Sydra knew not if a girl that young would even understand what His Heavenlier was saying, but at least her mother seemed pleased with the Prophet’s kind act.
“Are you satisfied now, Your Heavenlier?” asked Sydra, waving at the mother and daughter leaving down the trail, the mother shedding tears of joy while the babe caught her mum’s tears with her feeble fingers.
“Your words always sound so harsh, Syndy. You speak as if I find delight in going out of my way to grant others’ prayers.” The Prophet shook his head and whimpered.
“If not, you are doing a terrible job avoiding it then.” Sydra hung her head low with pursed lips. Her black dress billowing from the harsh winds surfing through the mountainous valleys. “This has been the ninth time we’ve had to stop the march just to humour your whims. At this rate, it’d take another week until we reach Harford.” Sydra reproved him in the middle of the Iron Trail.
It has been some time since they’ve embarked on the trip to Harford in order to return Lady Brooks’s urn – yet they’ve barely made any progress due to the Prophet’s constant habits of halting the journey. I just hope the capital won’t burn down when we’re away, Sydra sighed tiredly, leading to a faint headache. With the Prophet leaving the throne for this trip, as per protocol, the rights of rule would be divvied amongst the members of the Aces present at the capital – this time being Lord Bellamy and Lady March, of which the latter has never been one to have the soundest of minds.
“How can you look at their hopeful gazes and expect me to forsake their requests?” the Prophet looked at the mother and daughter, gradually fading out of sight.
“My apologies, Your Heavenlier. Of course, I’m pleased to see you enact your duties. But the Starry Pass isn’t the safest place for you to offer prayers, I’m afraid.” Sydra advised kindly.
They’d been stuck in the Starry Pass for the past three days – this treacherous pass through the Centum Alps, stricken with rockslides, bandits, and meterases, was not a place Sydra wished to linger about longer than needed. If not for the bands of Sentinels and watchdroids escorting the Prophet, no doubt His Heavenlier’s impulses would have led to some disasters already.
“Nonsense, Syndy. If anything, I’m in more danger with all these hired swords we have around us.” The Prophet spun his body around, pointing at the Sentinels and watchers encircling him as if he were a caged animal.
“I heard that.” Lady Eight spoke out from her stationed carriage. The ladyknight did not seem terribly fond of stepping outside and basking under the sun – even though she offered herself to tag along as one of the Prophet’s guards.
“You’re no Sentinels anymore. Why do you care what I say about the swords in black?” the Prophet rebutted.
“It’s not terribly wise of you to badmouth the men shielding your back with steel knives.” Lady Eight lectured her brother.
“I’m badmouthing nobody. Such outlandish accusations against the Prophet could land you a cold cell in the Ironmount.” The Prophet clapped back at the ladyknight.
Are you two children or something? Sydra took her glasses off, to then palm her own face. They looked less like the venerable Prophet and Lady of Novathens and more so the average siblings bickering against each other.
Pensive as usual, Lady Eight could not keep up with the Prophet’s quick tongue and yielded first. “This isn’t a pilgrimage, so finish what you need to do so we can continue our journey. I, too, have matters I need to attend to at Harford.” Lady Eight spoke her piece and covered herself underneath a thin blanket as if to tuck herself to sleep soundly in the carriage.
This is supposed to be one of the great Archetypes? Sydra glared at Lady Eight’s childish behaviour, though the Prophet wasn’t acting any better – sticking his tongue out like a brat. Sydra often found herself doubting how legitimate these great figures of legend’s accolades actually were.
Sydra stood still in contemplation. It was getting rather chilly as the wind from the Centum Alps gently blew against the royal cavalcade. Despite how treacherous the Starry Pass may be, at the very least, the great mountains of the Centum Alps were a magnificent sight to behold, with their peaks covered in snow and piercing the clouds. The First Peak, the tallest mountain of the Centum Alps, was particularly striking on this noon – Sydra had never seen it so clear before. This tall mountain reminded Sydra of a tale she heard of when she was a child – about a mighty dragon that glides near the mountain peak in the dead of night, awaiting her rider to return. Why am I thinking of this now, of all time? Sydra couldn’t believe herself, the situation with the Prophet had become so dull, to the point that she found more amusement in reciting bedtime stories.
