(Collaborating with HiddenHaven )
The night has grown quiet, as quiet as any other night. Not a howl of nocturnal creatures, or the rustle of leaves recounted the disturbance early on.
The Dryad sisters made themselves comfortable in the green house, or at least, they tried. It was the first time they were allowed into the premise, and immediately they knew, the mansion did not welcome their presence. Moonlight struggled to illuminate the glass dome. Clouds and murky panes turned what should have been an ethereal silver mist into a grey miasma. Déylveleth sat on a stone bench, attending to her wound. The maple Dryad ran her finger along the gash, silently sucking air between her teeth. The air was cool and moist, but coated her tongue with an unpleasant rotten taste. Vyrýneth, on the other hand, ambled towards an irrigation stream. She watched her green reflection upon the equally green water, briefly entertaining the idea of cleansing her wounds but ultimately dismissed the thought. Only cuts and bruises, she reassured herself, nothing serious. The vampire king had gone easy on them.
Eventually, Vyrýneth joined her middle sister on the bench.
"Still hurting?" She asked, her eyes flickering towards the pale gash.
Déylveleth shook her head. "It was only a scratch, we have seen worse."
"I'm sorry, sister." The oldest Dryad heaved a deep sigh, burying her face in her hands.
"For what?" Déylveleth barely spared a glance at her sister. Her face remained an ashen mask, except for the faint twitch of the corners of her lips.
"For getting you hurt!" Vyrýneth's words came from behind her fingers in a muffled grumble.
"You are indeed sorry, sister, but for the wrong thing." The middle Dryad's retort was as sharp as her arrow. "Don't apologise for our cuts and bruises, apologise for letting that human live."
"That human?" Vyrýneth, not being amused, straightened up to face her sister. "You mean the trespasser the other night? Déyl, how many times have we had this discussion? Time has changed! These days humans send out search parties for missing persons, especially for the ones wearing ranger uniforms! Moreover, how do we know it was him? He wasn't the only 'stray human' in the woods."
"We don't know, so we don't take risks."
"For secrecy is our only weapon." The remaining of the sentence was gritted between the green woman's teeth. "Yes sister, I gave her away."
"No and yes."
"Oh?" Vyrýneth's pitch rose with an aggressive tone. Her eyes narrowed, the yellow-green glows sharpened into a glare. "I thought you don't like riddles."
"No, because you are right, sister, time has changed..." Déylveleth hissed a low growl, snatching a plum from a nearby branch. Fruit mash coated her fingers in a violent red, as if she had ripped into a beating heart. The orange fire in her eyes dimmed, replaced by a profound bitterness and melancholy. "The world no longer belongs to us. I no longer hear the whispers of trees, the songs of leaves, but this endless, sickening humming. I don't know where it comes from, the radio waves, or electricity, or whatever the humans are up to... They used to fear us. Remember those days, sister? When the villagers offered tribute in exchange for the gift of the forest. Even the Grand Mistresses of the Sisterhoods needed permission to enter our border. The vampire king? He's nothing but a glorified mutant. Since when do we fear the mutants? What have become of us, sister! We can't even protect ourselves, let alone Morana! She has been found when the first outsider set foot in our woods, it is only a matter of time."
Déylveleth's gaze, though fixed on Vyrýneth, seemed to lose focus, wandering to an unseen distance. The oldest Dryad commented nothing, she had nothing to say but allow her sister to continue her spiral of truth.
"Yes, because you made it happen, sister, you want her to be found!"
Vyrýneth's face darkened, a shadow clung to her presence as the winter's icy grasp clings to the early spring. She absentmindedly brought a finger to her neck, surprised by the touch of broken skin. Those shallow cuts from fingernails, they should have healed by now...
A sudden thud jolted the older Dryads, catching them off guard. Their youngest sister lay sprawling on the ground, limbs contorted at unnatural angles, flowers in her hair scattered in the wake of a violent convulsion.
"Taw?"
"Taw!"
Vyrýneth and Déylveleth rushed to their sister's side, instinctively holding down her trembling body.
