Mock the sacrifice. Cultivate in my name.

  “Is my hair not void of purity? Are my hands not caked with blood, and is my soul not condemned? Then why do you continue to ask for more? What am I doing wrong that you can’t let me use it!” Sadiq shouted. His lips formed into a snarl, forcing the wounds on them to bleed more, small droplets flowing forward. The needle and the spool of thread were cast at his feet.

  After traveling through the tunnels, reaching the final cavern, and finding no escape, Sadiq listened when the voice said to go back. He returned to the spot where he had begun his underground journey, and the voice commanded him to search the river for the skull of the skeleton and the knife he had lost. It and the creature had flowed with him when the bottom of the lake had opened up. The beast swam down the river, the quill and skeleton floating after it, but the skull and knife had remained, caught on the the river bed. Once retrieving both items, the voice told him to use the knife to strike open the skull, and Sadiq obeyed. From within fell out the needle and spool of thread, and Sadiq had been caught in a sense of familiarity, a memory of a young man tracing lines in dirt and blood came to mind.

  Mock the sacrifice.

  When the needle and thread had fallen, Sadiq had taken the needle and rubbed the skin of his thumb against the point, reminiscent of when he saw Shiloh do the same. The point snagged on his skin, opening a minor wound, and when his blood dripped onto it, an oppressive fog swarmed around him. Sadiq had smiled then, thinking that he knew why the voice had him find the needle and thread, but he had been mistaken.

  The needle turned against him, willing his hand to move toward his mouth where it pierced the flesh. Like how his mother used to sew the holes in his clothes, the needle followed the same pattern along his mouth. He tried to stop it, pain blossoming, and when it reached the end, the thread went taut and the world went quiet.

  The silence was deafening, a contradiction, yet that was the only way Sadiq could describe it. He knew of people who were born unable to hear, sound being lost to them, but he doubted this was what it felt like. It was not just the loss of sound from the outside; it was also internal, so that Sadiq could not even hear his heart beating. Silence has a name, and this had none.

  Tears welled up in his eyes when he heard the sound of the thread moving, and the moment was broken by the needle dropping to the ground. The silence disappeared, and Sadiq was left quivering as he tried to comprehend what had taken place. If Adagio could force his will on others through music, and Ragnar could be persuasive behind a mask, then the needle and spool of thread were Shiloh's power. The young man was capable of rendering a person mute and deaf.

  Sadiq touched his lips, his fingers coming away bloodied, and the sight had drawn forth an anger molten hot in its intensity. He had questioned the voice after, demanding answers because he realized it had not led him to some great power. He could feel how Shiloh's tool rejected him, and before he had thought he would be its inheritor, carrying on where its previous master failed. If that was not to happen, then why was he made to find it? Why has he been waiting for so long?

  He had learned that a pact is what sin is looking for—some unbreakable covenant that would tie him to it, and he would gain his desires, but the voice refused him. Again and again, the voice denied his attempts to advance, and Sadiq was tired.

  “Give me what I want, or I will turn my back on you,” Sadiq threatened. He can walk away, find his own means if necessary. Sadiq has defied God, sustaining his life through the means of others, and he can defy the voice. Die—it told him. Any further remarks were instantly quieted down as Sadiq prepared to lose his life. The authority behind the spoken command felt tangible, and his body shook because Sadiq did not want to die. He has lived for so long, done too much, and the threat of death left him panicked. What was keeping his body from aging so rapidly? Would the years catch him if he ventured on his own? Sadiq did not know, and never wished to.

  Mock the sacrifice. Cultivate in my name. More… More…

  —————

  The capital of the Harald Clan was once considered the epitome of architectural design, with no other settlement coming close to rivaling its buildings. Its streets were made from leveled dirt, and its homes from painstakingly chiseled stone, all together perfectly symmetrical and angled. As Sadiq gazed upon the proud structure known as The Cornucopia, it made him feel as though he had been born in a time of peasants. He had watched the so-called tribes bring about revolution, and he suspected they would continue to innovate.

  He had been there when the tribe of Davar and Noctua began digging a massive hole in the earth, but failed to return until years later, too busy to burden himself with watching the development around him. It was confusing to try to comprehend how the hole became a building with floors that seemed a pity to walk on. Sadiq had dressed himself formally, ensuring his appearance was clean, and he had crafted a wig of white horse hair for himself. No one seemed to suspect anything about him as his boots clacked against the floor, and he made his way to where a kind madam stated there was a lift. Sadiq had felt akin to a frightened deer when the supposed lift began moving and carried him downward. He was further baffled by the library underneath The Cornucopia, with hundreds of shelves and books to fill them.