As Sydra stood in awe in the middle of the Iron Trail, rosy cheeks and ashamed of herself – a band of knights made their way towards her. There were five of them in total, all cladded in steel armour, and bascinets painted blue, with cloaks dyed jade.
One of them faced Sydra directly. He took off his helmet and revealed a dashing face, black curly hair with purple eyes – if he didn’t have to hide his face so often, he’d probably be as popular with the maidens in court as Lord Bao. “Lady Sydra, the road has been cleared. Should I give the order to resume the convoy?” proposed Donnie Dol dutifully, the dauntless captain of the Secret Servants – though their gaudy choice of armours and cloaks depicted anything but secrecy. He was the lead of this five-man crew, comprised of handpicked knights of the watchdroids to defend the Prophet personally. Their name, however, was merely an accolade given to them by Lady Four back when she was still with the Order. A rather tacky name she had granted them, Sydra must admit.
“Yes, Captain. Please give the word. The Prophet will be concluding his prayers soon.” Sydra relayed her order.
“At once, My Lady.” Captain Dol bowed his head swiftly before turning his sight towards his knights. “Garb, Westmon, you both stay here with His Heavenlier. Carine, Ivan, you two follow me.” It was his turn to relay his orders, and they all heeded them dutifully, as Sydra would’ve expected from such revered knights.
It’s a shame that you have to defend this man of all people, Sydra sighed. She could not help but feel slightly bad for these fine knights having to slave away for a master who did not want them. From the corner of her azure eyes, another figure entered view, but it was no knights this time – but a diademed king.
“Hey, Syndy! Check out this cool bug I found! Do you think it’s a new species?” Like a giddy child, the Prophet held a weird-looking bug between his fingers. It looked like a cockroach to Sydra but with a whiter shell.
Don’t touch that with your hands… Sydra was slightly grossed out at the Prophet’s action, but she had her sentiment hidden. “What an amazing found, Your Heavenlier. Would you like to collect it and set it up as decor in the Arkeep?" Sydra praised with a monotonal voice, having yielded to humouring his wont.
“Absolute nonsense! When did you grow to become so violent?” the Prophet scolded Sydra before releasing the bug back onto the ground. “If this really were to be the only of its kind – how could I even think of ending its life now?” the Prophet stared warmly at the bug that was slowly crawling off the Iron Trail and into the meadow, disappearing from sight.
“My apologies, Your Heavenlier. How foolish was I not to remember your benevolent nature.” Sydra dipped her head. “I’ll advise the cooks to replace tonight’s roasted pork in place of vegetables for supper.”
“Wait, I didn’t mean it like that!” the Prophet shouted out. His body bounced up and down, nearly felling his diadem from his dome, as he pleaded with Sydra to revoke her words.
This will be a long trip… Sydra sighed, putting her glasses back on, only to have the Prophet’s face obscuring her view – from how close he stood, the Prophet seemed even bigger than the mountains behind him.
At the front courtyard of this great institution was a crowd of agitated students and staff, and at the head of them all was a gentleman with slicked-back silver hair and eyes, adorning a brown silk vest with black pants – a rather casual choice of attire for his position.
“On behalf of Harford University, I am delighted to welcome the sagacious Prophet to our citadel once more.” Vinicker van Doorn was his name, the current Headmaster of Harford University himself, stationed at the ready to greet the Prophet’s procession. Floating over his head were hoisted flags of the learned city – a half-burned tome.
Most of the caravan was not granted entry into the university, though that should be fine, as the Secret Servants were still here alongside the Prophet.
“Headmaster, I’m honoured by your welcome, but it is unnecessary of you to spend your time and greet me as such. Your herald would have sufficed, I would think. I’m sure you have more pressing matters to concern.” The Prophet shook the Headmaster’s hand. His words held some truth. After all, this was hardly the first time the Prophet has visited the university – he is the Arbiter of Mind and Space, even if he is absent most of the time. From Harford’s perspective, the Prophet probably seemed more of a stranger rather than one of their own.
