Gods… some good, some considerate.
The first were meant to create, offer chances, forgive, and help.
The second—those who followed—were made to ensure obedience was shown to the first.
These two forces, referred to as the gods, work together to preserve harmony.
"The weak fearing to call the strong a bully," according to Orin. "The so-called considerate? A prettier word for bad."
Mystica are beings of unimaginable power, their connection to the one true source rendering them divine in the eyes of the powerless. A being who can tap into such power? A god.
"Claim innocence, or claim to be an Anti-Mystward," Orin once argued with Dr. Quack. "But the moment you use an Ornyx, you're drawing from the source. That smudges the line between mortal and divine."
That line won him the debate.
"According to Mr. Quack, anyway," Orin would say with a smirk. "And I was seven."
Take the Ossymorphs, for example—Orin categorized their creation of the Obelith race not as divine instruction, but as mischief.
"Which is more plausible?" he once asked. "A being of ultimate power trying to teach some philosophical nonsense to a lower lifeform… or a cosmic toddler playing with a toy called wanderer?"
Ossymorph. A mystica of ever-shifting skeletal form, composed entirely of unattached, arcane bones. Bones that appear from nowhere. That realigns and reconfigures into bizarre silhouettes.
No one knows if these bones are cast-off relics of the creature itself or summoned from an unknown realm. One thing is for sure: they're neither Wanderer nor of any catalogued mystica.
In the resounding echoes of the First Era, there existed only one race of Wanderers. Not all giants were created through deliberate use of the Magnatrix Ornyx—some were victims of the Ossymorphs' meddling.
Unwary. Transformed.
Thus was born the Obelith: massive, towering, brutish wanderers. Grown in size, diminished in thought. A cautionary tale etched into Wanderlust history: power demands a price.
Still, that didn't stop anyone from using the Magnatrix to gain the upper hand.
There was something childish about how it didn't stop others from trying to outgrow their opponents, and look down, in the most literal sense. Neither did it stop the fear from creeping in… when standing face-to-face with a true Obelith.
Even a half-Obelith like Tenshu still dwarfed the questioning Sentinel by four whole feet.
'Why did Terrance leave me in charge?' The Sentinel swallowed his fear, boots trembling beneath him.
Nearby, Tendra, all fire and rage, shouted her grief for the world to hear. "I'm going to kill that Jeff with my own two hands if he weren't already dead. That selfish little twat."
The Sentinel questioning Tendra steps back, scribbling into a whisper leaf. "So... you were close enough to call him Jeff, I see."
"What! No!" Tendra recoils, as if the name itself were venom. "He wasn't even worth a single Joul—behind my friend or otherwise."
"Yes, he talked to us every time he left the hotel," Tenshu added helpfully from his side of the interrogation.
'Read the goddamn room, my soon-to-be-dead husband!' Tendra kept her outrage contained behind a sharp intake of breath.
"We also started calling him Jeff!" Tenshu added, taking pride in the connection.
"Nickname basis," the Enforcer murmured, updating his notes. "Do you have any motive to harm them? Any at all?"
"No, sir!" Tenshu beamed.
Tendra sighed in visible relief.
"My wife loves Quincil more than life, and Jeff had no dues at our shop!" Tenshu added.
"Financial probabilities," the Sentinel mumbled into his leaf.
"Also—"
Snap.
Tendra crushed a bundle of twigs in her grip. "Know when to shut up, oh dear husband of mine!" Her glare forced Tenshu to shrink lower than even his interrogator.
"Can we please return to our interrogation?" the Sentinel asked, voice tight.
"Interrogation, huh?" Tendra raised an eyebrow, striding behind the counter. "You mean to say... we're suspects?"
The Sentinel paled. "I meant... interview. Not... interrogation. Neither of you is a suspect—no—never!"
Tendra slammed down a jar of herbal twigs. "Then let's talk shop." She pushed it toward him. "Chew these instead of brushing. Your teeth'll be tougher than my husband's skull."
On cue, Tenshu shoved a rock in his mouth and crushed it like chalk.