"Is it?" The maple Dryad's interrogatory gaze burned into her older sister’s skull. She knelt at Tawelye's side, the pale gash on her leg was as striking as the midday sun.
"No, it's not what took..." Vyrýneth closed her eye, only for a split second, for she forced herself to face the suffering of her sisters. "Taw is still young, she's not strong enough to fight against the rejection of the human world."
The seizure subsided as abruptly as it had begun. Tawelye's eye remained shut. Exhaustion gripped her like invisible tendrils, rendering the usually vibrant bloom-haired Dryad a limp figure in her sisters' arms. Neither of the older Dryad seemed surprised. It was not the first time, and it will not be the last.
"Déyl, come here." Resting Tawelye's head on her lap, Vyrýneth beckoned her middle sister. She gently placed her hand over the cut on Déylveleth's leg, channelling the energy of the forest. Yet, nothing happened. The Dryad sighed, pulling harder on the earth. Finally, a stream of invisible warmth flowed from her fingertips, closing the wound, but the healing was incomplete.
"Are you upset because you think I broke the agreement?"
The maple Dryad avoided her sister's gaze, commented nothing.
"The lives of our sisters depend on that deal, I will be chopped to pieces and burn in a woodcutter's hearth before I make light of it. But sister, know this, deals are made on conditions, and conditions are flexible. If he can bend things to his favour, so can we. Humans, unlike us, are free to tell whatever they have seen in the forest to whomever they please. So the news spread around. The vampire king caught wind, he came in, figured things out. Then what next? We don't know, but we HAVE TO defend our borders, don't we? See, I am only playing to the rules."
Déylveleth frowned, her eyes lost focus over a few withered vegetables that seemed to die shortly after her wounds closed. Then, the idea being conveyed reignited the orange fire of her eyes.
"I hope you know what you are doing, sister, because we are in this together now."
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Tawelye awoke to a throbbing headache. She remembered standing in front of the door leading to the mansion, its black wood some ominous semblance of the gate of the underworld. There was something in the mansion, something dark and twisted, yet hauntingly familiar. A shiver danced down the youngest Dryad's spine, she felt a chilling touch, cold and clammy. A spectral pressure squeezed the air out of her lungs. On the brink of her losing consciousness, a whisper echoed, "Esynel..."
"Taw, are you all right?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm awake now!" Tawelye rose to the concerned faces of her sisters, grumbling as the stone bench jabbed into her back.
"Taw, are you hurt?" Vyrýneth leaned forward for a closer inspection.
"No...I just...fell asleep." Tawelye avoided her sisters' gaze, aware of the unsettling episodes she had been experiencing. But she was no longer a child, she ought to stay strong for her sisters, they have much direr matter at hand. The youngest Dryad tried to stand, determined to prove her strength. But her legs betrayed her the moment they touched the ground. With the help of the nearby stone bench, Tawelye regained her balance, managing a few steps before surrendering back to a sitting position. "I...fell asleep because...I was tired...Anyway, what’s our plan?"
"Plan? What plan? Taw, you should..."Déylveleth arched an eyebrow.
"Yes, plan, what do you think, Taw?" Vyrýneth placed a hand on her maple sister's shoulder, acquiescing in the change of topic. What else then? Dwelling on that matter will do them little good. Tawelye deserved to be a part of their discussion, this was the least she can do to empower her little sister.
"I...I don't know, I don't feel safe any more..." The bloom-haired Dryad, even-though the flowers were scarce in her leafy hair now, nervously rubbed her forearms. Vyrýneth was expecting a 'We are never safe, sister.' from Déylveleth, but surprisingly the middle Dryad remained silent. "We...we grow more trees, we seal all the roads, we patrol the woods more often...we...we..." Tawelye stammered, trying to contribute despite her inner turmoil.
"Taw, things are a bit different this time," Vyrýneth said with a heavy sigh, analysing the situation. "We have been compromised. The vampire king might have been cautioned away tonight, but never underestimate the pride of men. He will come back, and he won't come back alone."