“A ludicrous notion. If the Prophet himself were to step foot in our grounds, even the highest of birds and lowest of bugs must be there to bear witness to his splendour.” The Headmaster was as slicked with his choice of words as ever, as opposed to his choice of clothing. “And as for my herald, Maxwellian is, unfortunately, a bit busy at the moment – with all the duties that he has taken in your place, Your Heavenlier.” Lord Doorn spoke of Maxwellian Fordton, his personal attendant and also the man temporarily occupying the position of Arbiter of Mind and Space due to the Prophet’s absence – though he might as well be the official Arbiter, as it has been ages since the Prophet last conducted a class in Harford.
“Max, huh? He’s a good lad with a good head on his shoulders. I can’t be more content to have him as my substitute.” The Prophet smirked proudly as if he was boasting about his son “Though being diligent is good and all, it’ll do him some good to enjoy his school life a bit more.”
“You would have to tell him that yourself when next you meet. That kid would only listen to your words, I’m afraid.” The Headmaster chuckled.
As if they were a pair of old friends, the Prophet and the Headmaster laughed alongside each other while the crowd gazed at them with orbs of awe and bewilderment as if they were beings far out of their reach.
With the Headmaster taking the lead with the Prophet by his side, Sydra and the remaining entourage, comprised of Lord Bao and the five Secret Servants, followed their tails and crossed through the dispersing crowd. Though, Lady Eight has excused herself and went off to attend to her own personal matters.
Sydra quietly walked behind His Heavenlier as they made their way through the courtyard. It has been a while since Sydra herself has been back to Harford, ever since she graduated from the Stairs of Antiquity and Geology and the Stairs of Arts.
It was about the same as how she remembered. Fallen leaves scattered over the court like an auburn carpet. Statues carved and bushes trimmed to the portraits of different Headmasters and Arbiters in history. Olden stone keeps, and marble towers coated in creepers numbered many, dating back to when the Iron War had just ended – each belonged to one of the nine different Stairs, the dormitories, the Hall of Ark, and the common keep. Harford University was old, perhaps even older than the Arkeep and even the Iron War themselves, from what Sydra had been taught – and it certainly held some truth to it, as Sydra had never seen any architecture quite like it elsewhere throughout Xearth.
However, today seemed to be more hectic than the usual days Sydra had experienced during her time here. Aside from the crowd of students and staff creeping about to try and catch a glimpse of the Prophet – there were also those who were delivering passionate radical speeches and partaking in intense debates at the main square. Their voices were so vigorous and piercing that not even the golden bell chime atop the great tower could cloud over them. Still the same thing until now, huh? Sydra thought – if anything, it seemed to have only worsened. Yet despite the noisy rackets of student protesters spouting profanities, the Prophet himself did not seem to pay any heed to it all.
“My sincerest condolences regarding Lady Brooks’s untimely passing. It was a great tragedy, and on behalf of the Centum Order, I take full responsibility for her death.” The Prophet gently bowed his head to the Headmaster, to the slight discontentment of Sydra and his entourage. “To allow such a heinous crime to be committed under my roof, I am deeply regretful. With Ark as my witness, I assure you we will bring the killer to light and deliver them to Harford where justice could at last be sentenced.”
The Headmaster was pensive for a moment as his wrinkly face creased further, and he grazed his own silver beard. “It truly is a tragedy. Lady Brooks was a well-beloved Arbiter amongst the cohort, especially towards the younger students with pure white hearts and a penchant for justice.” The Headmaster spoke fondly of the late Arbiter of Justice, though it seemed he was somewhat dodging the topic.
“I understand. Which is why we’ve carried her urn to Harford first, so that the institute and her cherished colleagues may honour her one last time – before she could be returned to her home of McLay.” The Prophet clarified the purpose of his journey.
“And where would the urn be now?” asked the Headmaster, his silver eyes tracing back and forth as if trying to locate it.
The Prophet lightly nudged his head towards Sydra’s direction – an obvious signal to her.
