss doesn’t count, does it?

The Baroness steps between the crowd and the carriage. Even in the sunlight, her skin is white as paper. She sports a long dark coat to combat the oncoming cold, and in her gloved hands she holds a small square scrap of parchment. Her hazel eyes peruse the gathering, a hint of a smirk on her bloody lips. Soon it spreads wide, polished teeth nearly shining in the light.

“Today, we come together to wish our friends Kacir Thorburn and Ellian Aritza well as they set off to start their new lives,” she calls out, loud and clear so that even the adults doing their work inside the main tower can hear. “Kacir came to us only a few short years ago, and Ellian a few before that. Over the course of their time with us, they have learned valuable skills that will aid them in the next chapter of their stories.

“Kacir, what will you be doing in your first footsteps of adulthood?” The smile goes from the crowd to the tow-headed boy, wide and unflinching.

Always the same question, the same speech, the same fake performative grin. Shit, even the same fucking green dress and updo. It all tastes like charade, like an insincere obligation to uphold, like a ritual. I could damn near recite the whole spiel by now. Does she have it all written down somewhere, stashed on her desk in case she forgets it from one month to another? Or has she committed it to memory by now? I won’t be surprised if, when my time comes, nothing will change but the names of those leaving. 

“I’m going to be a soldier,” Kacir answers, a hint of pride showing in his small smirk. 

“How admirable!” the Baroness muses before looking to the girl. “And what about you, dear Ellian?”

“I don’t know,” the girl responds. “Haven’t found anything I want to do.”

“We all find our paths in time,” the Baroness comforts her. Her lips close around her teeth, adding a glint of judgment and condescension to her smile. 

Halfway through my final year, and like Ellian I do not yet have a plan for when I leave. Most have gone to Allendar to take up trades or enlist like Kacir. At Augustin’s ceremony, he claimed to be joining a temple, though he had not seemed too keen on the idea. His normal excited and cheerful self had been replaced by a reluctant, unsure, almost melancholy boy. At the time, I thought the mood change had been due to Max’s absence, or perhaps the homesickness setting in early. But in hindsight, maybe there had been more to it. Had he been forced into that life? Was it to teach him some sort of lesson? Was he even still at that temple now or had he found a way to escape such religious chains to be a truly free man? My heart twinges with a sting of sadness, missing my old friend. 

“It is time to say goodbye, children,” the Baroness announces as she steps away from the two of them. “We wish you, Kacir Thorburn and Ellian Aritza, nothing but happiness and success as your venture into adulthood!”

The carriage doors swing open at the words. The boy and girl shuffle toward the opening, Ellian climbing in first. A moment later, the door closes behind Kacir. The crowd breaks into cheers, many youthful voices shouting goodbyes and good lucks. The driver snaps the reins and the horses take off down the road. They take the southern road, the horses kicking up to quick trot as they head toward Allendar.

As the Baroness turns from the departing carriage and back to the gaggle, her wide-brimmed smile shrinks to a closed-lipped scowl. A sigh leaves her, shooting out her nostrils. She looks to someone at the front of the crowd and beckons with a small hand gesture. A girl no older than thirteen steps forward, a small wicker basket in her hands. The girl’s long blonde braids flare out for a moment as she turns in place at the Baroness’s side.

“There are only a few weeks left until the trip into the city,” she announces. “Many of you no longer qualify, but for those who do, I will now draw the names of the lucky three winners. As mentioned before, you are allowed to bring a guest if they also are qualified to attend this occasion. May Glordunak smile upon you and grant you Her favor.”

A hand gloved in white reaches over to the basket, her fingers playing in the collection of names. After a short moment of digging, her hand resurfaces from the little paper lake with a folded piece betwixt her fingers. She unfolds the scrap, her eyes going from whatever name is written there back to the crowd. The Baroness searches for a moment, haunting hazel eyes landing on someone in the middle of the gathering.

“First is Henock Naess,” she declares. A group near the Baroness’s focus erupts into a cheer, and others throughout the crowd offer unenthusiastic applause. The Baroness lets it last for a moment before diving back into the pile.

“Next is Telarria Forsberg,” she says once the noise dissipates, her now-resigned gaze going to a group positioned in the far right corner. Less fanfare comes with the name, but Janco and Jibara make up for the silence with booming celebration. Wassim, holding Telarria’s hand as they are fixed between the behemoths, wears a boastful grin.

“Such bullshit,” Max groans quietly. Kym and I give similar grunts of agreement.

“At least we know now why they’ve mostly been laying low,” Kym adds.

“It’ll be back to old business after the trip, without a doubt,” I comment.

