Unearth The Shadows

12

Heron Her Lomeon | 21th day of Sprout Season

During the nights following his escape from the dangers of the city tavern, Heron burned the bulk of his late hours away in the grand library. If he allowed sleep to percolate, heinous rebels would be there in his dreams, clad in white robes flapping in nightly darkness, with blades hungry for royal blood.

He kept sleep at bay. Any sign of the sharpness of his senses dwindling over time filled him with despair. Eventually, his apathy was strong enough to immunize him from his superior's disapproval. He missed their dinners in the main room if he pleased, and didn't open the door of his chambers when knocks sounded unless he had called for a servant.

"I am well, but busy now," he said to repel the intrusions, then fell silent, even if the knocks persisted.

Heron devoted the will he had left to the essential: avoiding another confrontation with the rebels in his dreams. But all proved useless: limb-stiffening fatigue always ended up pulling him into a heavy sleep. And Amyra was there, in her green nurse robes, dark brown hair braided neatly, sticking out of her headscarf. In her hands, countless daggers, dazzlingly white as if carved from pure chunks of Baalkan mineral.

"You cannot escape us." Her words sounded like a serpent hiss. Then she charged with a will to kill.

Heron sprang awake before the nurse could harm him, rolling sideways on a crumple of sheets past the edge of the bed, fumbling. His back hit the cold tiled floor. He was covered in cold sweat and the coldness of the tiles caused him full-body shivers.

He stood. He smelled terrible, and the sweat-inducing nightmares didn't help. He crossed past the doors of his bedchamber and strode along the floor's corridors to reach the bathing rooms at its extremity, sealed with heavy stainless metal double doors.

"Leave," he announced to the servants as soon as he stepped inside, deepening his head into a fine coat of steam clinging in the air.

The servants working in the room appeared frozen at their tasks. Scalding water dripped at the far end of the room.

Heron was already ridding himself of his tunic. "I won't repeat myself," he pressed, carelessly placing the crumple of his garment on the drawers.

The maidens scrambled. Soon, were out of sight.

He dipped a hand into a tab already filled with hot water properly cut with cold water. The white light from sparse lanterns burning crystal dust against the walls allowed for a neat reflection of himself on the water— the bitterness in his face made him appear like a stranger to himself. It stirred something inside him. And he cried. And all the while a thought lingered, even as he lay bare beneath the water inside the tab: behind the doors of the bathing rooms, one of the maidens could be waiting for him, dagger at ready to stab him.

Heron's bad shape hadn't escaped tutor Arai's senses during his study sessions in the grand library. The tutor conveyed his worry through unusually frequent tours to the bookshelves near Heron's working desk. Knowing the old man, the librarian had all his words ready. They weighed on his tongue, desirous to spill as soon as Heron bit the bait.