“The urn is being safeguarded outside of the institute, in the city – alongside the remaining of our convoy. We will have it be brought into the university once the dawn breaks.” Sydra answered in His Heavenlier’s place. The great Harford University was erected upon a humble hill, where it could stare down at the city of Harford wreathing it.
“I do hope you do not mind that, Headmaster Doorn.” The Prophet offered his excuse.
“I do not.” The Headmaster sighed. “Perhaps this would be for the best – given the circumstances.” He rubbed his forehead.
“What do you mean by that, Headmaster?” inquired Sydra, stepping out of line. The party was shocked at her sudden act, all besides His Heavenlier.
“Sydra, was it?” the Headmaster lifted his eyebrows while asking.
“Yes, Headmaster.” Sydra gently bowed her head.
“I remember seeing your face before. Am I mistaken?” Lord Doorn asked curiously.
“Well, I did graduate from here, Headmaster.”
“Right. But that was before my tenure, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. It was Headmaster Leport who occupied your seat during my time here.” Sydra mentioned the late Headmaster of Harford University. She did not need to turn her head to know that Lord Bao wasn’t very pleased with Sydra for uttering her name, even though he had been acting rather uncharacteristically silent.
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“So it was during her time…” The Headmaster stared to the ground with a bitter smile. “Then you must know, as well as any, as to why having you people brandishing the ashes of a Harford staff on these grounds would not be the best idea.”
“I have some guesses, yes.” Sydra faintly stared back at the ensemble of rumbustious protesters. Drogues, they are called – ecliants who directly oppose the Centum Order.
“Far be it from me to carp, given the mishap that had happened under my wing – but I must say, the problem with the drogues here in Harford has exacerbated far more than I expected,” the Prophet interjected. “You are keeping this problem in check, aren’t you, Headmaster? Or must the Order offer you further support?” With undaunted golden eyes, the Prophet glared at the Headmaster, yet in a manner that showed no malice.
A wry smile over his pale face was all the Headmaster offered. “It was contained, for a time. But with the news of the Firstkind returning and now the death of Lady Brooks – it isn’t a stretch to say that the embers you’ve thought to be extinguished have burned once more.”
“Do you wish for it to be extinguished, Headmaster?” the Prophet inched closer to the Headmaster.
“I wish what is best for my students.” The Headmaster stated as he kept on walking down the court.
“Even if it’s against the Order and against Ark?” His Heavenlier pressed on further.
“Careful now, Your Heavenlier. I understand your discontentment – but do not forget you are in Harford. And in the City of Knowledge – the crown stands equal to our heads, and not above.” The Headmaster reminded the Prophet of the promise made between Harford and the Centum Order ever since the first stone was laid down for this great institution.
“You are right, Headmaster. Please excuse my behaviour. I’ve been feeling rather tense as of late.” The Prophet humbly apologised.
“No harm done. In accordance with the pact between Harford and the Order, we will keep on trying to withstand the uprising of the drogues to the best of our abilities.” The Headmaster promised His Heavenlier. “But that’s just our end. For you to have to wage war against your own kin once more, I couldn’t imagine how difficult that must be for you.” The Headmaster’s kind smile returned.
“It’s probably not as difficult as you think,” the Prophet chuckled teasingly.
The two leaders kept strolling onwards, chatting and bickering amongst themselves like old friends – until Donnie Dol, the Captain of the Secret Servants, stepped in front of them and undertook his role as the Prophet’s shield and sword.
“Who goes there?” the Captain demanded an answer from the man facing him. His tough and imposing voice echoed through the slits of his bascinet.
A scrawny and short man – barely a man even, probably still a student only a few years into his studies. His head was dark and long, like a soiled mop. His purple eyes were barely visible from his squinted lids. “My name is Judeus van Doorn – serial-name, VI IX. It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Lord Prophet.” The kid grinned eerily and introduced himself. He even offered his serial-name, though Sydra could hardly grasp what it was – it’s not very common for ecliants to verbally utter their serial-name, given how hard to pronounce most of them are.
