Emory was back in his dormitory, sitting on his straw bed next to the eccentric Francine. His other roommate, Siole, had wandered off, leaving just the two of them in the dim, dirt-walled room.
"How was your talk with the Mourners?"
Emory shook his head. "I don't want to talk about it."
Francine's eyes widened slightly. "Sorry." She then asked, "Have you taken the bath yet?"
The question clearly annoyed him. "Do I really have to? My talk with the Mourners was short, I swear."
Francine shrugged. "I don't make the rules."
"Is it at least separated by gender?"
"No."
Francine held his gaze. "No one does anything inappropriate, Emory. We are all under the eyes of the Phantom. The thought of defiling his blood would sicken anyone."
Reluctant, Emory tried one last time. "Please."
"Emory. . ." Francine's voice was low. "If you're not purified, you could contaminate the rest of us."
"Alright, fine."
"Would you like me to come with you?" she asked, perking up.
"N–No! I'm okay! I'm okay."
Moments like these should be saved for one's wife.
As he walked to the dormitory bath, Emory's mind raced. I can't leave until I hear my Specter at seventeen. Curses, that's too long. I need to see Papa. Is he okay? Is Simonis okay?
The thought of either of them disappearing was unbearable.
Until then, I'll have to stay here. Maybe I can strength train, so I can be a better help to Papa when I come back. He'll definitely find it useful.
His mind circled back to the interrogation.
Julius Bersebus. Who is he? Why did they stop the interrogation after that?
He remembered how Fifth Mourner Elocien and Fourth Mourner Behedet appeared quite on edge after a sudden darkness loomed over him.
He also thought about the sandy dune nightmare.
Sylphossia Telantes. I'll try to speak to her again and ask her for something. But, oh, what could I give in return? Shoot! It looked like she had powers over imagination, 'cuz the second thing he told me to do was to imagine that I had clothing on. . .
Could she maybe. . . be able to speed up time? That would be really useful. Then I can hear my Specter and leave this awful space that has no regard for modesty!
Sylphossia reached out to me after I said I wanted to die in my dream. I'll try that out again tonight. Yes! It's a plan!
Papa, Simonis, I'll be home soon. Really soon!
. . . .
Emory reached the fountain raining down blood and shyly took off his clothes. He looked around. Sigh. . . There are people here.
One of them did not have Emory's bits. In fact, she had nothing at all.
A g-girl! I'll stay over here. Please don't come near me. He dipped into the blood, letting the slimy, medium-thick liquid cover his body. Am I supposed to pray. . . or something?
Emory decided praying to an Entity he didn't know wasn't the right move. He would just wait it out.
The girl on the far side stood and licked the blood from her skin. In a clear voice, she said, "Mourn the Phantom." She stepped out and dressed quickly. Her hair, unlike the gray common among the others, was black.
Others emerged from the bath and did the same, licking the blood from their bodies.
Emory did not follow suit.
He found his undergarment and used it to wipe the blood away. Then he dressed and left as quickly as he could.
On his way back, Emory heard a commotion near one of the Mandate's sparse shops. That sounds bad. . .
He turned to go another way, but a familiar voice stopped him.
"You don't know anything about me, stop speaking nonsense!"
Siole.
Another voice replied, "Quit your jabbering. You come from a family of killers. Cold-hearted, brutal killers. They say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. What's to stop you from snapping? I'm just making this place safe."
A sharp slap rang out.
Footsteps scuffled. The crowd gasped.
The same boy shouted, "Now you're really going to get it!"
They were fighting.
I should help him. He's my roommate. . . He pushed through the crowd and saw Siole wrestling on the ground with a larger boy, who was easily forcing Siole's head against the floor.
The bigger boy jumped on Siole's back, twisting his arms. Siole grimaced, a pained "Ngh–" escaping his lips.
He kept twisting. "Should I just kill you now? Heh. Not even the Phantom would accept your filthy corpse."
The crowd erupted in mocking laughter.
Emory's eyebrows furrowed. Who in the hell does he think he is? But Emory was smaller than Siole; the bully would topple him easily. Not unless I. . .
Siole's face was red with strain and humiliation. Emory hated seeing it. He's my age. What a scumbag.
Without warning, Emory shoved the boy off Siole. He kicked his face, then punched him hard in the groin. The boy howled, but the sound was cut short by another brutal hit.
