UPON COMPLETING his bath, Maze ventured into the wardrobe chamber, a room solely dedicated to his various sets of Orphan uniforms. These garments hung from both sides of the room, and in total, he possessed twelve such attires, with six arranged upon each wall. At the far end stood a cabinet which Maze had yet to unseal. Narrow windows flanked the space, and from the right, a sliver of light peered within, illuminating the marble walls, even the floor, that lit the rest of the cabin.
It remained a profound mystery how such things were fashioned, yet the missive had stated that the Directors themselves had prepared these garments. He marveled at how they fit his form so perfectly, neither oversized nor lacking in length, sparing him from any unseemly appearance.
Maze grasped the essence of it, for Vaelstrom had once mentioned such matters to him. Nevertheless, he remained deeply intrigued by the function of this place, as the room behaved much like the Tower he had previously inhabited. He recalled the exact words Vaelstrom had uttered when explaining the nature of his quarters.
"The tower recognizes the child and thus prepares in advance the necessities of the individual upon arriving at his respective room." As Maze approached the cabinet, which stood as tall as his own stature, he ceased his ruminations. "The Learning Method is indeed efficient for remembering the basics."
A small chuckle escaped him. In truth, his Orphan Siblings had treated him as if he were a literal child. Yet, after mastering the Learning Method through cogitation, it had become far simpler to recall the lessons of the past and summon them whenever the need arose.
"What is it that has been prepared for me to wear?" he questioned the empty air.
Without hesitation, Maze threw open the double doors of the cabinet, revealing several pairs of black suits. First among them were four black robes paired with cloaks, followed by white sleeves and loose black trousers. Within the upper compartment of the cabinet resided four head masks carved from wood to resemble the skull of a deer, complete with antlers and painted in stark white. Whatever manner of festival awaited him, he could only conclude that it resembled a cult.
Am I to attend a ritual? He recalled then that none from Below sat among the Directors, and thus, the arrangement of this festival likely stemmed from the traditions and culture of Yonder. This implied that the Directors were once Heirs themselves, or perhaps they were even greater figures than former Heirs.
Maze shook away the thought and elected to don the attire deemed formal by the letter.
To Maze, it would have been far more preferable to simply wear his Orphan uniform. Fortunately, full-sized mirrors stood upon the walls near the door, allowing him to behold his entire reflection.
Holding the wooden deer skull, he observed his image. He was clad in all black, from the robe and cloak that reached his heels to the loose trousers and white sleeves visible through the open front of his vestment. His boots were largely concealed by the breadth of his trousers.
Maze examined his countenance, from his treacle-black hair to his blindfold — that foil gold shroud that hinted at the dark eyes beneath.
He remembered the first time he had beheld it, reflected in the rushing river as he was pursued by his doppelganger and the griffin of his Tower. He recalled the terror, confusion, and shock that seized him upon realizing the contents of the fist-sized chest had mummified him. It was a strange plight, for despite the shroud, he could still see.
This was intended to be a gift.
Yet even he did not comprehend its purpose.
At first, he had believed it to be the origin of his power.
But that power belonged to his Phantasm, therefore, his assumption was easily proven false.
And so, this was supposedly the sevenfold reap.
But why was it termed sevenfold if it were but a single object?
Truly, that was one of the questions Maze could not answer. He knew not the significance of this blindfold, though the letter had deemed it a gift with a flaw. Whatever that flaw might be remained unclear, and the only truth he grasped was that it served as some manner of mark. But what kind of mark?
Maze vowed to himself that he would no longer remain ignorant.
For in truth, his life was as convoluted as the name he bore.
He wished to criticize how all things unveiled themselves before him. It was wearying to be toyed with, to be passed from one hand to another.
Thus, as Maze gazed upon his reflection — at the mark he bore, at the life he had lost, and the new world he now trod — he felt a tempest of emotions. Sadness, pain, pity? They were so entwined that they were difficult to distinguish, yet surely there were a thousand cuts within his chest, and his buried past might never wish to see the light.
With a final, heavy breath to ease the burden within, he tightened his grip upon the mask. It felt ironic that he was to wear a mask over a blindfold, such mark he could not touch and did not wish to touch. Did the Directors not wonder at the fact that he was already covered?
Regardless, he lifted the mask and wore it.
"Look at you, poor thing," Maze whispered in self-reproach, observing how his gold blindfold peeked through the eye holes of the skull. "Your outfit is wretched."
Maze examined his reflection with a heavy heart, his mind awash with a harsh judgment of the attire he was forced to don. In utter contempt, he scrutinized his appearance from head to toe, realizing that he had become nearly unrecognizable within this outfit. By every measure, he appeared as a member of some dark cult, one who might offer a sacrificial lamb, or perhaps, one who was destined to become the sacrifice himself.
With such somber thoughts, Maze departed from his wardrobe chamber.
Indeed, he appeared as though he were prepared to perform a ritual for which he had never volunteered