"So won't we."
"Déyl, what's your point?" Surprised, the green woman turned towards her middle sister, a strange light stirred up in her eyes.
"You have already implied that Morana is under the protection of the dark lady, so we’d better make it true." Déylveleth spoke what was on her older sister's mind.
"I...don't like the sound of that name, can we trust her?" Tawelye, lacking her sisters' strength, huddled herself into a ball. Darkness enveloped her being. She felt dizzy, and weak, and whatever was in the mansion has not fully loosened its grip over the young Dryad.
"Probably not...but this is not about trust, Taw. The dark lady is our best chance at the moment. She is powerful enough, and is most likely to help us...I hope." Vyrýneth heaved another sigh, wrapping her arms around her youngest sister, attempting to offer comfort.
"But, what about Morana? I don't think she will like that idea." Tawelye clung to Vyrýneth, the warmth of her sister's embrace soothed her tensed nerve. Yet, the thought of their troubled friend lingered in her mind, prompting her to voice her concern.
"Taw...do you think it's fair for her, to be trapped in this stone coffin? To be ignorant of the outside world? To be swayed at the wills of...him? I don't know about you, but I think she deserves better."
A stagnating silence settled among the Dryads, broken only by the rustle of leaves and the murmuring of the irrigation streams. Tawelye, despite her youthful innocence, knew that Morana wasn't doing very well. She'd disappear for days, weeks, most recently even the entire winter. She seldom spoke, and when she did, it wasn't always making sense. "Maybe...we...we talk to her first? I think I can do that!" Determined to help, the youngest Dryad volunteered. This was the least she can do for her sisters.
Vyrýneth and Déylveleth exchanged an appreciative glance and nodded.
"And what about this dark lady? How do we get to her?" Tawelye continued, courage replacing fear as the plan began to take shape.
"Leave it to me..." Said Déylveleth the archer.
Unbeknownst the Dryad sisters, a shadowy mist was watching them. Her icy gaze pierced through the murky panes. The mist vaguely assumed the shape of an owl, then in the blink of an eye, vanished into the dark depth of the night.
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The resonating clings of metal echoed across the training hall, creating a chaotic symphony born from the duel between an amethyst storm and a shadow of black and navy. The air itself seemed to pulsate with the raw power of their combat skills. A particularly powerful clash propelled the two shadows apart, and for a brief moment they were perceivable by mortal eyes. The amethyst thunder storm took the shape of an incredibly tall woman. Her hair, white as moonlight, cascaded down her back in neatly braided strands. Her obsidian, statuesque body was embraced by black leather, highlighting the patches of iridescent amethyst scales that shimmered in the faint light. It was the dragoness, Eolynn. The other shadow of black and navy, was the dark-haired amber-eyed, lady Alinna.
"Well-fought, my lady." Eolynn remarked.
Alinna remained silent, her emotions and motivations were concealed behind a mask of a blank face. With a twist of her wrist, she launched another wave of attacks, the clash of metal resounding through the hall. The dance continued, blade flashing and weaving through the air in a deadly ballet. A series of quick thrusts followed, each met with skilful parries and dodges. The final strike collided with the dragoness' talon, sending both opponents backward and creating a brief respite in the exchange.
"My lady?" Eolynn widened her eyes, her scales shimmered in sweats and steams. It was only a practice fight, wasn't it?
Alinna's expressionless face yielded no answer. She steadied her sword, feigned a slash, and then swiftly redirected her attack towards Eolynn's head. The dragoness dodged narrowly, countering the attack with a swap of her tail. However, this move left her side vulnerable. Alinna materialised at her flank. Sharp pain shot through Eolynn's neck, a cold touch of steel followed by the warmth of the black liquid trickling down her collar bone. Eolynn hissed, anger flickered in her dragon eyes of purple crystal. She knocked the blade aside, a solid punch landed on her opponent's jaw.
"What has gotten into you? My lady!" The dragoness exclaimed.
