The Call Of The Canary Bird

As wordless as always, the acolyte slid into the gap beside Kael, furthest from the bird that had scampered its ascent up the tree.

“I don’t mean to disturb your discussion, or to be a bore. But I can’t shake Kallista from my head. Ever since she spoke of what she… of what happened to Isha, my mind cannot truly rest.”

Words that none of them wished to utter, the weight of those lost bellowing down on their shoulders - only Miria was brave enough to speak them. Every step they took left behind a footprint, a vacant gap in the sand.

What did this unspoken future hold for them? To battle against a major god, to dispel the reality one wished to enforce, wasn’t it all so futile?

“What chance do we have of killing a god?” Kael remarked, his head falling back to breathe in the blue sky.

After all, he was living on borrowed time. Every moment was much like a blessing, the loving hand of a god that couldn’t quite remember why he’d extended the kindness. Now they were to use that opportunity to slaughter a host of unthinkable power.

“You have a god on your side, too,” The noble chirped, the corners of his lips rising in that teasing flick, the kind that made every blunder ache just a little less.

As his head tilted down, back towards the city lying before them, the beginnings of a smile crept their way up to his face. Himself, Miria and Lucian - did they really need anyone else? If they could really synergise, bind in a way that echoed cohesion, perhaps a fox wasn’t out of the question.

“I guess we do. And I suppose nobody would know the others better than yourself?” Miria hummed, her eyeline panning over to where their god stood, pressed against the wooden banister.

How ever had such a childish man built himself into something most worthy of that title?

“If only. I’ve never met Lenore, don’t even know what she looks like. Kallista’s… well, I needn’t speak of her. The only thing she fears is Alistair, who isn’t exactly fond of me,” Lucian spoke in a tone that seemed closest to Faelan, his scarlet cloak lapping softly in the wind. His gaze into the distance held a hint of dissatisfaction, and Kael wondered if his position amongst the gods was more of a sore spot that he let on.

Miria’s voice held a hint of sarcasm that had never been present before, “Do I dare ask why?”

Charming girl. She truly was capable of the most imperfectly perfect words for the occasion.

“He doesn’t find me particularly amusing. Miserable old man, I don’t exactly enjoy his company either. With a bit of luck, he’ll collapse into a pile of dust any day now. Preferably after we get rid of the fox.”

Miria shot the man a hardened look, but the corners of her lips tipped every so slightly in a way that betrayed her composure.

If the fox perished, Miria would be freed. The world of alchemy would be her oyster: there was no doubt she would be well placed tucked into the corner of a humble town, quietly praised by the townsfolk that flocked to her remedies and teas alike.

Maybe once this was all over, he could visit her. Bring Lucian along, so long as the man wasn’t tied up in whatever godly matters he tended to on the regular. That didn’t quite suit him, better placed chasing wild winds and manic monsters.

It would be nice if they could travel together once more, even if it were when years had pulled at their skin and dust had fallen upon their blades. One last adventure, for all that had fallen.

“Based on our meeting in the cave, he doesn’t seem to like anyone,” Kael caught himself slipping back into the conversation like a faint afterthought, buried away in the futures he desperately wished could come true.

A flutter of wings drew the attention of the trio. The yellow canary harked and squawked, a panicked array of noises falling from its beak that didn’t seem to belong. When immediate action didn’t follow, it swept forwards, hovering in front of their faces.

“Something’s wrong,” Lucian announced, though they’d grown accustomed to the sharp change of the winds and twists of fate.

Down below, the hurried voices of townsfolk alerted them to their senses, flurries of footsteps padding on out into the streets, one after another.

Before long they found themselves descending the steps of the inn house, armed with their belongings and a better night's rest. These could come far and few the more they pattered into the space of a god, especially one that had warned them prior.

Navigating through the streets fared more difficult than the previous few days, as did pushing past the crowds of people that had become ever so slow, as if their spirits had begun to drag them backwards.

The usual vendors that brandished papers and pastries weren’t present upon the side walk, and perhaps hadn’t been for a while. There were no posters that displayed the eager musicians who used to fight for a space to busk, no advertisements for the latest fashion or newest dishes. Just a husk of what the city had once proudly been.

When they broke through the crowd that fanned out to a clearing, it was not anything they could quite imagine.

