A New World | THE BIG FOUR: Book 2 ✔

16 : THE STOLEN RELIC

Burgess

Nightfall clawed upon the land and... Pitch—he sat alone on the throne chair, escorted by eternal silence. His eyes darted in an open portal across him, sharp and deadly like a dagger stabbed into a flesh. He was waiting for someone—or something.

He was waiting for his nightmare.

Pitch could clearly and visibly see the wide establishment with numerous vehicles parked outside and people heading inside—he could even hear the tiny whisper of music luring his ears.

A crumble and gushing sound resonated atop the lair, soft and quiet, the harsh volume increases as a pure dark horse-shaped creature neared the room and stayed reluctantly at Pitch's side, trail of sand flows within its body.

Pitch moved his fingers as he smoothens the creature's back, trying to make it calm—he can hear the deep grunts and heaves; he can feel the narrow movement of its chest.

"Hm." Pitch moaned, listening to its whispers.

It sounded rough and raspy, like it was talking intimately to whomever is listening, echoing into anyone's mind and changing the truth into a hideous lie.

Pitch remained in silence.

His eyes glowed in golden color.

He nodded.

"I see."

A hint of tension in his voice—like being intimidated by what he sees, a future of his fate. With a wave of his hands, the nightmare scavenged away leaving him in total peace and serenity—but his mind pondered and never stopped from rationalizing things.

He had seen it... feel it.

The four individuals had come a very long way, they had met before and... now, for the second time. They had been together for years, even before Pitch can even throw them into the abyss and erase their memories. There had been this undying tie or relationship between them, and with no doubt—this could possibly happen again.

Pitch feels it. As long as they see and talk to each other—to form a thick sheet of bond and friendship, with a little push further, Pitch knew what is to be expected.

The King of Darkness walked back and forth, again and again. His patience began to run low. His head down, both of his hands at his back. His dark pale lips in a straight dry line.

His eyes darted the clear open portal, Pitch cannot further move his vision specifically inside the vicinity—there is nothing else he can do but to watch and stare at them at a far distance, enough for him to see their silhouette and statures. But his nightmare offered a great plead of help.

He was left in fathomless silence... until at the edge of his eyes—a flickering light blinked constantly.

Pitch moved his head sharply.

His eyes had gone wide and still.

His breathing had become ragged—and fast and narrow.

Pitch growled underneath his breath.

"Impossible." He splat and travelled at the far corner of his lair.

"It can't be." He whispered.

His hands trembled.

"Impossible!"

His fingers brushed against the rough surface of the black small globe. It never shone before—in any forms of lights, in any shade of color, it never did until... now. The time he sent them to the other realm, the globe did not show any life and agility, it was left in dusts and pure blackness, it was left untouched. Millions of lights that used to gleam in its brightest gold—the people who believed in, vanished and none of it twinkled again.