"Only one Joul a jar!" Tendra chirped.
"This is—is..." the Sentinel stammered, pulling out a coin, "—extortion!"
"This is commerce." She snatched the coin. "A Mystkeeper sells. A Wanderer... wanders in and buys. Sometimes they love it. Sometimes they don't."
Jar in hand, coin in pocket, she smiled with teeth too perfect to argue with. "Pleasure doing business. Please don't come back."
The Sentinel left with a stiff nod and a silent vow: Never.
"Wow! An Obelith!" Orin pointed at Tenshu, wide-eyed.
"Not exactly," Tendra flicked his finger.
"He's a half–Obelith. Stopped growing tall... for love." She swooned, raising a leg. "He chose to stay with me."
"Got Monstryx Syndrome," Tenshu muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "Clan kicked me out."
Tendra's mood shifted like a storm cloud. "As you see... He's still got all the dumbness a full Obelith carries." She hissed, eyes like daggers aimed at him.
"That's racist!" Orin objected.
"To what?"
"To—well… to Monstryxs! And your husband!"
'Kid cares!' Hem was too shocked to chime in. 'When it comes to giant wanderers?'
"Ah!" Tendra waved off the accusations with a flick on Orin's forehead. "A marriage license isn't just for the good bits. You get to do whatever you want to your better-half, too." She turned and caught every single Sentinel scribbling on their Whisper Leaves. "No! Not like-- I didn't mean that!"
"And now I'm glad he's a giant," Orin muttered with a grimace.
"Talk to me once you're married, kid."
"After this, I doubt I ever will be."
"Says the ones who always end up marrying first in the group." Tendra shot back with a wicked grin.
"Ah!" Orin cheers victoriously. "I am the youngest here!"
"Which makes me only feel more sorry for ya."
"Can we get back to the business at hand?" Hem cut in flatly.
The word business snapped Tendra's head around. "Music to my ears. So... how much quincil does your Golden-Brooder carry?"
Brooders were mystica that replaced wallets and structures meant for transporting valuables, only for the rich, since their discovery and involvement in the Third Era.
Currently, there are two kinds of Brooders—the helpful kind—amongst wanderers.
The Gastric–Brooder is an enormous frog-like Mystica, standing nearly four times the size of its smaller cousin, the Golden–Brooder. Meant for storing large quantities of meat, supplies, or other perishables for short periods. Their smaller brethren, the Golden Brooder, boast a secure vault and pose a dangerous risk for the careless who try to steal another's wealth.
Forever attached to one's Ekanze, secured to the owner's hip, this mystica is the safest way to carry one's fortune in public.
The Golden Brooder is a smaller, sleek, golden-yellow Mystica with shimmering skin that glows faintly in the dark, making it a prized companion for those who handle wealth. Despite its petite size, it has a voracious appetite for Quincil. Its stomach is uniquely adapted to dissolve and store currency, ensuring that nothing else contaminates the wealth inside. However, its digestive magic is so potent that any non-currency item placed within it, including metallic coins or other objects, is dissolved instantly.
"No shame in cutting straight to the chase, huh?" Orin swung wider with his insults. "No wonder your shop's failing."
"Not failing," Tendra corrected, eyes sharp. "Since your officials decided to loiter around and shut me down, I decided to make 'em my VIP customers."
"And how's that going?"
"All of us lost a couple of Jouls…" the Sentinels groaned in unison.
"Hem… I don't think that script of yours is helping." Orin glanced sideways.
"Flipping quincil for intel isn't a technique I listed," Hem muttered, glaring at Tendra. "She used her Mystkeeper skills to sell us the help we needed." He scowled. "Help meant to solve a murder."
"Oh, color me impressed." Orin grinned.
"That'll cost you a Joul," Tendra winked.
"I love this woman." Orin burst out laughing.
Hem smacked his forehead with a groan. "Can we please—please—get back to the impossible case at hand?"
"Sure!" Tendra rubbed her hands together with mock eagerness.
"Of course," Hem said, placing his index finger between his golden-brooder's eyes, and chanting. "Vorlin!"
