Arden didn't waste time gawking at the scenery.
His feet hammered against the muddy ground of the all-too-familiar graveyard. The sky had unfolded, letting rain pour onto the soil, his skin, the melancholic gravestones. It wasn't like the last time he was here; a storm was coming then, thunder was cracking in the sky. Now the droplets bouncing off his skin were few and far between, yet the impact they managed to have on him was much more detrimental.
With a scowl, he stormed past Miran's grave. The persistent tug of his heartstrings would plague his chest for the rest of his life, he was well aware. Yet after Musha, after the Kingfisher, after Nora, her smoldering body blurred into all the other strangled corpses in his memory.
He almost wanted to thank her for every emotion she shoved him through. She died, he killed her, and now he knew where the artifact was. Nothing could ever make him regret it.
The wicked stone appeared before him, three words carved sloppily on its surface; Halal di Madar. Bird of Freedom. How could he have missed it? How could he have let his Mushan slip away from his grasp, simply to give way to the memory of a dead girl? He dropped to his knees and grasped the shovel clutched under his armpit. Without hesitation, he dug.
It was hard to believe, at first. Lumi Dorona's men couldn't have been this smart and foolish at the same time. They feared people would come for the Kingfisher once the news of its disappearance spread, and so they buried it in a nameless graveyard, far from the bustle of Karahi. Surely enough, they were soon all blown up. The part where they engraved the name on the tablet, though, was what boggled Arden. Did they want it to be found? Were they merely stupid?
Think less, shovel more. So he dug on. Minutes, hours, eternities passed. His arms burned, his feet were sore, and his mind was left alone with its own thoughts — the worst kind of torture. What would happen if he walked out with the artifact? Everyone had their own plan in mind; Salo wanted money, Nora wanted recognition, Ailyn wanted to wipe her own kind from the face of the earth. It was a conversation they had long ago, when things were different. Now it couldn't have been made more candid to him; none of that would happen. Salo would stay in Frya. Nora would return to her job, if she hadn't been dismissed already. And Ailyn — he wasn't sure. Perhaps she would help the Resistance, as Arden intended to do. It was the only way to give meaning to this quite meaningless struggle.
Yet what if he didn't uphold his bargain with Iona? What if he disappeared with the artifact, sold it, and done what he had wanted to do ever since? The thought didn't resonate with him as much as it would have a month ago. Whoever the buyer was, they would deliver the artifact straight to Kage's door eventually. And lately, the boy had been concerned with the world's welfare more than normal.
Maybe it was because this world meant something now. Because it housed people much more precious than any dirty penny could ever be.
When the sun sunk beneath the soil, a significant amount of dirt had accumulated next to his panting figure. Still, no sign of the artifact. What was it meant to look like? What if there was nothing in there? What if the grave only hosted a poor man dubbed a rich name? Arden shook his head, his sweat lost in the waterfall of rain slipping down his cheeks. 'What if's were for people who could afford the worst, and he could afford nothing, really.
The rain soon ended with a few last sad plings on the gravestones. And then, just when the sun's weak rays were curiously peeking over the Mushan mountain range, Arden's shovel smashed against something solid.
His pulse went into overdrive as he tried to keep his fingers from trembling. The thought that the subject of his agony was under just a few scoops of dirt both terrified him and stirred him to the point where his arms froze, unsure of what to do. There was no reason to hesitate, yet he did. It was a mistake.
"I can't say I'm impressed."
The boy's head whipped around. Zhao Koroka leaned against a tree, his hands folded tightly against his chest, his tranquil posture just a bit more frigid. He had guts to come here. Too bad Arden would have to spill them if this was about the artifact.
He lowered the shovel, slowly rising to his feet. "There is a case of money in the house on the highest hill of Karahi," he said as calmly as his raging heart allowed him to. "It's worth more than a couple of beach houses."
A strained laugh left Zhao's throat. His gaze bore no amusement or humor like it usually did; it was acute, piercing through Arden's skin with the sharpness of a thousand needles. "It took you longer than I thought," he resumed talking, ignoring Arden's remark. "Were there any distractions?"
Arden's shoulders tensed. He knew where this was going. Somehow, in his shock, he allowed the man to continue.
"What does impress me is that those distractions still exist. Because last time they were there you disposed of them, remember?" Zhao pushed his body off the stone and took a few steps towards the boy. He hadn't bothered to hide the imperfections in his scowling face, the paleness of his skin. He wanted Arden to see that he didn't burn a bag of flesh to ashes; he killed a human.
Luckily, he had achieved a kind of numbness that left him detached on the matter. With controlled breaths, he squeezed the wooden hilt of the shovel between his palms, already bleeding from splinters. "So this is what this is about, then? An apology you never got? A few words won't bring her back."
"I don't think you have the luxury of being sarcastic right now, Vera," he snapped, pulling a long pistol from the pocket of his sturdy coat. It carried ornate swirls, gleaming designs that didn't fit the ugly death that they would likely accompany. "You have ten minutes to dig that cursed bird up. The rest of my men stayed behind in Fuka Ishik, and if I don't walk out of this cemetery fully intact until then you can consider your crew gone."