The Baroness dives into the basket one final time. The hazels tease as they linger on the prospects, taking their time on myself and Kym. An insurmountable beast borne of our collective hope and suspense riles up on its hind legs and issues its warning call for release. The Baroness bathes in the silent sound, sweet nourishment for a bitter hag, before revealing the last folded paper. An eager little square dying to spread out and give up its handwritten secret. While some wait with bored impatience, others hold their breath and beg the gods for their name to be scrawled across the parchment. But only one more of us can have it, and I cannot deny how my own heart yearns for the prize. 

Kym takes a tight hold of my hand, and I return the squeeze. The Baroness’s eyes find us, a hint of a smirk betraying her cold gaze. Her mouth moves, scarlet lips parting to shape the name prepared on her tongue. The anticipation swells to its peak, and she finally utters the name:

“Kym Rudge.”

Nothing can contain our excitement. The nearest kids add their good spirits to our celebration. Even Max offers a holler or two. But the world slips away as my girl wraps her arms around my neck and pulls me into a warm, perfect embrace. It ends in a second when she unlatches and we pull apart. Possible prying eyes force the brevity, lest rumors set in like the evening mist.

“Congratulations, winners,” the Baroness puts her fake smile back on. “Submit your requested guest to me within the week so that I can make the necessary arrangements. Failure to do so will result in forgoing your option to bring an approved guest. Enjoy the rest of your day, children. Lessons will resume in the morning.”

Like a spirit she drifts away, steady stride carrying her toward the second Tower. The crowd disburses into little clumps that wander every which way. Wassim and his cronies linger for a moment, the rat-faced leader eying Telarria like vulnerable prey. She returns the look with a toothy grin, happy and longing. The great twin buffoons talk excitedly about something I can’t decipher. Pinnow, on the other hand, sits on the grass, his attention fixed on the little bug crawling up his arm. It isn’t long before he is scooped up by one of the twins, setting the little one on his shoulders. The quintet set off around the rocky base of the main Tower, Pinnow’s delighted giggle trailing them.

“How much you wanna bet one of them fucks up before the trip?” I posit as we meander.

“Not likely,” Max shrugs. “They worked hard enough to have the chance. Why would they ruin it last minute?”

“Because they’re stupid and careless,” Kym offers, leading us toward the shore. “I personally wouldn’t be sad if they had their invitation revoked.”

“Is it time for a little bit of blackmail?” I ask once we are far enough away from possible rubberneckers. “A touch of framing, perhaps? Plant some fake evidence?”

“And risk getting caught and losing your spots?” Max asks. “Is it worth it?”

“This might be our last chance to go to the city before you leave,” Kym pleads with sad eyes. “Let’s be safe and not ruin it.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I admit.

We stop at the crest of the dune. The water sways back and forth in a gentle beckoning. Kym and I set to descend, but Max remains still at the top. Glancing back to him, his attention goes back to the Tower as if it calls his name. Midway to the beach, the two of us halt.

“You coming, Max?” Kym asks, confused by his hesitance.

“Uh, no, I don’t think so,” he says after a too-long awkward silence. “I’ve been expecting a letter. I should go see if it’s in yet.”

“Who would be writing to you?” she presents her follow-up.

Max’s gaze goes from the Tower to us and back again, eyebrows scrunched and a torn look plain on his face. He fidgets with his fingers, a rare mannerism that fills his timid quiet with cracks and pops. He released a hard breath, a jagged sigh, before shaking his head.

“Just… someone,” he finally says. “I’ll see you guys later.”

Max disappears in a second, leaving us confused and full of questions. Kym sighs after a moment, slips her hand in mine, and guides me onward to the shore.

Continue to Chapter Five, Part One

Rokkoh and the Final Year, Chapter 3

Seven months and I’m free. One month and I might get to go to the city. No fights, no backtalk, no curfew violations. Kym has kept clean, too. Max, on the other hand, did not last long; as he predicted, a poor choice of words in the presence of the wrong person removed him from the lottery. A surprising number of kids are still in the running, among them Wassim, Telarria, and Pinnow. The Bludgeoning Brothers were caught shaking a girl down for her pocket change within the first few days.

Countless legends play out before us in the clear night sky. Conquerors, mages, philosophers, humble heroes. They tell us their stories as we rest on the still-warm sand of the shore, the tales accompanied by the gentle in and out of the tide. The salt of the sea fills our noses, enhanced by the remaining yet waning heat. Our rolled coats act as pillows, my hand intertwined with hers in a comfortable and casual embrace. We don’t speak of the gesture. To do so would bring it to life, and for now it must remain in this pleasant purgatory. The thought remains, the want, the hope. But the words stay locked away, and I am without a key.