The expressionless mask was now shattered. Alinna spat on the floor, a blood-stained smile almost split her face in half. Shadow seemed to swell behind her, and all the terrors of the night can find their archetypes in that shadow. Then the Nightborn became one with the darkness.
"My lady Alinna!" A cry, belonging to Dr. Fridolin Farasun, echoed through the hall. It was a beam of moonlight that pierced the thickest darkness.
A scythe materialised in Eolynn's hand. With a loud clang, Alinna's sword was inches away from the dragoness's head, only to be halted by the scythe's blade.
Alinna stood frozen, thin vines of redness rapidly retracting into the corners of her eyes. The crisp collision between her sword and the floor tiles snapped her out of the trance.
"I... I apologise, Eolynn," Alinna stammered, her voice dry and plain.
"Indeed you should be, my lady," Eolynn replied bluntly, her displeasure was clear as daylight. "I agreed to a practice fight, not a life-and-death duel."
"It...it was not my intention," The Nightborn tried to explain, but words failed her.
"Perhaps it is Dr. Farasun's company that you need, not mine,"
"Eolynn, I..."
"I shall take my leave." The scythe disappeared, reassuming the form of the dragoness's tail. Eolynn bowed curtly before walking straight out the door.
"My lady, you summoned me?" Dr. Farasun approached cautiously, his cobalt blue eyes full of concern. Having just returned from his clinic, the Nightborn doctor ran a gloved hand through his hair, attempting to smooth out the tousled ashen locks.
With a dismissive wave, Alinna's shadow extended itself, tendrils rising to claim the sword and return it to its secret arsenal.
"Walk with me, Fridolin."
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Ingerior massaged her stiffened shoulders as she rose from her desk, two pile of paperwork screamed silently for her attention. "They can wait," she mumbled, determined to take a moment for herself. The blonde secretary turned her neck, releasing tension with each satisfying crack. She paced towards the window, stretching her arms towards the moonlit night.
The nocturnal wind carried with it the gentle rustle of leaves, creating a melody in the cooling air. However, beneath this calming symphony of nature, there lingered a note of discord. A whisper, soft as feather but manifested as the many-legged insects crawling on her skin. Wait... Ingerior furrowed her brows, there was a huge glass panel separating her from the outside noise. How come she still heard the leaves, wind and whispers?
The smile faded from the Huldra's face. Every fabric of her existence was telling her to ignore it, to just return to her desk and drown out the strange beckoning with the familiar click-clack of her keyboard. Ignore it, just ignore it! She has nothing to do with...Yet, the whispers of leaves and the wind refused to release their hold on her. Ingerior felt an odd disconnection with her own body, as if an invisible thread was pulling her forward.
Soon the Huldra found herself standing underneath a maple tree. The rustle of leaves conveyed a call for help.
'Sister, we need you!'
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Doctor Fridolin Farasun wearily leaned against a willow tree, arms crossed. The slender branches swung idly in the cool air, brushing against his face from time to time. The sinking moon, ever-white, ever-full, ever-ringed, cradled the obsidian terrain of the Castle of Ja-Ṣin (yah-Tsin) in her silver light. The many towers and pinnacles stood like silent night watchers. Fridolin closed his eyes and took a deep breath, lost momentarily to the crisp and salty sea breeze. He enjoyed the untainted chill. It was soothing, yet alarming, for it served as a prelude to the impending dawn. Alinna, occupying a garden bench, had been staring into the lake below for what felt like an eternity. Fridolin did not find the dark emerald water more interesting than usual. Perhaps he should give her a little nudge.
"My lady?" Shifting his weight, Dr. Farasun called out gently.
"Yes? Fridolin?" Alinna turned her gaze towards the doctor, her expression blank.
"I’m all ears."
"How many are we?"
"My lady?"
"How many of us, the Nightborns, are left?"
Despite being utterly puzzled, Fridolin obliged.
"There are you, my lady, me and Mikhail, so three in the Sanctuary. Four if you would count lady Mo..."
"No."