Rope hung from the balcony of Hydrangea Palace, not tattered but tight and freshly twined. As eyes spanned down, they fell upon a hanging body, limp from where a noose had sealed a fate.

Rags hung over the head of the poor soul that hung there, not even the dignity of an identity. That was the inhumanity that fostered here, willing to scorn whichever way the wind blew.

A man slunk into the open window of the balcony, a vicious anger glaring in his eyes. A clash of shiny colour, a tight patch of feathers.

Phlox.

Of course he’d be present where despair was in abundance. Perhaps he’d slot in better amongst the demon gods, with the love of suffering that ran through him in a cruel streak.

He stood like an imposing power, a leader that loomed over a chilling city solidifying to ice.

Now the pure snow was stained in the deep crimson of blood.

“Citizens of White Lily City, last night, our noble Priestess received a message from a god. I’m sure the brutal murder of our late High Priestess is still but a fresh wound in your minds. And I’m sure you all wish to forget the perpetrator, who plunged to his own death to avoid facing his own evil doing. Kael Vylantis, one of our very own. A man that was raised within our own academy walls, cared for by our city, praised for his service and pledge to the protection of our people. But that man was a demon, a leech! A poorly bred beast that masked himself as a human,” Words spilled from Phlox’s mouth with venomous conviction, as if the angered ember born from that fateful night had never dimmed at all.

To the sides of him, Miria and Lucian’s heads angled up in a mirror of his own, shock dragging down their jaws as skin bunched upon their foreheads.

Neither could fall as wide as his own.

His name. Uttered by those who’d known him in exile, who’d issued the orders that sealed his fate.

Five years later, still as fresh as yesterday.

How could his name crop back up just one day after his arrival? He couldn’t remember any breadcrumbs that might’ve pattered out from an unsuspecting pocket, unless…

Unless Phlox had seen straight through him at the gates.

A flutter of fabric drew his gaze just behind Phlox, landing upon what he’d believed to be some decorative curtains. Through the sheer fabric, it became clear that what he’d mistaken was truthfully a veil, covering the static figure of a woman. Perched upon the heights of Hydrangea Palace, it could only be assumed to be the new ‘Priestess’ - whatever lay beneath was too far to make out.

“For five years we’ve believed him to be long dead, basking amongst the devils of the underworld. But I report to you today that we’ve all been fooled. That monster has crawled out of the gutter, nested by a man we believed to be as naive as the rest of us. The mask is off now, he can pay for what he’s done, and face the late High Priestess in the afterlife,” Phlox spat, his hand jutting in a sharp gesture towards the body that hung from the palace, tearing the cloth that obscured the victim’s appearance.

Ever so pale.

The face was void of any warmth that it might’ve carried before, but the expression marked the heart of a person who had all but given up. Perhaps drawn by the scorn of their neighbours, or the malevolent finality of their killer.

And then it clicked.

That oh so familiar face.

A crack jagged across Kael’s chest. So deep that his body felt concave, just a vessel devoid of the heart that beat inside of it.

Reuben.

Condemned to a death of humiliation.

The very earth before him spun in a shadowed vortex, lulling away his consciousness like the beckoning siren of a frosted lagoon. Pins pricked beads of figurative blood from head to toe, each tendon shaking so violently that he swore they snapped.

Disgraced in front of the whole city, in front of every person he had ever known. A man that had already been shaded by association to a detested nephew.

And for what? What crime had he ever committed?

His uncle was already condemned to a solitary life of shame. There wasn’t a person in White Lily City, or perhaps across the human realm, that would trust a man that shared the blood of a demon.

A man who had raised him through stretched pennies and strained meals. Despite the judging eyes and mouths of neighbours who would never try to understand, never lend a finger to an unwilling father.

Never once did he complain. Never once did he let Kael go without.

Look where his efforts had landed him.

Words that flowed out from Phlox’s mouth came out in silence as his companions faded away, replaced by the overbearing presence of the townsfolk.

Suddenly, five years hadn’t passed at all. Fire and smoke filled the air of a moonless night, as the shouts of furious voices echoed behind him.

“If you catch him, kill him on sight! The High Priestess has perished!”

And just as he had all those years ago, the fallen hero turned on his heels and fled, heading straight for the cold embrace of the darkened forest.