And another. Another. Again. Again.
The boy's eyes watered, his face turning a deep red.
All the bully saw was a boy with wavy black hair and burning red eyes. This red-eyed devil leaned in and slapped him.
"Did the world a favour. Your children will never see the light of day." For effective measure, he made sure to really step into the boy's groin, twisting and churning his foot cruelly.
Emory turned his glare on the crowd. They shuddered and scattered.
The bully wobbled to his feet and limped away, whimpering.
Emory looked at the silent, red-faced Siole. "I won't tell anyone. Not even Francine."
Siole gave a tight nod.
. . . .
"It's getting late," Francine said, her merry voice fading into a yawn. "Goodnight, Emory. Goodnight, Siole."
"Goodnight," the boys replied.
The light went out with a click.
The room was plunged into quiet darkness.
Emory lay in his straw bed, staring at the tombstone embedded in the ceiling above him.
Please, Ms. Sylphossia, answer me this one time.
He whispered the words, so quiet neither Siole nor Francine would hear. "I want to die."
He closed his eyes and let sleep take him.
. . . .
It was the same sandy dune as before. However, Emory was fully clothed this time. He stood at the rift of death, gazing far at the thousands of dead bodies underneath him.
He didn't touch them this time; he had no desire in igniting the macabre laughter again.
"Ms. Sylphossia?"
"I'm here." The voice came first, then the body followed—the same towering woman. "Your protector, at your service." Sylphossia gave a dramatic bow. "Whatever ails you, my friend?"
Emory's lips twitched. Is she okay? Sylphossia smiled as if nothing were amiss. But the memory of her absence, of him crying her name as the Hierarchs took him, resurfaced.
"You said you would help me, didn't you?" Emory said. "I called your name many times, Ms. Sylphossia, yet you never came. They took me away!"
Sylphossia summoned the same table and practically pushed Emory into a chair. "Like I said, your pea-sized brain wouldn't get it. But simply put, Master wanted you in the Mandate. So I didn't help when they came to take you." She convened the glasses and filled them with the same mysterious liquid.
Her Master wants me here? But why?
Gulp! Gulp! Gulp!
Emory watched her drink, a mix of awe and frustration warring within him. "Oh. . ." It was clear from her carefree demeanor that he wouldn't get a better answer.
He shifted to the main focus. "Ms. Sylphossia, I have a request."
The tall lady put the first glass down and chuckled, "I would guess so."
Alright.
"I'm stuck in the Mandate until I hear my Specter at seventeen," he said, holding his breath. "Can you speed up time? So I can hear it sooner?"
For the first time, Sylphossia's face went blank. She paused. "Speed up time? Why would you think I can do that?"
Emory tilted his head. "The 'imagination' key you gave me. If I can imagine clothes from nothing, maybe I can imagine myself being older?"
This was all to get home quicker to Papa.
Sylphossia snickered. "Imagination? Time? Heh. You're a clever little fool." She drank from the second glass. "This is about your father, isn't it?"
Emory nodded. "Yes." And Simonis, he added in heart.
Sylphossia clicked her tongue. "I can speed time, but only for you. Your body will age and your mind will mature, but the people and world around you won't." She narrowed her eyes.
". . ?"
"Do you want me to spell it out for you?" she groaned. "You can't go back to your father and little wife, they'll still be at the same age. You would be a seventeen-year-old in a world where you are still nine."
How couldn't I think of that? Emory riled. He was too foolish in thinking.
Should he stay in the Mandate for six years, risking the emotional losses of his loved ones, but having that slight chance of success when he does leave? Or should he speed time for himself, leave the Mandate, but never speak directly to Charles or Simonis.
He could indirectly converse with them. Nonetheless, it wouldn't give him the same satisfaction.
"Why can't I just tell them?" Emory protested. "I could explain!"
Sylphossia shook her head. "Impossible. The magic required to age you is a profound burden. If you reveal the truth, that burden will shift to them. A mind unprepared for such magic would be shattered. They would die instantly."
Die?
She materialized the bone-like key from days ago. "Remember your promise to Master, and the fact that the Lesser Emperor's lackeys will come for you and anyone you acquaint yourself with."
". . ."
"If you choose yes, all you must do is turn this key sideways and imagine yourself aged."
What should I do. . .