“There!” Kym points at a cluster of stars. “Neqinerei’s raven, Sisateniun.”

“Ah,” I say when the bird’s form takes shape, “the sneaky little murderer.”

“It’s not her fault people might die when she’s up to her master’s trickery,” Kym suggests. “You gotta crack some eggs to make an omelet, right?”

“Careful, don’t want Sister Signe hearing you say that,” I warn with a gentle smirk. “She might think you’re a Neqinerei worshiper.”

“And if I was?” she asks. “What would you think?”

The swell and recession of the tide fills my brief silence.

“As long as I’m in on the mischief, and not the target, it doesn’t bother me,” I answer, turning my head to look at her. 

“What if I killed someone?” The question comes quieter, more cautious. Her eyes stay on the stars, but even in the dying light the dark orbs scream with fear.

“Have you killed someone?” I ask, my tone light to avoid sincerity.

“No.” Her lips pull into a humored smile, the tension gone. Her eyes meet mine, her tight tiny curls resting on her cheekbones. “It’s only hypothetical.”

“Just don’t kill me,” I tell her, my own smirk growing. “I’d be really upset if you killed me.”

“I would be, too,” she says with a soft chuckle.

The calm oceanic rhythm plays in the background as we lie still, connected at the eyes in a sweet comfortable silence. She’s so close. It would be so easy to just lean over, to make that first move, to press my lips to hers. Instinct implores me, screams at me. Just get closer. She’s right there. You can do this. Her eyes wait for it, beg for it, I’m sure of it. The courage in me roars to life, a purposeful fire lighting the night. I inch toward her, my mouth beginning to form the proper shape to accept hers. My eyelids come to a close, and before a brief darkness takes over she mirrors my advance.

A bell, large and loud, beckons. We jolt up, our hands still clasped but our gaze shooting back to the Tower. The sound comes again, the chilling toll of doom bringing us to our feet.

“Shit, curfew!” the realization comes in a panic.

We release each other quick, collect our rolled-up coats, and climb the dune. Silhouetted on the western horizon stands the Tower of Lost Children. Its tall slender stature rests on a ridge. Its spire spikes high into the sky, the lantern below burning bright like a devil’s eye. Though the belfry is dark, the bell within rings out. Jutting out from the side of the tower is a smaller construction, only one story tall. At the base of the rocks, a rectangular building of light grey bricks judges us for being out too late. Behind the main tower is another, this one built on the flat earth. It stretches to meet its brother halfway. Several yards in front of it, out in the open, stalks the last building: ten feet tall, round, its stones charred and smooth and windowless, only a solid wooden door breaking its surface. Baltevmt’s Maw, reserved only for the worst offenders, watches as we pass. With summer coming to a close, so does its name. After autumn passes and we slip into winter, it will don its other moniker: The Frozen Chamber.

The bell taunts us with more ringing, laughing as it tells us we won’t make it inside before its eight and final chime. We push ourselves hard, legs pumping faster and faster to bring us closer evermore to the Tower’s entrance at the bottom of the ridge. My strides are longer than hers, but Kym keeps up without much extra effort.

Five…

Six…

Seven…

The door swings open free and easy as we collide with the wood. We trample to a stop just inside, hearts pounding as we catch our breath. The door shuts with a gentle click behind us, and as our eyes meet once more we break into a relieved laughter. The bell’s finale rings out until it fades into silence, as does our delight. 

“That was close,” Kym says between exhales. 

“Right?” I say back, trying to catch my breath as well.

If there was a time to make my move, it’s now. With adrenaline coursing through my veins, it would be even easier than the moment on the beach. We fall back into that comfortable quiet staring contest. My hand finds its way into hers once more. Her fingers interlock with mine, and her smile glistens. We come together, stepping close with such blissful expectancy. My free hand rises to her cheek to hold it with a gentle touch. My thumb caresses her skin, so soft and warm. Her hand finds my waist and pulls me in until our bodies touch. Our heads inch their way toward each other, eager lips tingling with desire and soul-tethered need. For a short, beautifully dangerous moment, there is only Kym and myself. I would live here forever if I could, savor it for as long as possible. The only thing better would be the kiss itself, that sweet collision of longing and fulfillment wrapped in romance’s innocent embrace.

I can almost feel her lips on mine already.

“Hi,” the child’s voice shatters the moment. 

We freeze for an agonizing second. The interruption separates us; we step apart and let go of each other. Bitter mourning of what could have been produces a heated irritation as the interloper stands a few yards from us. Short, blond, and thin, Pinnow’s emerald eyes watch from the archway. Naive and ignorant, he offers a polite little smile.

