The staff cleared the glamour that guised itself as a hollow, unoccupied alley. Like a torn gift wrap it slowly cascaded into a place tinged with a dim-red color. There were rats scattered all over the rump, and on the further end was a man tied and beat-up. Lucas stepped towards the un-glamoured place and then he felt a s.h.i.+ver down his spine.

Infernal magic. It was reeking of it.

On the end of the alley—situated on the dead-end was an injured Orwell. Lucas walked towards his rival, implausibly injured to his unconscious—who in the world could have done this to a man who earned the t.i.tle Lotheringwood, and was a magician of Ianua I? Lucas tightened his grip to his staff, as he stood close in front of Orwell.

Orwell's gla.s.ses were broken, smithereens laying on the floor.

"Orwell," Lucas asks. "What the h.e.l.l happened here?"

Orwell opened his eyes slowly—staring towards Lucas with his blurry eyes. He was sitting on the floor, his back parallel to the floor as his head was now locking gazes with platinum-blond hair belonging to him and emerald eyes looking down both with rage and worry. These features belonged to only one person—Lucas Feuerlon. He found him. Orwell narrowed his blurry eyes, not seeing clearly through his broken spectacles.

"Lucas…" He says, "where's Abe…?"

"Abe?" Lucas asks. "Abe isn't with us."

And as he said that, an attack from behind made Lucas duck and swirl as he held his staff as a defense. The staff had blocked a muscled arm. Lucas held his staff firmly to place as Abe's hand was on the staff with an attempted attack.

"Now, isn't this an interesting turn of event," Lucas says, narrowing his eyes. "What do you think you're doing, vice-captain of the High Knights?"

Paper-white hair glistened into the moonlight as red eyes stared straight to Lucas' emerald ones.

**

Faustina stared blankly as her thoughts engulfed the depths of her mind. She could hear a taunt—a burst of laughter—and a cry. She could not distinguish which is which and to whom they belonged to. The taunt—the mockery towards her were like painful truths being spoken with an honest lip, spouting flowers with thorns; Faustina heard a sweet voice asking her what was she doing—empathic and sympathetic tones, a voice laced with honey and orange blossoms.

Faustina thinned her lips and listened to the voices in her mind. Her ears were listening to white noise, but her head was bombarded with dialogues and monologues of someone else—it was as if she was in a daydream. A daydream she made—voices belonging to her.

Again she had let herself be caught in the midst of a happenstance.

Again she wasn't the one to decide her fate.

Again she was saved.

Again… again… again.

She was forcing herself to understand, to think—to ruminate—telling her conscience that this was a matter of inevitability. She coerced her wavering heart with her own voice—with her own words laced with honey but stung like a poison.

It was inevitable. She needed a savior—she was powerless.

She was just Faustina; following orders—clinging to a task she did not question. Clinging into an ideology plenty with things and circ.u.mstances she did not understand but followed nonetheless. She was a mindless adherent.

It was inevitable, she told herself.

I can't do anything, I have to let them decide for me, she whispers to her own ear.

"Faustina?" Ezekiel stops running as Faustina paused, remaining to her feet.

"We're coming back," Faustina mumbles, her voice sounding clearer to her, stopping the whispers on the back of her mind. "I know how to stop the marionette."

"You could stop the marionette?" Ezekiel asks, amethyst eyes eyeing Faustina with newfound emotion—mixed surprise and fascination. He stared intently at the blazing, brown eyes that spoke both determination and uncertainty. A mixture of impossible sentiments. She spoke of the least he had expected—a solution to the problem at hand.

"I think the marionette wants me to come to the magic circle."

"Yes, and it meant no harm as well," Ezekiel answers. "Which is weird enough on its own. Marionettes carry out dreadful tasks; they do not bring their captive alive. The clock is ticking—what do you have in mind?"

Faustina inhaled deeply. "I think I can trick it."

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"Trick it?"

"I believe I can deceive," Faustina retorts. "The marionette showed me things… and I think it is vulnerable when it's with me—if I remember right—marionettes are weak to clairvoyant powers and their captive finding the essence?"

"Yes," Ezekiel answers. "But that is a risky move. The essence has to be from you or a person close to you. You are Faustina Feuerlon; you are going to find it difficult to find the essence of that certain someone. Many people treasure you, and I can tell, you treasure them as well—you showed compa.s.sion to that man, wanting to save him, for reasons I do not know. I don't think you are acquainted with a man from The Faction."

"I don't know him…" Faustina says. "But I… I can't let someone die because of me,"

Ezekiel stared intently, waiting for her reply. Observing her words.

"I think I know the right essence—I have someone particular in mind who probably is the owner of the marionette's essence."

"Are you sure?" Ezekiel asks, narrowing his eyes.

"There is only one person that can be used against me," Faustina exclaims. "Someone important… someone who knows me fully."

Eula.