SEVEN DAYS.
During that cycle, the Children who were subjects of the Fertile phase were called forth to the Camp, and within that countdown, they would be honed. Such was the logic as everyone came to the Towers, whether they hailed from above or below. For the ones whose power was a gift from a god, however, those days were but a long period of prolonged waiting. It was a grace they did not earn, yet they wore it as a garment of ease.
For Athelstan, this was the very reason for her favorite mantra: "the library is free."
Simply put, if an Orphan had access to Vision, Heirs received a drop of the divine within them, which allowed them to easily access their Soul Tree because they had drunk from the cup. It paved their way with convenience and less effort, for the path was already mapped by the ghosts of those who came before.
The downside, however, was the mantra itself: "the library is free."
For an Heir had to learn to hone themselves, either as many or as an island of their own.
Athelstan did not steer too far, but was distant enough from the battle between the Eidolon and the blind. She had not known who this man was, and so she gave him an alias: 'Flower-face'. She could have resorted to calling him 'Blind Fool', but perhaps that would be too degrading for one's disability, and guilt would have devoured her — if guilt were a clown she were willing to be devoured by.
Not steering too far meant watching from the perfect spot for the show.
It was not a complicated show, nor was it particularly entertaining.
As Athelstan sat upon the boat, as the splattering crimson droplets had moistured the once clean air with iron pungency, hearing the guttural groans of the Eidolon making the raucous caw of the crows more rampant and unnerving, she regarded this battle as almost mediocre, perhaps with a cliché backstory. All this Flower-face did was dodge, defend, and parry, without the means of directly attacking the opponent. It might have been due to the fact that his weapon was insufficient to defeat his enemy, and alone, he would need allies to make every second count, and perhaps, his wariness told him that such behemoth limbs made him appear as an insect. But he was adept at creating openings, like a master of dodging and parrying, as he leaped from one boat to another, with his boots touching the splintering wood before he took a leap again.
However, Athelstan knew that this Flower-face was draining his Essence. She could see the fatigue in the way he landed, the slight lag in his recovery, for what mere strength could he best parry its tentacles if he would not borrow. But such was only her assumption. Soon, the leaves on his Soul Tree would be gone and he would be left alone to die. Yet, sooner still, he would not need to be alone.
As the wind hissed and brushed her cheeks, the woman smiled hideously.
"Killing the Stitched Man of the Land of Drought is one thing to commend, Flower-face." The woman crossed her arms as she watched the man appearing to run for his breath, the sweat matting his hair against the blindfold. "But the Stitched Man is a Tier I, and this one is a Tier IV. That is a vast gap in prowess and capability. What can a mere Fertile Child do to something so much more powerful than himself?"
In truth, she had not seen his fight against the Stitched Man, and thus had not observed the power he had gained as an Orphan. In reality, Orphans followed a path of their own, converging as a Path formerly called Transcendence. She had read of it in the Book of Towers, mentioned in a few passages where the text offered comparisons between the Towers Yonder and Below.
Unlike Heirs, who had Paths known to themselves and their future recipients, Orphans possessed paths unknown and were forced to tread them as an island. They were some kind of an error, something that must have to be stooped on, in this game of life and death.
As she saw him create a copy of himself while the former vanished into thin air, she caught a glimpse of his capabilities, twice as she might say. He possessed the strength, the agility, and even the will — but these were all borrowed. If her Highness were to assess this fight, the Highness would scold Flower-face; he was not using his Essence correctly and was constantly draining himself. He was fighting a war of attrition against a creature that fed on the very blood he was exhausting.
How, then, would he endure for much longer?
That might not be possible.
Escape was not even possible at the moment.
Would he finally grow mindful of the snare?
That he was not merely fighting, but being played, as he was herded into the very slaughter-ground the Eidolon had placed him on?
But surely, into the spitfire, he was not going to burn. A little more, and they were coming. The tremors in the swamp were no longer just from the Eidolon, as the ripple of other oars was beginning to disturb the sanguine swamp.
"How much longer are you going to run and dodge, Flower-face?" Athelstan did not ask out of impatience; her tone had become intrigued. "Time is running out for you."
She would have scoffed at that moment, for the irony was not lost on her. As a lone Heir, she and this man bore the same fate. Even as an Heir, she was an outcast, treading a special path among the flocks of her kind. While each flock shared a common road, the likes of her never did. True, the gift was from a god, but it was a path that even the higher-ups held no records of from past lone Heirs, as each of them carried a trajectory differing from the last.
The likes of her might be envied.
Hated.
Gotten rid of.
Thankfully, the Highness of her denomination took care of her as if she truly belonged. But there came a price. There always came a price.
From her vantage, she watched the Eidolon as it hovered in the mid-air, drifting far beyond the reach of any mortal leap. Athelstan could sense the growing reluctance in every motion of this Flower-face. By the time he reached a relatively stable barge near the center, this Flower-face was trembling with a visible fatigue. Beads of sweat carved salty paths down his forehead, stinging the eyes hidden beneath his blindfold, with his grip on the sword appearing slick.
As a tentacle was about to reach for his body —
SLASH!
— it was severed from its wholeness and fell into the swamp.
But it was not a sword; no, it was something else.
As if . . .
Aspear.
Such weapon was being slithered by a spiky blood thread, as if it had become the marionette of a hidden master. The thread of blood was connected to the spear and trailed upward into the haze. Even when if the limb was massive, a little spear in the Eidolon's perspective had cut through it.
As Flower-face looked up, he saw someone hovering mid-air. The figure pulled the blood thread that had pierced a boat, causing a violent splatter of blood from both the wounded, groaning Eidolon and the swamp itself, driven by the sheer force of the spear's retrieval. He seemed a worthy opponent.
This someone was a man whose smirk was combined with a gaze of flickering red eyes directed toward Maze.
But it was merely the start.
For the others were coming, one by one, to claim their place in the upheaval.
Perhaps not all, but a few.
Either way, they were deemed to shine.
The stars that burned.