Forebodings Told of the Future

Each tribe had their Highs, those wielding skills past the extent of the average user, and eligible to become Elders once they were at least 65 years old.

High Weavers could detect massive shifts in the Nexus, even those afar, as they did on the fateful night of a Showyth blizzard. High Menders were able to save from a state of dying, the mighty blasts of wind produced by the wings of High Fliers could knock down anything – but the rarer, near invincible High Guardians would hold their ground.

As for the Highs of the Reapers…

They had nothing. Some theorized an ability that went beyond snatching away one’s life would make them too overpowered, and thus the Nexus was maintaining balance. Steph, always the pessimistic, just believed they were unlucky – before he was told the truth.

But aside from that, there was a compensating technique Dulcie developed, and was taught to her descendants.

Multi-targeted, rapid death. The clearest indication of a Cyrus.

The Flier glared at him, her patience dwindling.

After he guided her to the porch, Steph closed his eyes. Deeply concentrating, he could sense all forms of life in the vicinity – from the people around him, to a trail of ants, even the grass they walked upon. His body intertwined, rhythmic pulses coursed through his veins, and at the height of it, he lifted his arms to the heavens. The nearest trees withered and collapsed, the animals deprived of a final breath as they fell limp.

Just by a flick of his wrist, the post’s radius was changed into a landscape of shriveled decay and corpses that were already cold, but not a human life was touched. Steph obviously knew such actions were prohibited – ironic, since he was a Cyrus.

He exhaled, wiping the tears. “There, you believe me now?” he asked the astounded Flier.

“M-My apologies… You said, ‘immediate delivery,’ right?”

“Yeah, so… Are you going to send it?”

“Of course! Rain or shine, doesn’t matter to me anymore!”

Without another word, the Flier took off, the sky still gray as the heavy rainfall continued. Depending on her pace, it’d only take a day or two to reach Seris – which meant that Roe, blissfully unaware, only had a limited amount of time before…

“Don’t think about it,” he murmured. “What’s done is done.”

He believed that, but the stabbing guilt in his chest persisted all the while. Head hanging low, he left the post, slamming the door so hard it almost broke off the hinges – but the other Fliers were wise in not complaining.

His mood as dark as the clouds, Steph thought it best to take the long way that led back to home. He couldn’t bare to see his family, especially not his grandmother. If only not returning at all was an option, but for what use? He would be found promptly, lest the family fail to pay their “debts” and suffer the repercussions. Typical Steph just had make himself feel worse by dwelling on that fact.

But he was unaware that he’d change his mind.

Water splashed on him from passing hooves. Steph coughed, spitting it out as if he ingested poison. The horses stopped, and the carriage door opened. Ready to shake his fists in a tantrum, he turned with fiery eyes to face the passenger – surprisingly, Elder Hagwin, who could weave quicker than any outburst could begin. Steph composed himself, standing up straight and stopping a midway salute.

“Is that you, Steph?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Good, you’re exactly who I was looking for. Get in.”

“Me? Why?”

“I’ll explain as we go,” he said, motioning for him to enter. “And I apologize on my rider’s behalf for the… Puddle.”

Steph climbed inside and sat across from the Elder, his drenched clothes staining the white cushions with grime. Hagwin’s expression was severely startling, but Steph doubted it had anything to do with the mess. Whatever the cause, it filled him with unease.

Hagwin took out a small, black jar from his pocket, the seriousness in his face never faltering. The horses started moving again, while Steph watched him pop off the cork. A sweet, flowery aroma spread in the small space. But what was inside the bottle was less than pleasant for a Reaper – petals from the purple rose, stuffed to the top and mixed with its own oil.

“Huh!? Why do you have these in Elakin? That’s, like – illegal! You aren't a Guardian!”

“I won’t mince words with you, Steph. Take these and run. Far away from here.”

“You want me to what? Is this a joke or something?” But after a spark of realization, he shrunk and asked, “Or is this a test? My grandmother sent you, didn’t she? Well, nice try, but I’m not falling for it!”

“Dulcie has nothing to do with this, and I have no intentions of telling her or any other soul.”

His assurance sounded honest, not even a hint of deception spoken through it – regardless, Steph thought he must have been imagining things. Maybe he caught pneumonia from the weather and it got to his brain… No, that was too ridiculous.

“T-Then why are you saying this to me?”

“Whenever I come here, for the Auction… I’ve seen the way Dulcie looks at you,” he turned to the window, his eyes darting up and down the road anxiously, “It’s the same she looks at me. At all of us.”

“And at Roe,”  Steph noted in his brain, the wave of guilt coming back over him. “So, you’ve noticed… But still, why do you even care? You barely know me that well.”

“Something is going to happen, Steph, and it will be unspeakable.”

“The fire? I kinda think everyone knows about that already.”

“No. Be logical, boy. Why would I be referencing something so obvious?”

“Okay, well, say it then! What’s going on?”

“You will discover it eventually, like everyone else… But if you want to be saved, you must flee Elakin. As you know, the oil from those petals will protect you from your kind, so you needn’t fret about any risks.”

“That’s not true. You of all people know about her… Connections. If not my tribe, somebody else will catch me instead.”

“Perhaps, but nonetheless, the opportunity still exists. Are you not interested in at least attempting to live out the final year, young Reaper? Do say your piece.”

It had to be a lucid dream. Any moment, he’d wake up and kick himself for being so gullible. But the seconds passed on, and as the uncomfortable wetness of his clothes felt increasingly very real, he could no longer be in denial.

It was actually happening – the chance to escape.