  Sadiq passed by the lift entrance and disappeared behind a column of shelves. He ventured further, passing by people seated at the long tables, and continued until he came to a section of shelves with no one around. From within his clothing, he pulled out a book of his own, placing it with the others scattered around. He left immediately afterward.

  The voice was pleased with him. He had not questioned why it had wanted him to write a false diary, nor why the diary had to have instructions on how to find his home underground. His questions would not be answered, and did not need to be. A change was occurring, and Sadiq knew it had something to do with what the people called the Ethospar War. He had not taken part, and when it began, the voice was jittery with anticipation that did not cease even after the war ended. Sadiq did not know the plans of the voice and resigned himself to waiting.

  —————

  Intruders have come. The voice is alive. Sadiq is awake, and he knows that this is his moment. From the altar, the needle and thread move unsettled, and Sadiq has to wonder about the three boys who come to him. They had defeated the creature, the voice singing about its defeat, but Sadiq is not worried. He will prevail.

  He has been waiting for a long time.

  —————

  Cian closed the last book, tapping his fingers on its cover. He had not read all of them in their entirety, roaming over their pages quickly, halting to read only what seemed necessary. The man, Sadiq To’eh, was rather diligent in documenting most of his life. Still, it appeared he was not a part of any significant historical events, except for the crumbling of Panthos. Cian had thought the man would be able to shed light on The Five Founders, the ones who initiated the art of Sinful Cultivation, and how they acquired power through a covenant with sin. They were the first with obsidian hair, and the only people recorded to have cut their hair, going against a promise forged long ago, yet any who tried now did not reach their rank of superiority.

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  Those verging on obsidian have taken the drastic measure of cutting their hair when the tribe of Nemesis is about to ensnare them, cutting themselves in desperation for a pack to be made, but nothing ever comes from it. There is no sudden power given to them, and they wield no conduits, so it is still a mystery as to how the The Founders came into being. Sadiq had not even mentioned where conduits came from, and he had not been present when the original leaders of the tribes fought against The Founders. About the only pertinent information that had been Sadiq’s discovery of Shiloh’s body, his conduit, and Matriarch Davar’s Quill, and even then, Wukong’s people had only retrieved one out of the three.

  Cian pushed the book away from him as he leaned back in his chair. Wukong had sold Sadiq’s writing as though the man had been some great historian scribe, and it could have been a joke on his part to mess with Cian. Whatever the reason, the last book clued Cian in as to why Wukong wanted to speak with him after reading. He pulled out the knife he had hidden in the fold of his robes and twisted this way and that. The knife had been amidst his belongings upon waking from his long rest after the ordeal at Lake Kai. Apparently, he had been clutching it the entire time he was asleep, and the healers had a bit of trouble prying it from his fingers. He ended up cleaning the weapon, sharpening it, and returning the blade to its former glory. From then on, he used it to replace the knife he left in the cavern. Cian could not say why he decided to keep the knife, and now he is unsure if he should still keep it.

  The knife belonged to Shiloh, making it an artifact worth keeping in The Cornucopia, and he should hand it over, yet as he looked upon the glistening blade, he felt inclined to do the opposite. This knife, although it took the lives of many innocent people, was also the one that saved him, his brother, and Wukong. It brings him a sense of comfort knowing he has it because Sadiq is dead. A horrible way to rationalize his thoughts, but that is how Cian views it. If Wukong asks him to relinquish ownership, Cian will not immediately comply.

  He let out a sigh because now he was no longer looking forward to speaking with the other boy.

  —————

  Skadi sniffed at his boots, pawing at them gently. Cian bent down to pat her on the head, and she huffed before being called over by Wukong. He had found the two in the side garden, the sky overhead shifting shades into night. Wukong was sitting cross-legged on a stone bench, his arm propping up his head as a water fountain trickled behind him. The scene spurred a memory of when he was younger and had pushed Wukong into the waters at the entrance to The Cornucopia. It planted an intrusive thought to recreate such an amusing memory, but the other must have sensed the danger. “Do not give in to childish whims. Not when you have come to discuss important matters. It will also be good practice, as after tomorrow, the responsibility you will be given will require maturity.”

  Cian dropped onto the ground, leaning back on one arm lazily. “Having fun is not being immature, it’s refusing to be a stick in the mud.” Wukong narrowed his eyes at him, but their usual banter would not continue, and Cian hated it. “Are you going to relinquish the artifact to my father?”

  “No,” Cian replied. His hasty response caught Wukong by surprise, and he had to fight against fidgeting under the other’s evaluating gaze. “I’ve kept it for this long, so I don’t see an issue in retaining it further.”