Arden was almost surprised. His brows twitched as he examined the man's face. "You want the Kingfisher?" You can have it, he almost added, but he knew Zhao hadn't come all this way to claim an artifact useless to him.
He breathed a dry snicker. "I want you to suffer, Arden. And as much as I'd like to kill you right now, I'd rather see your head drop from your shoulders publicly."
So he did as Zhao told. Ten minutes to remove half an hour worth of dirt was ludicrous for someone as exhausted as him, yet he forced his limbs to move. Plans brewed in his head, yet their impossibility taunted him relentlessly. He couldn't kill Zhao. What else was there to do? Arden hadn't stayed to hear the overly complicated plan the Resistance had forced on them, and therefore had no idea where the rest were and for how long.
After a few minutes of shoveling, he slowly came to terms with his fate. It didn't matter if he died. One soul before three — and possibly another dozen from the Resistance that would perish — couldn't compare. He would be slightly inconvenienced by the futility of all of his struggles in the afterlife, was Kage to lay his hands on such power after everything they did to prevent that. Yet even as he started to regret every step he took after a certain point, his heart was strangely tranquil and his mind clear. Was this how it felt to be doomed to death? Was it not as bad as he thought it was?
Bryn flew through his thoughts for a brief second. The disappointment in her gaze as held his obituary in her delicate hands — if he was even granted the honor of one. What would she say to his vanished parents? Would she say anything at all? Would she even know he was gone — or anyone, for that matter, apart from the solemn man overseeing his excavation project?
The Kingfisher was bizarre. In fact, it wasn't, which made it even more strange. It seemed like a piece of dirty pottery in the shape of the homonymous bird. Blue paint graced its back, blending into a pale orange tint towards its belly. A long beak adorned the head, huddled between a set of void, black eyes staring right back at him. It was stunningly simple. It was deadly. He leaned down, his band bending with a monstrous crack of stiffness, and carefully took the artifact into his hand.
It was hard to believe he was holding the subject of dozens — maybe hundreds — of deaths in his palm. Alliances crumbled, Councils split, all in the name of a small bird-like statue. It was strangely heavy as he held it, and for a moment he dared wonder what was inside. A bunch of paperwork? A secret potion? Nothing at all?
Zhao eagerly thrust his arm out, staring at the boy expectantly. "Don't try anything," he said, his tone warning.
Don't try anything. Don't try anything. Arden stared at the artifact as his brain processed the phrase. It was a raw, flat threat. But what did it imply? What could he try, after all, a helpless man on gunpoint?
His surrender to death's clutches slowly melted away, along with his confused frown. His team crossed his mind once more, but in another light. Ailyn, trusting her life with him. Salo, making him swear he would return. And Nora, kissing him, not because of an ulterior motive, not because of trivial bodily needs, but because she wanted to. Because she believed in him enough to lend him her heart.
It was the first time since Miran that he had felt his heart flutter, his lips curve secretly for one person. It was a kind of warmth that he couldn't forfeit, not yet. The mission, for all its ugliness and torture, had gifted him with the closest thing to the happiness he had ever felt and would ever feel.
He didn't know what he was doing, exactly. It was like kicking the wall of a cul-de-sac, hoping it would crumble on the spot. Yet as Zhao noticed the crazed shine of determination in his eyes and hastily clicked back the hammer, Arden rammed his body out of the grave he had dug for himself.
The bullet shattered onto the tombstone with a thunderous crack. Bits and pieces of stone showered the soil as Arden dived forward, grabbing Zhao's waist and launching him on the mud with his own weight on top. One hand pinned the man's collarbones down and the other cupped over the trigger of the pistol, firing as many shots as he could in the sky within a split second. Before the barrel could churn out all of its ammunition, Zhao drove a knee into Arden's chest and kicked his abdomen, hurling him to the side with a contrived groan.
He knew he didn't have much time. Whoever was waiting outside was certainly not expecting shots to be fired. The artifact rolled across the soil as Zhao rose to his knees, the butt of the pistol colliding with Arden's cheekbone and flinging his face to the side. Stars danced across his vision, little shiny spots barely covering the artifact miserably lying on the wet ground.
And suddenly, in his daze, he knew what he had to do.
As Zhao lowered the pistol for another hit, probably calamitous this time, Arden shoved his body in a whirl. The weapon landed on the ground, spraying mud all over the two men. Arden sputtered a curse and stumbled to his feet. One, two, three steps, he mentally counted and dove for the shovel.
He felt it brush his fingers, yet the dead grass of the cemetery was the last thing he saw. The world around him crumbled, leaving him in cold, unforgiving darkness. It coiled around his skin, dousing his body with a shiver. For a moment, he thought it was over. Yet he felt no pain.