"Three it is." Fridolin continued his count, carefully observed his kinswoman. "Then there is Lord Milos, your uncle. I believe there is another, a noble knight Sir Talbot, but I have not heard of him for a long time. So, five in total."
"So it is five..."
"There is always hope, my lady...."
"Lord Vlad of the Moon and Sixpence came in tonight."
"And?"
"He brought news."
"Saying there might be another of us?"
"There is none other! Fridolin Farasun!" The simple deductive answer somehow worked like a spell, invoking something dark. The Nightborn lady seemed to manifest right in front of the doctor’s eyes, her form a shadow tempest and her growl an erupting thunder. "I was there, two-thousand years ago, when the golden Uruk fell! I watched them die! There is none other!"
Fridolin felt a sudden tightness around his throat, stars spiralling in his vision as the back of his head bashed into the sturdy tree trunk. In the blink of an eye, the pressure was gone.
"Fridolin, I...I am sorry... I..." Alinna recoiled towards the other end of the garden bench, her eyes fixed on her trembling hands, the disbelief and horror etched across her face like shadows in the moonlight. The doctor massaged his neck, the sudden attack left an ugly purple bruise on his alabaster skin. He attempted a step forward, but the Nightborn lady raised a hand, cautioning him to stay away.
"If you are so certain, why do you place bounties on even the most absurd high tale regarding any surviving kin? Why do you chase those far-fetched leads, only to be beaten to the dust at every dead end? And you know how it ends every time? With a sigh and blood tears. Yes, my lady, you have been doing this for as long as I have known you. Why do you keep torturing yourself?"
"Because...I deserve it." Alinna's eyes lost focus, the twin amber stars dimming like suffocated candle lights, flickering in a cold distance. The one word, one question kept pounding in her head. Why? Why did her sigh? Why did her weep? What was pushing her forward? What was she seeking? Was it pain? Guilt? The need of a closure? Or perhaps, it was the need of...reassurance.
"What was your life, Alinna, before we...escaped the Ahnenerbe's laboratory and founded the Sanctuary seventy-something years ago?" Fridolin attempted another step forward, this time successful.
"Why do you ask?"
"You never said much, just curious."
"A mess, Fridolin. Shattered memories, shifting images, distorted voices...What should I recount to you? What piques your interest?"
"The one memory you wish to relive the most." He pressed on gently, taking another step closer.
A cold silence hung in the air, its chilling grip tightened around Alinna's form of a stoic statue. The perfect exterior of the Nightborn lady betrayed nothing of whatever storm might be raging inside. Fridolin resisted the urge to delve into the depths of her mind, for he had attempted once, and only caught glimpse of a boundless darkness that will engulf all.
"There is none...I only wish to live here, with everyone in the Sanctuary. This is my home now." It was her answer, one that offered very little insight.
"Then perhaps it is time to let go of the past, my lady. Five isn't too pathetic a number. Less person less trouble." Fridolin, now within arm's reach from Alinna, could not help but sighed. He suspected that it was not her memory that failed her, but her desire to talk. The doctor was half ready to offer a hug, but remembered Alinna dislikes physical contacts.
The Nightborn lady managed a faint smile. "I appreciate your comfort, Fridolin, but I'm afraid not this time."
"Why not?" The doctor frowned, frustration etched across his face.
"Because this time, it might be true..."
"My lady!"
There was a call of attention, and their fruitless consultation was cut even shorter. For the first time, Dr. Farasun was not happy to see their Huldra clerk. Ingerior scurried across the garden, her entirety was shrouded in a grey twilight.
"I have news for you..."
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"The Dryads of Tén Antáran seek my aid in defense of their woodland realm?" The Lady of Ja-Ṣin sat in her study, her dark brows knotted in confusion. "Why come to me? Should they not consult with their Lady of Oak first if they are in need of protection? And against whom do they need defending?"
Ingerior stood across the polished ebony desk, her eyes flickering like ghostly flames. She parted her lips, once vibrant green, now dull as two patches of moss smeared over decaying wood. "Lord Vlad of the Court of Miracles, my lady."
