Minutes later, inside Rowan's chamber, the little Mara scrubbed the bathtub pitifully. His hollow eyes resentfully glanced at his master, who was lounging on Rowan's bed, chewing on chicken legs.
As if sensing his pet's thoughts, Uthayn turned to meet his gaze just in time.
"What are you looking at? Whose fault is it that we're here now, wandering like ghosts to catch ghosts?" he scolded.
"Boo…" Mara whispered sadly, slumping back into the bathtub, thinking back to the time that led them here.
........
Hall of Void is the realm that stood beyond light and shadow, a place where time dared not tread. This realm stretched into infinite darkness, and the only illumination came from faint, ethereal glows that pulsed like dying embers in the dark.It is the place that belongs to neither mortals nor immortals. Here nature is the ruler—the oldest and most impartial force in existence.
When the balance between life and death tilts, nature gives birth to Wraiths, not from the flesh or spirit but from the emotion and truth itself.
When life ceased in the mortal world, the souls arrived here, awaiting to be judged by these Wraith based on their goods and bads.
Good deeds bring them pardons, and when the heart outweighs the lightness of a feather, they are damned.
There was no ground to leave footsteps behind, only a floating stone platform suspended in the emptiness. Among all, a single towering stone platform looms at the top, a throne for the High Wraiths, who judge the souls.
At the throne, Percival Quill, the Wraith of Quills, carefully collected the feathers holding the judged souls and arranged them neatly in the Record Book of Death. He stood up from his seat and excused himself from the two High Wraiths seated above him.
After taking his leave, he gathered his records and disappeared from the place in a swirl of smoke.
Upon arriving in his palace, he trudged toward the Stillum, a place where the essence of souls is planted into a tree, preserving them and the memories of their existence.
The two hollows at the entrance bowed to their master and pushed open the door to the Stillum. The ceiling soared impossibly high, as if reaching toward the heavens.
A burst of radiant light flooded the room, bright enough to blind one's eyes, yet Percival stood unblinking, his piercing eyes fixed on the Soul Tree planted at the center of the chamber.
Walking forward, he opened the Record Book of Death and carefully planted the judged feathers to its branches.
The rest of the feathers, entangled in the tree, swayed gently like glowing fruits in a phantom breeze.
Stepping back, Percival stood tall, his aged form wrapped in an eternal scholarly aura. He clasped his hands behind his back and gazed up at the towering tree, its branches nearly brushing the ceiling.
The energy of countless souls lingering here could choke a mortal.
If a human dared to stay within the Stillum for too long, their body would be absorbed into the light and vanish into the roots of the tree. But for a Wraith like him, who had long abandoned mortal flesh, chosen by nature itself, this place was paradise.
For a brief moment, his eyes fell on a particular branch where a lone feather dangled quietly in the corner. Its fading glow could tell that this soul's memory had remained in the Stillum for more than a century.
An unexplained emotion flickered behind Percival's eyes for the briefest moment but quickly disappeared as soon as it came.
He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, standing unmoved within the place's sacred stillness.
But that silence was shattered by a high-pitched, carefree whistle that echoed through the Stillum, causing the feathers within the Soul Tree to tremble.
Percival's lips twitched, bracing himself for the impending headache.
Uthayn, the new intern of the Hall of Void, stepped into the Stillum. Behind him trailed his pet, Mara—a small, wiry creature with a crow's sharp, beaked face and glowing eyes full of misplaced innocence.
Its slender frame was hunched yet agile, with elongated limbs and clawed fingers. Large, shadowy wings jutted from its back, tattered at the edges. It clung silently to its master's leg like a little cat.
Uthayn came to stand behind Percival, ready to greet him, but was immediately cut off.
"Why are you here?" Percival asked, his gaze still fixed on the towering tree.
Uthayn's face scrunched in mild irritation. "Take me back. I don't want to work in Claudius's palace."
"An intern has no right to defy the High Wraiths. It's your duty to follow their orders," Percival replied, his voice stern and undeniable.
Uthayn rolled his eyes. "All he does is order me to fill his bathtub. You know how many times a day? More than ten, ten damn times!" He exaggerated.
"Take me back," he demanded firmly.
Finally, Percival turned to face him. His eyes scanned the features of the young man standing before him. Uthayn was nearly as tall as him, with hair and eyes as dark as storm clouds. His sharp brows were drawn together in clear displeasure.
Uthayn was an abandoned soul, one Percival himself had taken in as a baby. His first cry echoed in the Hall of Void, and he'd been raised and nurtured in this very place. Yet Percival still struggled to understand how a child raised under his careful eye had grown into such an incorrigible brat.
He narrowed his eyes at Uthayn and asked pointedly, "Have you realized your mistakes?"
Uthayn sighed and nodded reluctantly. Mara mimicked his master, nodding with dramatic sincerity.
"Speak—of what folly are you guilty?" Percival pressed.
With his arms crossed, Uthayn answered in a deadpan voice, "I tore a page from the Record Book of Death and blew my nose with it."