The Golden Brooder wriggles its tiny nose in a playful demeanor, hopping energetically and chirping in high-pitched tones. Its large, sparkling black eyes give it a mischievous look, but only Orin notices this.
Hem repeats the command and the brooder relents, opening its mouth wide enough for Hem to place his hand inside, and recover a Joul.
The Golden Brooder loved eating quincil, and in a similar sense, hated giving it up, which made a common sight of customers begging their wallets for the required funds. The higher the amount, the longer they had to beg.
Tendra caught the Joul one-handed and bowed. "Secant!" She stores the Joul inside her wallet with a chant.
The glow of her Golden-Brooder's skin intensifies when it has consumed Quincil, serving as a visual indicator of its capacity.
"Thanks for your contribution. With this, we cover travel expenses to get here!"
"Don't care." Hem waved her off. "Now tell me."
"What! I really have no clue about anything." Tendra shrugged.
Hem froze mid-glare. Then, slowly, his trembling finger swung from her to the other Sentinels.
They raised their hands and shrugged.
"She did the same with us," one offered meekly.
Orin collapsed, laughing until his ribs hurt. "Boy, she's good!" he wheezed, face flushed.
"Why didn't any of you say something?" Hem barked.
"She didn't tell me anything either!" the first scammed Sentinel admitted, shame-faced.
Tendra cut in like a whipcrack. "There's nothing you can do." She says, leaning on the counter. "In Ouroboros, you don't trust what happens right in front of your eyes. Any statements taken here?" She clicked her tongue. "Useless. Inadmissible at the Equinox Tribunal."
"Don't teach me basics," Hem growled.
"Someone has to," Tendra snapped back. "I deal with a dumb Obelith every day. Don't think you can intimidate me, mister."
"Lose the dumb part next time," Orin said, stepping between them. "He's got a way of doing things. A weird way, yeah—but it works. He sees value in stuff the rest of us throw out. And you"—he turned to Tendra—"you're a tough customer. Getting anything out of you takes more than the usual pressure tactics." His eyes narrowed. "You rely on greed or weakness. But those don't work on someone who's already made peace with having neither."
The stall fell quiet.
Tendra's and Hem's jaws creaked open, expressions stuck mid-glitch.
"How… when…?" Hem blinked. He was sure that was supposed to be a full sentence.
"You intrigued me," Orin said smoothly. "So I studied and grasped everything that is you." He lied through his teeth, thinking to himself: 'Let the memory never surface.'
"Impressive, kid." Tendra gave a single, slow clap.
"This guy's the real genius." Orin pointed at Hem. "Tell him everything. He'll turn Niffles into Jouls." He shoved Hem toward her like a vendor offering free samples.
Tendra crossed her arms. "Already told the first Sentinel everything when they shut me down."
"Which part of 'excruciating' didn't you get?" Orin pressed.
"She's haggling," Hem said with a sigh. Then, with a smirk: "Also? I figured out your little trick. Not bad."
"So fast? Damn, that is impressive." Orin tried to pivot.
"Save it." Hem flicked him right in the forehead. "Won't work twice on me."
"Damn it!" Orin hissed. "Okay, how about this—info for info?" he offered to Tendra.
She scoffed. "I'll take quincil over empty gossip any day."
"Ignorant Wanderers." Orin rolled his eyes and waved them both to follow. "Come on."
"Where?" Tendra raised an eyebrow.
"Where the value of knowledge isn't lost by who overhears it."
He led them behind her stall, past piles of medicinal twigs and jars of crushed dreams. Only a single Pyxen kept watch outside.
Once secluded, Orin leaned into Hem. "Help me out. What info does she want more than anything?"
"No use asking her directly," Hem whispered back. "She'll dance around every question."
Tendra grinned. "Smart. But no one alive can read me."
Hem studied her, his voice was soft, almost lazy. "Ouroboros. Stall placements. You're bitter about where you were assigned."
Tendra's smile twitched. "Lucky guess."
"Luck at first," Hem replied. "Skill at the end."
