Chapter 4

  Fiona.

  Fiona knocks on the Graten door. She had been written a letter by the keeper and major. She looks around, noting the lack of flowers. Summer was ending soon, high sun would lower far quicker with each day. She was told she has a new job and to report to the Graten, the place where importancies are made and placed into their world of a puzzle.

  The door before her was a dark oak brown, with a masterfully carved handle. She had been there many times, in many jobs or courtings regarding her parents or need of use. But she always stopped to gaze at it. It was a beautiful place, disregarding the cuts and scrapes of aging and the building was as beautiful as the angel Taura.

  The building itself was pink-brown in colour, golden paint trimmings along the edges like the vines of rules and laws that hold the villagers in safety. There were rose-gold roses painted along the frame of the door, and the grass of the lawn was still rich in green colour, despite the cooling weather.

  ¨watching as always, my dear?¨ Quenral′s warm sweet voice sounds through the air. He had always been a father figure to Fiona, His voice as sweet and thick as honey. But today it was thinner, more worried, and raspy. He has clearly been negotiating, he was a keeper, but he sucked at hiding things. ¨You know you may just come in by now, dear, you′ve been here plenty and helped enough to earn that privilege.¨

  ¨manners are still at work, dear teacher. You may allow me to enter, but I'd prefer to be let in after viewing the lawn.¨ Fiona says with a warm smile, a softness in her emeralds as she looks up at the tall thin man.

  ¨my dear, let's go in, you'll get sick standing out here in the wind.¨ It wasn't true. Fiona rarely got sick, having run around at all times of year, taking care of kids and fulfilling jobs, she had built quite the immune response. However she still follows him into the room. Her chin dips as she nods, hands clasped together politely.

  As they walk, she notes his clothing. Today he wore a navy blue waistcoat, cream-white blouse with black stains on it with slacks and a white cloak. His cloak was a beautiful one, a warm grey colour with wine red stitching from the centered point circle between his shoulderblades bleeding out like a river made of hot sun down his back and to his ankles where it thinned and disappeared. She always admired the contrast of red stitching to his carefully manicured scrolled-hair.

  She notices the coldness as they walk, something was coming up, another dark job, likely. She reaches forward and grabs her dear teacher's hand. She walks beside him, catching up to his long strides. His hands are cold, a sharp contrast to his warm sun-made cloak. His fingers were black with dried ink, yet shiny. Rapheal wrote my letter then, intriguing but not surprising. She thought in her head, her lips turning up softly.

  ¨The major assigned me to inform you all when we arrive.¨ Quenral says warmly, his longer grey lashes drifting across his cheeks as he closes them, letting her lead him. ¨ In the writing room, I'm sure you'll be surprised. It's quite different than what anyone here is used to.¨

  ¨Is that so, Quenral?¨ She asks calmly, fingers squeezing Quenral's for a split second. ¨Then I guess I should be honored, not even I have been there much. The routing room is very special, only where orders are given specially.¨

  ¨Yes, you've always been responsible. And you've proven your priven to be true many times. We trust you plenty, even the major.¨ Quenral responds, stopping in front of the dark door, hidden behind a staircase upstairs to the majors room. ¨We should enter.¨

  ¨yes.¨

  When they enter, Fiona's eyes instantly drift over to Zorche. His face had patches of bandage on it, Isolde’standing in front of him, helping to clean a nasty blue-black bruise on his arm.

  ¨Isolde? Zorche?¨ She murmurs glancing between the two, then to a few unfamiliar people tied up nearby. She notices the pale skin, lean muscles and clothing. Outbounders.

  ¨Did the outbounders do something to you, Zorche dear?¨ She scorns, looking at them. The outbounder with short hair and a pretty face is awake. A female? It didn't matter. She was a bad actor, only good enough to fool the buffoons who didn't pay attention. The movement across her eyelids gave her away, the way her fingers twitched every time she said outbounders.

  ¨If they did, then i will personally-¨ She starts, anger rising in her normally neutral tone.

  ¨Calm down, Fiona dear.¨ Quenral interrupts. ¨Zorche disobeyed orders and received punishment.¨

  ¨I see. Very well then.¨ Fiona states calmly, walking over to Zorche, touching his bruised face. Zorche closes his eyes, seeing Isolde be pushed away, he knew what came next.

  SMACK

  Fiona's palm collides with his face. His cheek welts with the print of her hand quickly. ¨You dolt!¨ She scoffs, grabbing ointment to rub on it, ¨Got me thinking outbounders could actually beat you, what are you? Stupid? Did you bring them in here? Im guessing thats why your in trouble!¨

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  Isolde sighs, she expected this. She warned Zorche. And he didn't even try to dodge, not that it would have helped much, if anything he would have been slapped twice as hard.

  ¨Fiona, there was no need for such violence. He was already pushed down the stairs, even if it was only a few,¨ Isolde sighs.

  ¨He′s lucky that's all!¨ Fiona snarls, turning to the outsiders. ¨And you're all terrible actors, butterfly boy, bold lady. No need to act, we know not to speak about anything important near or around outbounders. ¨

  ¨ That's absolutely unfair,¨ Zorche whines, looking up at fiona in search of pity. God damned this boy looked like the dog he oh so claims not to be. ¨I was protecting you like i promiiiised!¨

  ¨You broke code!¨ Is all Fiona snaps back, making Zorche back down quickly. Zorche always was such a women pleaser, too scared of them and too respectful of them to do any real harm. The most he would do is maybe rub dirt on them, and even that would be against his natural nature.