  “It would be better to secure it alongside the other conduits and items pertaining to The Five Founders.”

  “It’s a knife.”

  “That belonged to Founder Shiloh.”

  Cian began picking at the grass around him, an irrational feeling of resentment surfacing. Wukong is not saying anything wrong, and the boy is merely trying to fulfil the duties of his tribe, but Cain could not help being annoyed. “Why isn’t Patriarch Griff the one making a request? Why are you suddenly asking for it when it’s been in my possession for months?”

  “My father is unaware that you hold such a weapon. Sadiq To’eh did not describe the knife, so to anyone else, it would be unknown what the difference is. I would have overlooked such a detail had my intuition not told me that after Sadiq broke his weapon, he would have replaced it with the knife the voice had him retrieve.” Wukong must have noted the stubbornness written on Cian’s face because he also added, “Have you felt…different while wielding the blade?”

  Cian quirked an eyebrow. “Not that I’ve noticed, no. What question is that?”

  “During our fight at the gambling house, you gave me the knife to defend myself. Our schooling provided instruction on how to handle various weapons, but I was more adept at swordplay. Yet, if you had watched me that night, I would have seemed a master. My movements did not feel like my own, and it was as though I was at the mercy of my left hand. Then came the moment my hand halted mid-strike and whirled around to send the knife in your direction.”

  As Wukong spoke, Cian went over the incident in his head, and at the time, he had thought Wukong had been the one to answer his battle cry. He understood the boy’s initial inquiry because he had felt a shift once his hand wrapped around the handle of the blade. His fighting became different, with a lethality unlike himself, but that had been the only incident. The times he had sparred with Kumo, his strikes and knifeplay were of his own doing, and the knife had felt like any other weapon.

  “It’s not a conduit,” Cian said. “And I’ve heard no…voices.”

  “I do not believe it is either. They were said only to have one each, and if Adagio had been the strongest of them, I would imagine he would have commanded two if it were possible. That does not mean there is nothing wrong with the knife.”

  Skadi had been resting underneath the stone bench, but the Mountain Badger rolled over and skittered across the grass to climb into Cian’s lap. The creature curled into a ball, and Cian gently petted her, his mind thinking over Wukong’s words. They have experienced firsthand what evils a conduit holds, even if it had not been at full strength—Cian can recollect he fear that had coursed through him because of the needle and spool of thread. The knife has never brought that same terror to his soul, and it might be alarming that it can dictate his patterns in a fight, but it never forced his hand. Cian was able to decide when to block and when to cut, so in his mind, it was instead advantageous to have such a weapon on hand. There was also the fact that he would be squaring off against Keegan tomorrow. Their fight could also be made shorter if the knife helped him to navigate around Keegan’s assault and to pin his brother down. “As I sense no malice from the knife, I still refuse to hand it over to you.”

  Wukong frowned deeply. “I cannot force you to give the knife to my people, and I do not wish to cause trouble by informing my father,” Wukong said, standing up, and causing Skadi to also rise to attention, the Mountain Badger leaping from his lap. “You are reckless, but not a fool, so I may despise you keeping it, yet I trust you will seek out help should it become more than a blade for battle.” With those final words spoken, Wukong ended their conversation by walking off, bidding Cian a good night.

  —————

  He did not request another room, but he also did not stay in his. When Wukong had left him, Cian had chosen to remain in the garden. The grass was soft, and the fountain reminded him of the one in his room at home. The night was also breezy, yet not uncomfortably cold, making for good weather. He was lying on his back, watching the night sky that somewhat glowed from the city lights that refused to die. There were some stars sprinkled about, and Cian began to count them, attempting to lull himself to sleep, but sleep would not come for him.

  He has been dreading the day of the rightful heir ceremony, wanting nothing more than for his uncle to call it off so they could return home and have everything return to normal. It is wishful thinking. Tomorrow, they will go to the coliseum and be presented to the crowd before being told to attack the other. Keegn will put up a valiant fight, but Cian is a prodigy, and he has never been bested by his brother before. Their friendly sparring matches would always end with Keegan frustrated over Cian never taking them seriously. It was a lie, as Cian was never so disrespectful as to not honor his brother in a fight. He allowed Keegan to think that way because it seemed more pitiful to have him realize he could never reach the same tier as Cian. He is confident he can win.

  What is keeping him awake—what is plaguing his mind more than anything—is what will happen after he does. Change is inevitable; he is growing and on the verge of becoming a man. The future can hold good, and it can hold grief. He just does not want people to be disappointed. He does not wish Keegan to leave him. Cian wants the best for everyone.

  “God…help me.”