"Vlad?" Alarmed, Alinna darted a sharp glance at the Huldra, who in turn averted her fox-like eyes. "Where is this forest of ancient song?"
"It spans a vast region, my lady, covering the borders between the human nations of Czech, Germany and Austria."
"And this Dryad, what is her name?"
"Déylveleth. She spoke on behalf of her elder sister, Vyrýneth."
"I see..." Recalling the events Vlad had recounted to her early on, Alinna began to piece together the puzzle.
"What did she say?"
Closing her eyes, Ingerior sighed. She had made herself a promise not to entangle herself in the affairs of Faefolk any more. But it seemed that everything comes in a circle.
"Hair of ebony, skin of fresh snow.
Eyes of winter stars, lips of crimson woe.
Maiden accursed, in a stone coffin lies.
Snared, entangled, in spell and shadow twine."
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Alinna forwent all her regalia, clad only in a modest white shirt and black pants, the silver tiara in her hair being her sole emblem of pride. She knelt on the smooth obsidian floor, carefully arranging two items in front of her—a strange silver knife, and a letter sealed with the sigil of the black phoenix. Fire rose from an onyx bowl, Alinna seized the silver knife and drew it across the floor, a piece of shadow peeled away, resembling nothing less than a sheet of paper. Without hesitation, the Nightborn lady pressed her finger to her fang, letting a rivulet of blood course down. These were her pen and ink. Alinna outlined a symbol in the centre of the shadow paper. Her finger danced gracefully, folding the shadow into an origami bird that she tossed into the fire. The flame grew, writhed and twisted, casting a long shadow on the wall, then abruptly, it died.
Yet the shadow remained. And from the shadow, an amorphous silhouette extended, coalescing into the vague form of a majestic bird—a peacock. His beak, a solid silver cone, appeared more as an ornate accessory than a functional organ. And his crest, a starry crown. Parading forward, the nebulous spectre left in his wake an expansive cosmic sea, a celestial canvas of astral constellations.
Like a peacock displaying its magnificent tail, the creature's plumage was an array of stars. Each star is an eye, and each eye holds a secret—those of men and of the celestial spheres. An invisible weight descended upon Alinna, as if the void itself had taken over the space. She averted her gaze, humbling herself before the presence that eclipsed the boundaries between realities.
"Hail to thee, Maḥigišatum, the many-eyed one. I, Al'inna Innunna, have summoned thee here, to deliver a message to my uncle, your master, Lord Milos Innunna."
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A tiny ball of ebony fur stirred, letting out a squeaky yawn that followed by a couple of smacks of his mouth. After a few self-grooming licks, the bat poked his head out of his snug dwelling, a hollowed tree trunk. It was already dark outside. Taking his time for a few stretches, the bat finally launched himself into the night.
Through the crisp and dry evening air, the little creature glided, silent and swift. His destination was the odd man-made structure in the middle of nature. Manoeuvring expertly through the treetops, the bat found himself a suitable perch on one of the trees surrounding the mansion. He dangled from the branch, a song of clicks and chirps was sung into the night. These echolocation signals rebounded off obstacles, outlining a clear map of his surroundings. Last night, he had attempted a break-in through a rift on the roof, but something chased him away, something he can only describes as a...ball of mist.
The bat took flight again, cautiously circling his way towards the mansion. In no time, the creature found himself latching onto the mansion’s exterior wall. Opting for a different strategy this time, the bat crawled towards a shattered window. Though boarded up, the gaps proved just large enough for him to squeeze through. A screech pierced the air as the bat deemed the area secure through his sonic scans. Yet, as the small ball of fur began to wiggle through the makeshift entrance, an unexpected shiver seized his tiny heart. A sudden disturbance in the air prompted the creature to cast a wary glance around. Something was not quite right, how come his shadow grew even longer when he was not moving? Strange mist rose from nowhere in his peripheral vision, swiftly taking the shape of an owl's face. Almost instinctively, the bat loosened his grip. A small black ball tumbled down the wall, narrowly evading the descending beak of the spectral hunter.