Soon, the confusion was cleared. The dimness receded, revealing a scenery — not the one he was still physically in, but another, so much brighter and darker at the same time. Deep down, he knew it was coming. What else would Zhao resort to, if not his own despised yet much-needed power? He thought he had moved on, thought Miran was in the past. The pain soaring up his chest, leaving a trail of burning grief behind, proved him wrong.
The National Karahi Military Academy stood before him, in all of its monumental glory. Fires licked the walls, the smashed windows, the screaming students sliding down any kind of opening they found. The crackling of the flames was deafening, even from the safe distance he had secured. Embers danced before his vision — a few weak ones made it to where he stood, performing one last swirl before fading into the soft grass beneath his feet.
The memories returned to his mind, more vivid and horrible than he had ever dreamt them. Miran, confessing her love. Him returning the sentiment. Then, Miran pointing at Seyal, a smile on her face. The next day probably at Frya, Flouorn, anything barely visible from the high tower of the Academy. Then, Miran pointing at her ex, or at that girl who was always condescending to her. All those requests, all those missions even before Sevin. And he knew he would carry them out for her, because she mattered and they did not.
Then, him realizing the influence a human could have on him.
It was shocking, what he had done on a whim. How many lives were lost. He was careless once, and he made sure it was the last time. Yet no amount of fixing could fix a dead girl.
The pain came with a delay. It lingered across his spine, sending sharp shocks to his limbs. He wasn't sure what was more agonizing; that, or reliving the biggest mistake of his life?
He shook his head sharply. He had to break out of it. Illusions didn't last nearly as long in reality as they felt, yet minutes slipped by and all Arden was capable of was standing straight as a rod and twitching in pain as he gawked at the Academy.
With much effort, he managed to look around. The ground was covered in vibrant grass which stretched on for acres upon acres before him. The dimness of the night and the glamour of the pyre he had created in the dormitories of the school clashed in a raging duel across the green range. He didn't remember being fascinated so much by it all those years ago. Perhaps it was because now he was much more tranquil, maybe even artificially tranquil.
There was no way of breaking out of the illusion. Arden held his head in his palms, as if massaging his skull would do him any service. Then, with a force that nearly knocked him off his feet, a memory screeched across his mind. This time it was real.
Zhao had performed his parlor trick on the team before, as well. It seemed like ages ago when Salo froze in his tracks and slumped against the wall of the hotel Halim Terko had rented a room in. It was clear in the Ascended's unfocused, blurry eyes, in the tears that occasionally threatened to spill down his smooth cheeks.
He experienced the illusions, too. Every last one of them.
Arden ran. His back screamed with smoldering pain and his vision faltered as he dashed across the level grass field. Everything seemed to spin, and for a moment he thought he was moving in the opposite direction. Yet as the blurry building grew larger by the second, so did the black flesh lying on the ground.
He finally spotted a corpse. Its hair was scorched and its skin was still smoking. Most disturbingly, its eyes were open, jade crystals that juxtaposed its hollow skull. It wasn't her, and Zhao would know that too. Yet the boy sucked a breath that stemmed from real anguish and fell to his knees, leaning above the still figure.
"Miran," he shouted. Her name ripped from his throat with effort, and he could feel even his own eyes filling with moisture as he repeated her name ten, a hundred, a thousand times, his tone gradually dropping to a whisper.
After the dozenth time, the world around him seemed to blur.
He was back at the cemetery. Zhao towered above him, any kind of bitterness gone from his face. His jaw was clenched beyond what was healthy and his eyes smoldered with hatred, a golden glare that contained all the pain his heart had hid for all those years of acting happy.
The pistol was on the ground, and the Kingfisher laid only a few feet away from him. Arden lurched to his feet, snatched the muddy shovel, and with a swing that bore all the anger, all the pain, all the passion his tormented soul had never released, he brought the shovel down on the artifact.
He heard Zhao's scream crack into a protest somewhere behind him. It didn't matter. Once the Kingfisher was cracked, the gloomy cemetery was washed by blinding, pure white.
༺──────────────༻
The sun slowly climbed the grey sky, fighting to shine in a battle with gloominess. The air was humid, clinging to Arden's skin as he carried his feet down the graveyard's hill. His eyes followed the ground, somewhat shy to look up; to witness the world from such different eyes.
When the rusty gate was left behind, a young boy rushed to him, eyes wide with both fear and curiosity. It had been more than ten minutes, way more, yet the guard hadn't dared to step a foot into the scene of the crime.
"Done, your Excellency?" he faltered, his eyes expectant for an explanation.
Arden nodded grimly. He fixed his eyes on the boy. "Done."
***
Okay, shhhhhhh, don't ask anything. I've been sitting on this for months now, because I know it's the kind of thing people will either love or hate. But we're ROLLING with it. Most is going to be explained by the end of this and details are going to be given at the beginning of the sequel, I swear. I really hope y'all are satisfied with the ending to come!
Also, record time? Writing a chapter in two days is really new to me so if things don't entirely make sense please excuse me, they'll all be fixed in the editing!
As always, thank you so much for reading! Please consider voting and commenting, as it really motivates me ♥♥