  ¨You lot are quite telling, more than you think.¨ The raven boy speaks. ¨And im certainly not butterfly boy, you orange furred mouse.¨

  ¨Orange furred mouse?¨ Fiona gasps, disdain curling back through her lips. ¨ Well at least mice do things!¨

  ¨oh, well according to your little failure of a guard, ¨ he snaps back, teeth coming into view for a split second with each venomous bite, ¨i′m a snowflake, and we all know mice don't like the cold.¨

  ¨ If you're a mouse, then I guess our village is loaded with cats.¨ Isolde's smooth voice chimes in from her spot on the table centered in the room. ¨and we know how that would end.¨

  ¨Silence, children.¨ Quenral demands, turning between them all. ¨Your heart for a job, and your job you will do well… whether you want to or not, its Majors orders. ¨

  This is stupid. Fiona hisses in her brain. She was walking through the village with the outbounders on leashes. She was parading them just a mere few hours after punishing Zorche for it. How ironic, seriously.

  Behind her, the blue tipped boy tied with rope around the waist was gawking at the village, a warm smile on his face as he looked around. He was quieter, however, only speaking to compliment somebody's craftsmanship, or items. Peculiar to say the least.

  On the other hand, the other two were louder. Alexander was constantly muttering curses and hearing pricks as sharp as needles clearly meant to provoke Fiona. The girl, however, seems more interested in the wax dolls whose fixed gazes matched her own. She seems content, and a calmer person. However she knew the truth, Zorche told her how she got a good hit to his side. Not only that, but the way her eye drifted to pretty things, the round of her cheeks that seemed to have just started shaping, and round curious eyes, it was clear she was younger than her facade put out.

  ¨These dolls are almost as beautiful as the grand angel Taura.¨ The blue tipped boy, Porter, says softly. His eyes soft as a sheep's wool, and green as the field they graze in.

  ¨Do you know about taura? The angel of bulls and field?¨ Porter continues quietly, directed at Fiona and Zorche. ¨She is said to be as Beauteous as the fields she roames.¨

  ¨Of course we do, dizzard. ¨ Zorche scoffs, ¨She is Almiyan's beloved angel of sentience.¨

  Porter nods, accepting the fact they're gonna be called names often. ¨I see, and apologise for my apparent ignorance. You guys just seemed so closed off i didnt know. ¨

  Alexander's eyes roll as dramatic as a play, ¨gods and angels, how annoying. They lived, and they created. But they aren't here and have not been recorded in history for thousands of years. ¨

  ¨Will you stop being such a wet blanket, alex-y~¨ Porter sighs, a weak smile appearing across his face, black-blue brows furrowed.

  ¨a ′wet-blanket′ would even be more respectful to the gods and their children. ¨ A gruff voice like gravel grinds through the air.

  Fiona turns, her leashed pets turning too. In the bright sun of the high-sky, the brown hair of Mackem almost seemed blond. Mackem was a middle-class sun-guard. Probably just getting off his clock a little while ago based on the still-wet mud of his boots from patrolling.

  ¨Why hello, Mr. Mackem, you're looking quite tired today.¨ Fiona says softly.

  ¨Thank you, My dear, you look exasperated as well.¨ Mackem replies, his eyes drifting her up and down before following the leashes in her hand to the outbounders, ¨Guessing it's because of this ragtag group of outbounders? ¨

  Fiona nods, noting Zorche's step back. Idiot, he's just looking to get in trouble. Fiona tightens her grip on the leashes, tugging them to make the outbounders stumble over their own feet.

  ¨Corozonia, Sentsu and Senku are waiting at home for me.¨ Fiona sighs, stepping back, foot half turns as she waves off. ¨Have a marvelous evening, Mr. Mackem. ¨

  ¨Why the rush?¨ Mackem asks, stepping in front of Fiona and her group, ¨its early and Senku is definitely getting old enough to take care of them for an hour, after all he is already working the farm.¨

  ¨She said she needs to get home.¨ Zorche interrupts. ¨Senku is still only 14. He can't take care of such littles, moron.¨

  Fionaa grabs Zorche's shirt, pulling him to his knees in a swift grab, ¨You are still low rank, so you're the moron. Are you trying to get beat?¨ She grits through her teeth, ¨Apologize or i′ll beat your dizzard ass myself.¨

  Makem scowls, his carved muscles twitching.

  ¨¨I′m not even from here, an idiot even, and even I can tell that's not the smartest move, Zorche.¨ Porter intervenes. However, Zorche has a point, Mr. . . . Mackem, correct?¨

  ¨Shut it, pig, ¨ Mackem sneers, teeth glinting in the setting sun's light. ¨You know nothing of our village, its rules, or people. ¨

  Fiona steps in, ¨I can handle it, Mackem. They are not your job, they're mine. ¨ She then tugs on Porter's leash, before walking off. ¨Like I said, have a good night. ¨