He fled into the night like a bat out off hell.
Taking the advantage of his smaller size, the creature zigzagged through the tangled branches, his flight as silent as a fleeting shadow. Yet the owl persisted. Her form ever-haunted the corners of his eyes, manifesting through swirling mists. Suddenly, a grim realisation gripped the bat's heart. This spectre was what drove him away last night, and mercy, to her, was nothing more than an one-off whim.
Panic set in, the bat could feel his strength draining with every breath. His wings, once swift and agile, became heavy. And his heart, pounding like drum, threatened to burst out of his chest. It was only a matter of time before he was made a prey or something worse.
Desperation fuelled the creature of the night as he weaved through the dense forest, attempting to shake off his relentless pursuer. To his surprise, the bat began to notice a brief delay as the mist shifted and parted in order to traverse the web of branches. A plan began to crystallise in the his mind. Mustering his remaining strength, the little creature accelerated, heading towards his hiding hole. The swirling mist drew closer and closer, a low menacing laughter rumbled in the air. This was the moment of truth. The bat dove down, executing a skilful manoeuvre as he wheeled around a tree. The owl, blinded by the chase, flew directly into the hollowed trunk.
Alas, the moment of triumph was short-lived. Before a sigh of relief could escape the bat's tiny mouth, a spiralling mist began to materialise, coalescing into the ghostly visage of an owl, right before his wide eyes. Folding his wings, the bat attempted to change course, but the momentum carried him directly into the spectral form. Just as the mist began to solidify around the bat, an arrow of shadow pierced through the spectre. The owl of mist dissipated with a shriek of anger.
The bat rebounded off a broad chest, only to be swiftly caught by a powerful talon. A fleeting sense of disorientation seized the small creature as his hazy vision outline his unexpected saviour—a creature, mostly akin to a raven, of the deepest, purest black. Two silvery blue stars, perhaps his eyes, shone with intensity from the depth of his otherworldly being. A long beak protruding from his elusive face. With a graceful beat of his bat-like wings, the raven soared higher, causing midnight blue to ripple across his shadowy plumage.
In no time, the duo returned to the mansion. The raven gently tapped the bat's soft belly, breaking him out of his trance. The bat, jolted to life, immediately shot up, bouncing around like a yo-yo high on substance. The raven let out a series of calming clicks, eventually coaxed the bat to settle down on a rooftop tile, where he curled into a fuzzy ball and inched towards the raven. Then there was a short exchange of caws and chirps.
Taking the lead, the raven dove down the roof toward the mansion’s west corner , seemingly dissolving into the shadow of the wall. Before the bat could emit a screech of fright, a window swung open for the him to glide through. The window led to the kitchen, a spacious chamber lined with stone bricks. Sturdy wooden beams held the structure's weight, arching over head. Many dried plants and cooking utensils hung from the ceiling. But the raven was nowhere to be seen.
All of the sudden, cupboard doors creaked open and shut, drawers slid in and out, and the metallic sounds of forks and knives rattling filled the air. All hell broke loose as the raven dove in and out of the shadow with unparalleled grace, resembling a dolphin riding the ocean waves. The bat watched in awe as the raven returned, a small box clutched in his beak. Three cubes of sugar tumbled onto the wooden table. Unimpressed, the raven shook his head, a mischievous gleam in the silvery depths of his eyes causing the bat to recoil. Leaning forward, the raven pushed two cubes toward the petite ebony creature with his long beak. The bat made a shy screech, hesitating and confused. With a nod of encouragement from the raven, the bat gingerly grabbed one of the cubes. A joyous chirp erupted as soon as his tongue made contact with the crystalline sugar.
When the little black ball of fur finally snapped back to reality from his sugary reverie, the raven was already gone. Through his dazed vision, a figure clad in white seemed to materialise in the doorway. Startled, the bat shuffled backward, his claws rustling against something—a letter bearing the sigil of the black phoenix.