This student wasn’t alone. By his sides and behind him were dozens of other students infesting the courtyard, though just like their supposed leader, none of them looked terribly threatening, no matter how hard they were trying to appear so. Their faces were scowling and twitching like hungry beasts, or more so, hungry critters. Some were hoisting flags with the word ‘Automatons’ written onto them. Others were armed with wooden boards and paper banners – libels against the Centum Order doodled over their surfaces.
The Automatons… Sydra mumbled, remembering having read about these radical troublemakers in reports before.
“State your purpose, now.” Captain Dol further demanded of the boy as he swiftly rested his palm on the pommel of his sword. Even if the students themselves were not intimidating, they still vastly outnumbered the Prophet’s party.
“I merely wish to have a gander at this Prophet that I’ve heard so much about all my life. He doesn’t look as holy as I’ve been taught in history books.” For a mere kid, he had the spine to smugly answer afront an agent of the Secret Servants.
“What are you plotting, Jude?” the Headmaster intervened.
“Do stay out of this, Headmaster.” Judeus gnawed his teeth and glared at the Headmaster.
“Little brat…” The Headmaster grumbled, unbecoming for a man of his title – yet even more unbecomingly for a man of his valour, he yielded against that so-called brat and stepped down.
“Please allow the boy to speak his piece, Captain Dol, Headmaster,” the Prophet ordered, of which both the Captain and the Headmaster reluctantly complied and stepped to the side. “The Automatons… I’ve heard that you’ve caused quite a few commotions throughout the Albion Region. I do hope that you’d allow your peculiar choice of extracurricular activities to go no further than they already have.” The Prophet looked at Judeus, then turned to Lord Doorn. “You wouldn’t want more work for your old man, would you?”
“We are but a humanitarian group striving for parity, Lord Prophet. If our rallies have caused you any dissonance – I assure you they all came from good intentions at the end of the day.” Just like his father, Judeus had a sharp tongue – but not the wits to hold it shut when needed.
“Do humanitarians harass locals and spoil monuments? The thin veil that masks your true intention is thinner than you think.” The Prophet shrugged his shoulders.
“We harass no one nor ruin nothing. There may have been some unintended mishaps, but I assure you that we’ve done far more good to the Albion Region than the Order ever has.” The protestor lad claimed. From the reports that Sydra has read about, it’d seem that his statement did hold some truth.
“Well, however you choose to call it, if you do not tone it down – as I’ve told your daddy already, the Order may have to intervene if this further compromises the safety of innocent civilians.” The Prophet warned the ambitious boy.
“I’m not like the Headmaster. Your empty threats hold no weight in this side of Xearth.” Judeus at last broke his poise, on that, he was not as good as his father. “Justice is on our side. If it wasn’t obvious before, it is now – villains who slain our Justice Arbiter… The irony of it all.” He clicked his tongue like a spoiled brat.
“I beg your pardon?” Sydra knew what he meant, but she couldn’t help but be baffled at such gall to proclaim that afront His Heavenlier.
“Lady Leport wasn’t enough for you bloodthirsty hounds, but now you’ve gone and murdered Lady Brooks as well.” Judeus gritted his teeth. “Our corner for scholars longed not for the flames of war, but merely the comfort of pages – yet the Order refuses to allow our city to be freed of fear.” The boy clenched his fists, and his cohorts of protesters followed suit. “We are not here for violence. We merely wish for equality – for us, the steelborns and humans, too. We’re no longer in the olden days of the Iron War. The descendants of the once-sinners bear not the same sins until this day. Only heartless crooks would keep punishing them for crimes they did not commit!” Judeus delivered his speech valiantly to the cheers and awes of his followers. Amongst them were ecliants, steelborns, and even some humans who were lucky enough to be admitted to Harford University. There were not many who supported Judeus, but they were loud.
Kids these days, I swear to Ark… Sydra sighed through her nose. She had seen this stunt so many times throughout her life, and it always seemed to work best on wide-eyed youngsters. As a steelborn, she appreciated the sentiment of Judeus – but she’s doubtful how much of it was delivered out of his sense of justice or a mere sense of self-regard.