"Told you he was good," Orin said, clapping Hem's shoulder. "Now stop wasting time and ask. We don't have time to play this game."
"That's a terrible way to negotiate, kid."
"Yeah, old man?" Orin shot back, yet only received a cold stare from Hem. "Well, it's an even worse time to lose leads. So what's it going to be, Mystkeeper? Joul, or justice?"
Tendra considered haggling again, fingers twitching like she was still at the counter—but her thirst for the real deal was too strong, as it's been for wanderers.
"What's with all the secrecy around allotments on Ouroboros?" she snaps and rants away. "We followed our Aurochs out of the village, thinking Ouroboros would be our savior. That it'd pay us back. But we had to pay for a plot nearly past the edge of the map." She kept going, voice rising like a merchant on auction day.
Hem, deadpan, flicked Orin awake with one sharp jab. "Allotments," he translated the entire rant in a single word. "Go."
"What's a kid possibly gonna—"
"How big do you think Ouroboros is?" Orin cut her off, dodging the insult with ease.
Tendra blinked, thrown off. "Huh? I mean… big enough for a kingdom?"
"What!" Hem balked. "That's absurd."
"Bigger," Orin said.
"What?" they chorused again.
"Do you mind?" Orin glared at Hem into silence. Then, to both of them: "Much bigger."
Tendra narrowed her eyes. "Pulling my tail for revenge, huh?"
"I don't lie when it comes to knowledge," Orin said. His tone leveled into something solemn and intense. "Ouroboros is an infinity packed into a mountain's skin."
They gasped—again—but this time, there was hesitation in their disbelief.
"The government doesn't give slots to everyone," Orin continued, "even if they uprooted your life to get here. Why? Because they can't. You don't evacuate a kingdom's worth of citizens into something that's not fully mapped. So every year, they clear a little more. Expand a little further. Because they're still looking…"
He paused for a dramatic effect. "…for Xavier's Market."
Hem's eyes sharpened, but it was Tendra who leaned in, voice hoarse. "How do you know?"
"Simple mythic calculations," Orin grinned, relishing it. "The total area cleared, plus some safety margin of Silkon, divided by the slots given out. The math points to space they haven't even touched."
Hem stared, frowning in disbelief. "Those are sealed records. When—how—?"
"Used your name," Orin said with a grin. "Case credentials helped. Whispered in the right Echo-Hall."
Hem groaned. "Unbelievable."
"You're welcome, by the way. Publish the findings, and you'll be swimming in quincil." Orin gave a theatrical bow, as if the Pyxen outside were clapping.
Tendra snapped out of it. "Why didn't you publish this crap?" she asked, barely hiding the excitement bubbling under her breath.
"Because I can't." Orin shrugged. "My guru won't let me. Quincil doesn't interest me. And if I publish anonymously, I can't get questions, comments, or corrections. What's the point of a theory if there aren't smart counters?"
Tendra licked her lips, already calculating profits behind her eyes. "Why me?" she asked, trying to sound casual and failing badly.
Orin caught the glint in her eyes. "Because you have a shop, a voice, a stall that reaches far more than just customers. You talk. You sell. You spread words like wildfire. And in return…" He leaned in. "…you give us every last detail about the people who bought or spoke of Jefferson the Oracle."
Tendra stared at him, then slowly, a smile spread across her face. "You little devil," she muttered. "You do know how to trade."
"Need to solve the current—my first—case," Orin explained, stepping forward with surprising sincerity. "And I told you—I like you. Never found anyone I'd trust to be my mediator. You publish my work, keep the fee. All I ask is that you send me every comment, every reply, and every debate. I want to grow, not be worshipped."
Hem watched in silence. The one-true source, he mused. 'Why is this boy so obsessed with the truth? This isn't some common Mystward curiosity—it's something more. Close enough to fit a Mystward's calling, yet… not quite.'
Tendra squinted, then grinned and shook Orin's hand. "Your guru sounds like a flaming handful of idiot," she said, with a sharp laugh.
"Watch it," Hem warned.
