WHILE OTHERS BASKED IN the warm atmosphere that lingered as they spoke, a heavy pall hung over the table draped in crimson. This was the domain of the Children of Sufferance, presided over by their star Heir, a boy whose singular obsession was glory: Stavros of the Heritage of the Crown of Thorns. His mask, like those of his companions, was a wooden skull of a man adorned with a crown of thorns.
Though certain details distinguished his particular faction, they all shared the same shroud. It was a profound irony. Had they not been Siblings within the Sect of Sufferance, he would have spited them for donning a visage so similar to his own.
Foolish, foolish, he would have deemed it.
Stavros had not worn his mask, which rested instead upon his lap. As he gawked at the Heirs gathered around the table, eleven in total, he uttered not a word. The conversation flowed among the others, leaving him excluded.
The boy itched his ear as if stung by the discourse he heard. He had grown stingy with the noise, for it would have been far better had there been quiet. Yet there was none, not even a sliver.
"Man, I would have . . . would have . . . truly desired to see Stavros in such . . . action." The masked boy who spoke, seated directly across from Stavros, appeared to doubt his own utterance. He seemed to fear that a single feeble mistake might result in either his shame or his demise.
He spoke no further after that.
Not while Stavros was glaring at him, sneering at his words.
"Well, indeed. If Stavros had not been present, who would have aided that freak of an Orphan who dared to challenge something so far beyond his control?" This time, the voice belonged to a girl whose mask also lay upon her lap. Her eyes possessed an unnatural sparkle, as if she deeply endeared the name she mentioned. "Stavros is such a man, is he not?"
But even such praise could not move Stavros, for these words would never alter what had transpired. He had become a mere mascot, a dummy who had contributed nothing of worth, despite the claim that he had aided the Orphan.
As these thoughts continued to plague him, Stavros felt belittled, as if he were no longer deserving of being called a star.
He clenched his fists.
Damned, Stavros had become powerless.
By the hand of a mere Orphan — how dared such a creature accomplish something so extraordinary?
The youth could only close his eyes to maintain his composure and ensure he did not falter.
Yet, he could still envision it.
The transpiration.
The very scenario.
How that Eidolon, that behemoth of a figure, had been torn asunder as if it were a mere scrap of paper, split in half by a sword, a swift maneuver, and a powerful slash. It was the work of a skilled swordsman. He, who was born of a lineage of knights and trained to become one before he was taken to Yonder, had become a laughingstock. His fellow Heirs had beheld him standing stiffened before the remains of the Eidolon, like he had been driven to the brink of madness when his glory was stolen. He had nearly slain the Orphan, had Gareth not intervened.
Such impulsiveness.
Such imprudence.
Such obsession.
How could he even speak of this when—
And then he noticed his fellow Siblings observing him, their eyes filled with mere scrutiny.
"What are you looking at?" His ears turned a deep red, appearing that he was defeated, someone who had faltered.
Why should he falter in the first place?
Even had the Orphan been absent, he would have slain the Eidolon himself.
It should never have come to this point.
And why was he so rash, like one prone to irritation?
What had he forgotten, that he had become so oblivious?
"Brother Stavros." A youth to his left dared to press a hand upon his shoulder. "Are you well? You appear troubled."
"I am well."
"Are you certain, Brother?"
"I am." A low groan rumbled within Stavros's tone.
It was seemingly a warning that at any moment, he might strike, for he had been crossed.
"We are merely concerned." A maiden to his left released a sigh. "Since the hour we arrived and took our seats, you have remained thus. Why?"
Why? Stavros would have asked himself the same. Why, indeed?
Was it perhaps the presence of the Orphan's frame lingering in the distance, or the stench of glory stolen from his grasp? Was it his ego, his very pride, that had been shattered? But what of it?
These Children of Sufferance, these feeble weaklings, could never compare to what had been taken from him. They possessed no means to comprehend the itch creeping within his chest. They only worsened it.
"We seek only to console you, Brother. We mean no harm." Another voice rose from the throng, yet their names were of no consequence to Stavros. They were merely those who would vanish at some point — perhaps within the Camp, or perhaps during the trials some of these days to come.
But consolation?
"Who uttered that?" He scanned the table, and every soul before him bowed their head. "That bastard speaks a word far too grand. What manner of consolation do you offer, huh?"
None dared to speak again.
"Do I appear to require it? Do I hunger for such things?" he probed, his voice sharp with irritation. "I am asking each of you. Must I plead with you to cease your attempts to get beneath my skin?"
They were utterly undeserving of his attention.
They were seekers of glory themselves.
Souls who would never value the bonds of familiarity.
Siblings?
They would never be his Siblings.
Not in this lifetime.
"Why do you act like refuse, you bastard?" Someone stood abruptly across the table, beside the boy who had first desired to see Stavros contend with the Eidolon. He was a boy as well, though of a petite stature.
The others attempted to hush him.
"Calm yourself."
"Do not seek to add fuel to the flames."
But Stavros could no longer distinguish their voices. He knew not which Heritage they claimed, and the presence of their masks only served to further obscure their identities. They veiled themselves in such cowardice, yet they possessed the gall to cross him?
It was beyond ridiculous.
"Sit." It was a one-word command that seized the tongue of the youth who had dared to stand for himself, and so the boy resumed his seat. "And here I thought you possessed a tail, yet your courage is but a fluke."
Then, Stavros looked them in the eye, one by one. They could not even return his gaze, nor could they exchange glances. They carefully held their breath, proving themselves utterly unworthy of his time.
"Listen, I did not come here for idle chatter." He clenched his jaw. "If you plan to indulge in such, do so without mentioning my name, as if we were close enough for you to do so. We are not, and it shall remain thus, even when the true Camp commences, ends, and we return to the Tower." He clicked his tongue. "Prove yourselves first, and do not presume to make acquaintances if you are this weak. Siblings, indeed."
He spat.
They were baffled by such profound disrespect, by such audacity.
"If Siblings were to be mere excess baggage, then I would do what it takes to cast you into the pitfire myself, to rot and burn until even your dust could not be inhaled." A vicious, wrenchful grin etched itself upon his face. "Continue."
Stavros donned his mask.
Just as he did so, a crow perched upon his shoulder.
With its arrival, everything seemed to slow down — except for him, however. When he looked at the creature, it took flight and perched atop his mask.
"What is it you want?" Stavros asked with a weary sigh. "Can you not get enough, that you must step upon me now?"
Click, croak, caw!
The crow pecked at him, then scratched itself.
"You . . . are— kraa!" It croaked again. "Straw . . . man . . ." Then it repeated: "Red . . . straw . . . man."
"What do you plan to hide, huh?" Stavros narrowed his eyes, trying to discern the crow's true intention.
Before he knew it, someone approached him from behind.
"We need to talk."
When Stavros glanced back, he beheld a frame that nearly shrouded his own, for it was a giant of a figure, taller and bulkier than he.
"What is there to discuss?"
"Something that the higher-ups desire, perhaps?"
"And why should I comply?"
"In exchange for your glory, I suppose." Gareth shrugged his shoulders. "But a fluke, I also suppose."
Stavros's lips twitched. "To further ruin my pride?"
"To establish your honor, Stavros."
Stavros still could not comprehend it.
How would he ever do so when it made no sense?
He solely had to inquire. "What did the crow tell you?"
"I should ask that of you myself." Gareth ceased, then sighed. "It only desires for me to choose."
"It has yet to tell me anything other than its arrival."
It was something that irked Stavros, yet without a doubt, it also intrigued him.
For he looked at the Orphan from the side and saw the root looking in his direction as well.
What a coincidence.
What . . . a fate.