“Hi Pinnow,” I grumble. Kym hides her face.

“Are you guys heading to dinner?” he asks. “You’ve almost missed it.”

“Yeah, we’re going to dinner,” I tell him. “Are you just coming back?”

“No,” Pinnow shakes his little blond head. “Janco and Jibara were busy going around being mean to people, and Wassim and Tellaria went off somewhere. I’ve been on my own most of today and kind of forgot about dinner.”

Kym stops her hiding, and we exchange a look of pity and worry. She gives a single silent nod before her attention goes to the boy.

“You can come with us, if you want,” she says.

Pinnow’s face lights up at the offer. He turns in his spot and leads us through the hall. Kym and I look at each other with a brief look that says we could have encountered someone worse. We follow the small boy. Although we are back in the Tower, part of me yearns to hold her hand once more. I hush the desire; part of our unspoken pact prohibits such displays in public spaces. Neither of us would want some of the nastier kids to mock or ridicule us.

“So what were you guys doing out there?” his curiosity gets the better of him.

“Stargazing,” I answer with a quick honesty. “It’s a good night for it.”

“We like to tell each other the stories,” Kym adds.

“So are you two a couple then?” Pinnow asks as we round the corner to the Dining Hall. 

The two of us stop, hesitant and answerless. A flash of heat fills my face and reddens my cheeks, an awkward little grin spreading across both of our lips. Our eyes dart from one another to elsewhere, caught in the unknown of how to respond to Pinnow’s question. He soon stops as well, finding us several feet behind. Confused, he closes the gap.

“Is everything okay?” he asks. “Did I say something?”

“Nothing you did wrong, don’t worry,” Kym assures him, adjusting her awkward, or perhaps embarrassed, smile. “Why do you think we’re a couple?”

“I dunno,” Pinnow shrugs. “You guys are always hanging out together, even if Max isn’t around. You go stargazing together. Wassim and Tellaria do those kinds of things all the time, and they say they’re a couple. So I thought maybe you guys are too.”

Kym and I lock eyes once more in the deep awkward silence. Lost for words, we search for something, anything, we could tell him. Do we admit the truth hidden behind locked doors? Do we expose ourselves in such a raw and pure emotion? Do we lay our hearts on the line once and for all, stitch the pulsing bleeding bastards to our sleeves? The thought of that bliss being released sends my heart into a sprint and I don’t know if the rest of me can catch up. Three little words bubble up from my gut and sit sweet and serene on my tongue. But my lips do not part, stuck together by some unknown glue.

Her eyes beg, for what I am unsure. Within the same second I see both the longing and the shunning. The hope burning bright and the despair shrouding darkness. The unequivocal yes and the indisputable no. 

Kym kneels in front of Pinnow, leaning in close to his ear and covering her mouth to keep her words a secret. His face remains even, unaffected, calm. As she pulls away and returns to her feet, he gives her a small nod. Neither of them address the exchange any further, stepping into the dining hall. I catch Kym by the hand and pull her back with a gentle tug.

“What did you say?” My eagerness betrays my hope.

“None of your business,” he responds with a small sly smile and a wink. “Come on, let’s get some food.” 

Her hand slips out of mine as she takes a seat, and though my curiosity refuses to die I follow.

Continue to Chapter Four

Rokkoh and the Final Year, Chapter 2

Three months down, nine to go. I can do this. No fights, no petty thievery, no curfew violations. Easy enough so far. Then again, my fellow wards have shaped up and stopped harassing the younger kids. Maybe they truly did learn their lessons. Or they’re just making sure I don’t see anything. That would be smart, but I don’t want to give them that much credit. 

As we all sit in the dining room, I keep an occasional eye on the worst offenders: Wassim and his little group of cronies. Though he is only fifteen, he has managed to assemble a loyal troupe of troublemakers. Bullying the younger orphans has always been a staple to their operation, but some members have branched out to other crimes. 

Janco and Jibara, a pair of brothers who I swear must have giant ancestry, work as Wassim’s muscle; whenever a kid stands up to Wassim, one or both of them are often dispatched to take care of the problem. Max, Kym, and I have all worn their bruises like badges of honor more than once. 

Telarria, a small and slender girl who slinks like a fox, is Wassim’s go-to for anything that requires sticky fingers. A dedicated loyalist, she has buddied up to the leader since his first day at the Tower. 