"Piss off!" Orin and Tendra chimed in unison, both sticking their tongues out at him.
"Just because you got a good one doesn't mean they all are," Orin muttered.
"What he said," Tendra nodded, nudging Orin with her elbow.
"Hey," Orin asked, "are the slots farther from the center cheaper?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"Nothing. Just collecting variables for my thesis."
"Thesis?! How old are you?" she gawked.
From there, the two dove headfirst into theory-crafting—one eyeing riches, the other itching for the minds he might lure in to dissect their thoughts.
"I guess I don't need to teach a Mystkeeper how to sell," Orin smirked, raising a palm.
"We're gonna be filthy rich, kid!" Tendra slapped it with glee.
"One more thing!" Orin said with sudden urgency.
"Finally!" Hem groaned. "Ask about the case."
"No, not that! Your name. I swear I'll remember it this time. Cross my heart, mystica-style." He traced a symbol across his chest.
Tendra laughed, told him her name, then took a deep breath—and let the whole story tumble out.
She didn't bother organizing the details—She couldn't because the lure of Ouroboros doesn't just tug at your feet.
It fractures your mind.
It's pull distorts the very perception of time. Day and night lose meaning. Two people standing side by side might remember the same event in entirely different settings.
And no one sleeps.
The constant vitality pumped into every Wanderer fuels action, but floods the mind with too many memories. More memories mean more distortion.
For some, their first day feels like their last.
They exit believing they just entered.
One footstep into Ouroboros… and it rewrites the whole day.
Even the dead can appear in the wrong place, the wrong hour, the wrong memory.
So when Tendra speaks, her testimony is a kaleidoscope. Actual pieces twisted in the glass, and Hem listens, grim.
Because the case isn't just impossible—It's untethered from time.
This was how Orin outsmarted Hem moments ago: He didn't deduce anything new. He simply recalled Hem's conclusions, then repeated them to the group as if they were his own.
And under the influence of Ouroboros' lure—where memories tangle like overgrown vines—both Hem and Tendra believed him.
Tendra, a Mystkeeper, trusted her fragmented recollections. But Hem… Hem's mind didn't stay fooled for long. He pieced the trick together, recognizing his own logic in Orin's voice.
Smart, Hem thought. But doesn't work on those freshly snared by the lure.
"What if I force myself to sleep?" Orin asked, twisting the topic over his whims.
"One, you can't. Not naturally. You're never tired enough," Hem said flatly. "Two, if you try to force it… You've got about a minute and a half. Tops."
"Damn! I forgot about that part," Orin muttered, kicking the floor.
"Speaking of which…" Tendra lifted her wrist, revealing a compact Ornyx gleaming in shifting tones. "Zappence Loop. Why don't any of you have one?"
"We've got an unhelpful Pyxen always hovering," Orin said in a displeased tone.
"Unhelpful?" Tendra raised a brow at Hem.
"He wanted them to blurt all their secrets," Hem rubbed his forehead, predicting a headache. "They didn't."
"Can't put a price on life," Tendra clicked her tongue, bringing back the Ornyx's importance. "But these cost seven Joul each, and they can save it. Get one before the lure gets what it wants."
"Such an easy invention. Why did it take them so long to invent?" Orin squinted. "Not bad… but I still trust mystica—or myself—over some clunky relic glued together by a half-sane Wanderer."
Tendra dismissed the jab and turned back to Hem, who was deep in analytical muttering.
"Tendra fought with her husband," Hem murmured, tracing the loose edges of memory. "Then Jefferson arrived. Had a Pyxen. Forgot something... the Brooder, maybe? Went back. Returned alone this time. Used the Pyxen stepping method. Handed over money. Left again—with a Pyxen."
He paused, catching Tendra watching him.
"You see?" Hem said. "The day he didn't have a Pyxen—jumbled up with the day he left with one." He forces Tendra to focus. "Do you remember Jefferson without a Pyxen? And without his hat?"
Tendra blinked, searching her jumbled mental archive.
"Gatekeeper," Hem said, snapping his fingers. "We need his take."