“Do you truly believe what you preach? That all should stand equal?” the Prophet asked the riled boy.
“Naturally. Only uncivilised savages would disagree. But I’m sure you’re no such thing, right, Lord Prophet?” Judeus’s attempt to shame the Prophet was as clear as day to Sydra and the folks by her sides, all besides the student protestors, it’d seem.
“Perhaps you’re right. We have strayed far from what Ark has demanded of us.” The Prophet’s golden eyes lightly blinked as he sighed deeply. “Sixth Tenet of Ark – ‘The conquered shall be humble in rout, and the conquerors shall be charitable in rule.’ – That may sound hypocritical to you, but we do strive to hold that true – when it is indeed true.” He recited the teachings of Ark to students who clearly cared not for the Creed of Ark. “The conquerors and the conquered… We are no conquerors, nor are humans conquered. Whatever imparity you think may exist – they exist because the law of nature has deemed so, and the sins that humans have tolled up since time immemorial, yet to be redeemed.” The Prophet’s words were perplexing, even Sydra found it hard to make sense of all he was spouting. “It’s not fair to them, yes – but nature cares not for munificence. The descendants must redeem for their forebearers in the eyes of the planet. Until they do, the planet cannot allow two pests to scourge its lands.” The Prophet’s rebuttal was blunt and incendiary. “I am no conqueror… The only conqueror to be found throughout the land is the land itself.”
Judging from the abundance of grimaces and winces, his speech did not seem to be terribly receptive by either the few protestors or the majority neutral onlookers.
Sydra merely stood in silence while her right hand tensely clutched onto her left wrist. Even she was finding it hard to defend His Heavenlier’s proclamation.
“That is what you have to say? It sounds like mere deflection to me. You claim you’re no conqueror, but I’ve never heard of a prophet with a crown before.” Judeus scoffed, rudely pointing his finger at the Prophet.
“You probably haven’t seen many prophets then,” the Prophet jested. “Alas, you may interpret it however you want. I have never once assumed the role of a conqueror – I’m but a messenger for Ark.” The Prophet’s tone held unwavering as he delivered his final statement.
“You greatly disappointed me.” Judeus’s lips tensed up after he suspired.
Oh no… Sydra gritted her teeth and braced herself for what was to come.
“Enough of this shit!”
“Down with the Order!”
“Xearth needs no Prophet!”
“Justice for Lady Brooks! Justice for Headmaster Leport!”
“The Prophet is blind to the realm’s ills!”
From what was once a somewhat peaceful protest, it has devolved into a public outcry where any sense of intelligible reasoning could no longer be heard.
Your Heavenlier… Sydra stared at the Prophet’s back amidst the oncoming scrutiny. She could not tell what sort of face he was making from behind – but it surely could not be his usual cheerful self.
“Yes, yes. I know very well who I am – but a humble servant of God,” the Prophet chuckled while bowing his head to the angry audience, with one hand to his chest and the other behind his back. “But what of you? Do you fancy yourself a saviour or a hero, Judeus van Doorn?” the Prophet posed another question to Judeus.
The boy seemed to choke on his own words for once. Refusing to answer His Heavenlier, he instead faced back to his brethren. “There, you’ve seen it for yourself – the real face of the Order! Despite parading themselves as beings superior to all – at the end of the day, they hold no more power against nature than any other creatures! Yet, they still kiss their own arses and lick their own boots – fancying themselves as kings of the planet!” Like oil to wildfire, Judeus fanned the protestors’ flame of wrath bigger and bigger. From what were foul profanities and gestures have now turned to bodies being shoved amongst each other and balls of paper, sticks, and pebbles being tossed around.
Aren’t you an ecliant as well? Sydra stared at the boy who was insulting his own kind.
“Please stand back, Your Heavenlier.” With tension rising higher, Captain Dol stood back in front of the Prophet while the four remaining knights spread over to shield the other Lords and Ladies in the party. He held his shield over his head like a roof, deflecting any incoming projectiles from reaching near the Prophet.
