Ilioszo is missing and Lykalis must choose to either protect Leutes from the Irenics or abandon everything she knows to save her obsession. But, with death knocking at her door, will Lykalis manage to live long enough to choose in the first place?
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A String of Fate
"REMIND me again," she mused as she gazed at the stars, "what color is my soul?"
He turned to face her, pale locks of hair falling over his eyes. He observed her soft expression with a veiled gaze. Her eyes had fluttered shut, locks of onyx brushing against her chest, darker than the night; glistening like constellations. Her hair had grown, tangible evidence of the time which passed.
Of what they gained and what they lost; what they have and what they haven't.
And isn't that just agonizing?
How they wallow in their own states of self-pity and melancholy, damaged by reprisals of their own and those they cherished, woe-d by fleeting thoughts crossing minds in repetitive motions, daring to occur once, twice, three times. Desires to pursue the world lying at their feet was lost to the winds; to the sun which taunted their very movements. For what cause is there to pursue anything that proved to be destructive and debilitating, reality diseasing dreams and hopes, tearing them apart with the ease of cleavers against thorns?
But, as painful as it is, neither friends nor lovers gaze at the world and the world alone. They have each other, don't they? And that, in the end, is the fundamental principle of life; to have a being other than you which cares for your health, your spirit, your mental stability. To have a purpose given by yourself in an attempt to obtain the transfixed gaze of others and the approval of a soul which damns you the most—
Yourself.
He turned his head to face the moon, fingers scraping at tiles littering the roof.
"White," he murmured, "with a hint of black and speckles of blue."
She hummed thoughtfully.
What a strange description of colors unseen by the naked eye; possessed only by him and him alone. How utterly perplexing, to comprehend the factors of life a soul contained without the need to feed the darkness which she was burdened with. It was, indeed, unfair, but she would be last to damn the only man who gazed at her with such tender eyes, vulnerable yet strong.
Powerful, yet weak.
"Can I know," she started again, "how you came to understand souls? To manipulate them?"
He shifted in his seat, leaning back as he uncrossed his legs.
What she asked, he always gave. It was his debt that he paid; her desire that he fed. But he didn't mind. No, for this intimate exchange of information was mutual. He dug into her with greedy claws and avid hunger that spurred from the covenant which tied their souls together; a promise that could not be broken by any spirit nor god. A promise that had no fundamental way to spurn its words and syllables; its desires and pinings.