The Gatekeeper did remember more. And in return, had more jumbled information. "I've got several customers, sir," he said, in thought. "But only Jefferson took the time to speak with me. He was kind. Guided me, even."
Tendra exhaled sharply. "No, no," she said. "He's confusing people again. We're talking about the one you love mocking. Kance."
"The bony little one?" the Gatekeeper replied, squinting. "Oh…" The recognition dawned, slowly, like a reluctant sun.
"Please tell me the lure doesn't change up people inside a memory," Orin muttered, a shiver crawling up his spine.
The Lure's implications were getting ridiculous.
"To weak little minds?" Tendra slapped Kance across the cheek—not out of cruelty, but sheer necessity, hoping his memories jumbled back into order- somehow! "It does worse. Much, much worse!" She shivers alongside Orin.
"The death must've blocked him," Hem said, watching Kance with narrowing eyes, shifting forward and insisting. "Tell me more about the bony one." He guided the Gatekeeper slowly, not with words, but with tone. "Think. Chilly day. Someone forgot their hat… didn't want it back?"
"What's with the hat thing?" Orin and Tendra asked at once.
"One of the Oracle's only mistakes." Hem shut them up with a look. "Think hat." He pressed the suggestion like a key into Kance's scrambled memory.
Tendra elbowed Orin. "You know the story?"
"Shinier than the others, I think? Hem mentioned it once. Didn't care." Orin cleaned his ear, unbothered, as it had something, something to do with someone liking something! "How many mistakes did the dead guy make, anyway?"
Hem gave in. He knew Orin wouldn't drop it. "Two. One in haste—the hat. One from panic—an improvisation. It was… unexpected."
"So we look for the improvised thing, right?" Tendra offered, eyes scanning. "That feels like the clue that could break the whole thing open."
"We can't find it until we find the hat," Hem said.
Orin slumped onto Tendra. "And we are back to the hat. How does a hat lead us anywhere? Does it have a secret compass? Ou... a mystica with a pointer for beak?!"
"Did you see any hat in the suite?" Hem barked at Kance, ignoring Orin, voice cutting through the air. Then to the twins: "Any reports? Hat among the evidence?"
The twins flipped notes like gamblers rifling cards. "Nope. No hat."
Tendra crossed her arms. "I don't like where this is going."
"Someone took it," Hem said, standing straighter. "Someone walked in on Jefferson mid-crime. And the hat was a casualty."
Tendra's breath caught. "Did he have kids?"
The question landed heavily.
"Officially? No. But my gut says otherwise." Hem's voice was steel. "Someone unofficial walked in, and Jefferson had to improvise fast."
Orin still wasn't convinced. "Okay, but… what makes you think this one hat matters?"
"Jefferson loved his hats," Hem said. "Four in total."
"Confirmed!" chirped the twins, way too enthusiastically.
"One's in his office. Another—the favorite—was here." Hem's eyes locked on Orin. "And it's missing."
Orin raised a brow. "That's a big assumption. How do you know that one was his favorite?"
"A smudge," the twins said in unison, while looking unsure if that was helpful.
Orin blinked. "Okay, I cannot tell if they're making fun of you or backing you up."
The twins looked genuinely offended. "We're on his side—sir's side." They corrected in unison. "A smudge on one of the Veskan'trox slides might seem too small to matter—"
"Sounds like a joke to me," Orin snorted, nudging Tendra, who laughed with him, only to pause the next second. "Wait. Smudge on a Veskan'trox?"
"Yes! Why?" Hem asked, alert by Orin's shift in emotion.
Orin sat up, shoving Tendra off. "Those new Ornyx use the same technique I used to capture a frame."
"So?" Hem asked, brows tightening.
"So? Quenara painting something is not the same as a Chromist painting with hues." Orin was heating up. "They're not some stronger paints—ugh—look, a smudge like that isn't possible. Not without heavy mythical compounding."
Hem raised a brow, intrigued despite himself.
"And making a smudge after the fact?" Orin barreled on. "Near impossible. You'd need insane concentration and precision for your eyes to even register it. No offense."