The other four knights, too, executed their duties impeccably. The Secret Servant that was assigned to protect Sydra didn’t even have a shield – merely with his one hand, he caught any incoming stones and sticks and hurled them back into the crowd of rioters. His name was Gabriel, more commonly known as One-armed Garb – despite having only one left arm, he was by far the most formidable knight amongst the Secret Servants.
“Thank you,” Sydra whispered to her saviour-knight. Sydra couldn’t see his face due to it being hidden behind his blue bascinet, but she had been told that he, too, was a rather dashing gentleman in spite of his taciturn nature.
“Give us the order, Your Heavenlier. And we’ll dispatch the courtyard of these upstarts.” Captain Dol requested of His Heavenlier, outwardly confident that only five of them would be enough to subdue nearly a hundred students.
The Prophet softly placed his palm onto the knight’s blue pauldron. “Relax, Captain. We’re here for a dialogue, not to shed blood. In the land of scholars, disputes are settled with words, not swords.” The Prophet still held a confident grin amidst the uproar. “As a host of this land, surely you would agree, right, Judeus?” he directly asked the boy herding the angry flock.
What are you doing, Your Heavenlier? Sydra bit her own lips. Sometimes, she could never seem to understand his actions.
“Words do have consequences, Lord Prophet. I’m no man of faith myself, but I’m sure you wouldn’t take it too kindly if someone were to blaspheme Ark’s teachings.” Judeus rebutted, sweat faintly trailing down his pale face.
“And is violence the consequence you’ve deigned to be appropriate? The choice that only heartless crooks would resort to?” the Prophet pressed the boy.
“What? No. Do not lump us in the same boat as you villain–”
“You claim that, but here we stand – we are but guests to your home, yet we have to defend our hinds with shields instead of cushions while you rain daggers over our heads instead of flower petals.”
“No– That isn’t what I meant… Besides, you did the same to Lady Brooks–”
“Whether your farcical accusation holds true or not – didn’t you claim that the sins of our ilk should not be shared by all else? Even if I did kill her, the other men and women here with me should bear no blame unless proven otherwise – yet they suffer your impartial wrath all the same.” The Prophet said calmly while pointing at Sydra and his other party members. “Now, I do not agree with that myself, but that was your belief, as you’ve stated abundantly clearly. A dignified scholar such as yourself should not stray from their conviction so easily.”
“How pathetic… I expected the Prophet himself to have more to say besides mere fallacies…” Judeus cursed with his jaws protruding in ire, but his words were stuttering at last. His pupils of purple shook fitfully as he tried his darndest to keep on spouting, but no words would leave his mouth.
The prideful boy who had been running his mouth the entire time finally bit his own tongue, yet even as he went silent – the chaos before him would not end until they heard his words.
It’s about time this concluded, Sydra cleared her throat and mind – this child’s play has gone on for long enough. She looked towards Gabriel. “Gabriel, please detain Jude–”
“That is enough.”
“Please stop this.”
Well, this is a surprise, Sydra thought. Not because the Headmaster has stepped in to stop his son, but because Lord Bao, too, stepped before His Heavenlier – each urging for the conflict to cease.
“What a pleasant surprise, Lord Bao. I’ve been wondering if you have become a mute for the past few hours,” the Prophet jested. “But it is not me you need to plead for. As an adult, I’d never expend violence upon children – perhaps, some reprimand if needed, but nothing more.” He spoke to Lord Bao, but it was clear as day that it was meant for Judeus.
“You…” Judeus grumbled, lunging his frail body slightly forward.
“Jude, enough!” A shout from Lord Doorn was enough to make his son’s feet jump off the ground. His rebellious son’s rampage wavered, and the boos and hisses from the student cohorts, too, dwindled at the bellow of their Headmaster. “If you mean to insult and disturb my honoured guests any longer – I’d deal with you accordingly, as a subject of Harford and not my son.” Despite scolding his son, his tone held a hint of sorrow that only a father could have.