Last is a small boy, Pinnow. Some, myself included, speculate that he is a halfling; in all his years at the Tower, he has not grown even an inch. Though he seldom speaks most days, his eyes tell stories that would frighten the most fearless warrior. No one knows why Pinnow is part of Wassim’s group, but no one dares question it. As far as anyone can tell, the maybe-halfling has never required disciplinary action like the others. My friends and I wonder if perhaps the little one is under Wassim’s protection, but that raises further questions to which there are no answers.  

“Maybe if you keep staring at them, they’ll finally do something,” Kym jokes from the other side of the table. She wears her sarcastic smirk as her fork pushes potatoes around her plate. Max sits beside her, focused more on picking something out of his teeth.

“It’s been months since they’ve been caught doing anything,” I tell her. “They’ve got something going on, I just know it.”

“Watch the hero complex there, Rok,” she warns. 

“They probably just don’t wanna spend their weekends being punished for stupid shit anymore,” Max reasons, digging out a tiny green leaf and analyzing it with great curiosity.

“There’s no way they went clean,” I shake my head, breaking from my watch. “They’re cooking something up, I can just feel it.”

“Hey,” she says soft, reaching out and taking my hand. My eyes go to the gesture, and for a moment I forget what we’re talking about. Memories of that night in the Recovery Room return, and the only thought that remains is that I would do anything for her to never let go. But her voice brings me back from the little daydream.

“You’re being paranoid,” Kym accuses. “Let it go. If they fuck up, the Baroness will find out and Cy will take care of it. It’s not your job, Rokkoh.”

“So you want me to stop sticking up for the other kids?” I ask. My thumb moves soft and slow over her finger, and she doesn’t stop me.

“No,” she smirks. “There’s a difference between catching some asshole in the act and stalking someone until they do something bad.” 

“Pretty much, just stop being stupid, Stupid,” Max chimes in with a cheeky grin.

A cold breeze breathes through the room and brushes past my back. Kym’s eyes go wide for a moment, and Max straightens in his chair. Out of instinct, I do the same. Conversations hush themselves mid sentence. All heads turn to the end of the dining hall, to the lone long table atop the platform. 

Stern hazel eyes look out from a pale white face. Sharp cheekbones, a pointed nose, and a blood red sneer fill the space topped by a high and intricate copper bun. A deep emerald dress flows from her shoulders to her ankles, her arms covered by white gloves that end at her elbows. Her hands clasp together as she looks upon her wards. The Baroness examines the crowd, and all lingering noise ceases.

Rumors have made their rounds over the years regarding the Baroness and her strange nature. Some say she is made of porcelain and would shatter at a touch. She covers up so much to hide damaged and replaced parts. Others think she is an ancient vampire, immune to the effects of the sun thanks to her age. It would explain the harsh hand that deals punishments. Some speculate that the Baroness is an elf from the distant War of the Sun and the Moon, having rounded off her ears to hide from pursuers. Augustin liked to mix theories together and craft a story of an elf bitten by a vampire in a long-forgotten time.

I just think she’s a cruel woman who hates kids.

“Good afternoon, children,” she says, light and chilling. 

We return the greeting in the simple cadence taught to us in our early years. 

“The Tower of Lost Children has opened its doors to the orphans of Sylzaria for nearly half a century. To commemorate this ostentatious occasion, in three months’ time we will hold a lottery. Those selected will have the opportunity to travel to Allendar and enjoy a night of theatre. Only children with no disciplinary infractions for the following three months will be considered for this privilege. The select chosen few will be allowed one guest of their choosing. However, this guest must adhere to the same qualifications. Behave, and you may be rewarded. That is all.”

As she leaves, that chill passes over us once more. I’m certain that little ice crystals form on the rim of my cup and melt as soon as she’s gone. Excited whispers fill the dining hall; it even lights up Kym’s eyes. Max, on the other hand, seems unbothered by the announcement as he digs dirt out of his fingernails.

“Allendar!” she squeaks. “I bet there will be music and ballerinas!”

“They are staples of the theatre industry,” Max quips in a bored drone.

“Shut up. You’re not invited,” she smacks him. She returns her beam to me. “Rokkoh will go with me, won’t you?”

“Yeah, of course,” I answer with a small grin. She gives my hand a squeeze, a pleasant reminder that she has not let go. Afraid to jinx it, I keep my mouth shut about it. “How come you don’t wanna go to Allendar, Max?”

“It’ll still be there when Kym and I get out,” he shrugs. “Besides, there’s no way I’ll make it three months without getting in trouble. I know myself too well to think otherwise. Odds are I’ll let out a little “fuck” and Sister Signe will get mad and report me.”

“Then stop swearing,” Kym suggests.

“Good fuckin luck,” he laughs, the bright rolling sound encouraging Kym and me to release our own.

Continue to Chapter Three