Hem didn't react. He was already flipping through Mrs. Hope's medical reports, where he'd once dismissed a strange marking for seeming like irrelevant clutter. Now he was glad he hadn't let the noise distract him from his gut feeling.
"No wonder the other Sentinels kept chasing shadows," Hem muttered. "I'm glad I didn't follow their path."
"Why didn't you?" the twins asked, hanging on his words.
Hem shrugged, voice casual but sharp. "Read it somewhere... 'The odds of finding something in the last place you look are next to none.'" He said, tapping the folder thoughtfully. "Guess, because they all followed the same trail, I took a different one. Subconsciously. No point digging in dirt that's already been combed."
He gave himself a rare pat on the back.
The twins pinched shut a whisper leaf—recording every word. They'd developed a quiet habit of documenting Hem's behaviors and insights, partly to study his methods… and mostly because Orin convinced them it'd "turn them into geniuses."
Tendra settles down, peering at the whispering twins with suspicion. "What are they doing?"
"Back so soon?" Orin smirked. "I was just about to zap the laughter out of you."
"You need a better sense of time, kid." Tendra held up her arm, revealing a faint flicker from the Zappence Loop as it sent a reminder through her skin. "I've got mine set to ping me."
"Mine's better." Orin pointed across the room at his Pyxen, who turned crimson at the sudden attention.
Ever since the invention of the Zappence Loop Ornyx, Pyxen had been fading into background noise—used only when the Ornyx failed. They'd once been the essence of personal guidance; now, they were forgotten relics.
Except for this kid.
Orin refused the Ornyx.
He reminded every Pyxen guide he encountered that his life was in their hands—and that he didn't care if it was lost. Most Pyxen spoke of him in whispers, a strange anomaly of a Wanderer.
But seeing him in person?
That was something else entirely.
"No lure shall get you… until a Pyxen is with," the Pyxen assured, her smile genuine.
Hem wanted to correct their guide—he almost burst that naïve bubble about Orin—but stopped himself. Explaining the boy would cost more time than Ouroboros had left to give.
"So there is more than one, like the others..." Orin grinned with a slyness that didn't belong on a kid his age.
"Good… good."
Hem then realized he didn't need to do anything elaborate. Orin came pre-equipped with a sharp little pin that forever pricked through whatever vision people formed of him.
Similar to how now the Pyxen slapped itself, remembering too late the warnings that always came after someone praised the boy.
Orin turned his attention back to Tendra, satisfied for now. "I told those knuckleheads to record everything."
"Let me guess." Tendra raised a brow. "Not for them. For yourself. To learn all of his bizarre science so you can manipulate people later."
"There is no way I'm that predictable." Orin frowned.
"Oh, absolutely." Tendra mirrored the frown better than the 'Mime' mystica.
Orin changed expressions, and she copied that one too.
"You're like a walking Z'board full of emoticons," she said, grinning. "Broadcasting every little—"
"I get it already," Orin pouted, now flustered. "That's why I'm learning! No wonder she stayed ahead of me for so long. That sneaky little Val…" he growled. "Is that why you were laughing so hard earlier?"
"Oh, Aurochs no!" Tendra burst out again. "I laughed because you and Hem swapped roles. One moment he's lecturing you, next moment you're poking holes in his theories. It's weird, but you… kind of complete each other."
"Eugh! I'm deleting that memory." Orin recoiled in mock disgust.
All the while, Hem kept pressing Kance—the Gatekeeper—methodically. Patiently. Unrelentingly.
And bit by bit, Kance remembered. Fragments became threads, and the threads began to stitch into a story.
Hem had seen the outline from the start. A hazy frame. A silhouette of the truth, thin and fragile. Enough to solve the case… but not enough to prove it in court.
Now, that missing piece—the piece with evidence—was no longer an object, or a document, or even a slide in a Veskan'trox.
It was a child.
A traumatized child somewhere in Ouroboros, surrounded by its Lure.
———<>||<>——— End of Chapter fourteen. ———<>||<>———