“Tch… A land free of the crown, my arse… Gold still rules this land – not tomes, not Ark, not nature. If you can’t even see the strings hovering over your prideful heads – then I can’t help you either, Father.” Judeus’s eyebrows furrowed, and he bitterly cursed, yet he could not say so straight to his father’s face – instead, he at last chose to retreat from the scene, his footsteps heavy and his posture crooked.
The small horde of rioters seemed reluctant to leave at first, given their build-up momentum – but with no leader at the helm, they were no more than a herd of sheep and quickly dispersed. With the angry mob lessened, the Secret Servants, too, swiftly returned to their posts, but they were still close enough where they could intervene once more if needed. Lord Bao appeared pleased as well as he returned to his unusual reticent poise by the sideline.
Thank Ark, it’s over, Sydra breathed a sigh of relief. She wasn’t terribly worried for their own safety, considering that the Secret Servants were with them – if anything, she was more worried for the students. Foolish as they were, Sydra would never wish for more blood to be shed upon this scholarly ground.
“Stillness, at last.” The Prophet, too, sighed out faintly. Sydra was probably the only person who heard him. This whole event must have taken a toll on him, or maybe not – somehow, he was still smiling after it all, and his golden eyes gleamed with joy.
“I apologise for my son’s misconduct, Your Heavenlier. Regardless of our stance, his behaviour was unacceptable, and I’d deal with him accordingly.” The Headmaster bowed his head lowly. That was a rare sight to not only Sydra but no doubt the other onlookers as well – after all, the Headmaster of Harford, by law, has never been compelled to bend the knee to the Centum Order.
“Don’t be too hard on the boy, on my behalf. At heart, he does seem to have good intentions.” The Prophet defended the boy who had been antagonising him just now.
“Good intentions should be executed with good actions. What they’ve done is nothing short of a chaotic insurgence.” The Headmaster stomped his foot on the grass.
“Well, it’s not always possible to cut strings with papers, sometimes a knife is needed no matter how stubborn.” The Prophet took off his golden diadem, of which Sydra then promptly provided him with a handkerchief for him to wipe his sweaty head. “Don’t worry, though, these sorts of insurgences are nothing new to me. My sister has the habit of infecting folks like that with her aberrations.”
“Perhaps so... I’ll try to speak some sense into that thick head of his. I’ll be damned if I let my son be swooned by the likes of the Firstkinds any further.” The Headmaster fixed his rumpled vest as he made his promise.
“I’m glad to hear that.” The Prophet smiled kindly, yet from the edge of his mouth, it seemed as if he was holding back from arching it any further.
Your Heavenlier? What did you… Sydra mumbled, still puzzled by the Prophet’s irregular decisions throughout the entire day – ever since he decided to arrange for this journey to Harford, in fact. He spoke in a way that Sydra had never seen him do before. He has always been a rather mischievous person but never that callous. Why did you do all that? Sydra stared at His Heavenlier through her glasses – she knew him far too well, and no matter how impish he may normally be, there was no way he would’ve acted like such a fool in front of those students unless there was a reason to. I shouldn’t… She shouldn’t have, she knew so, she’s been taught so – but her hand moved by themselves and gripped onto the Prophet’s sleeves woven with fine leather. “What are we doing here?” Sydra whispered to His Heavenlier; a part of her prayed that he didn’t hear it.
“What do you mean? We’re here to deliver Lady Brooks’s urn, haven’t I made it clear?” the Prophet innocently gazed at Sydra and tilted his head to the side – luckily, the diadem wasn’t on his dome, else it surely would have fallen off.
“Then… What are you doing here?” Sydra swallowed her breath. Her question made no sense, but she asked anyway.
As she waited for an answer, her breath became loud and heavy, while His Heavenlier’s was shallow and quiet, as if he wasn’t even breathing at all.
“I just wanted to read some books. That’s all.” The Prophet grinned cheerily as if nothing had happened at all. As if all that had just happened weren’t ever worth worrying about. His golden eyes brimmed with vigour despite everything. His eyes, his jewels, his stance, his composure all gave marks of a ruler, a scholar, a trickster, a follower – but not a conqueror – a conqueror wouldn’t have removed his crown.