My gaze pierced through an endless sea of green—not just a garden, but an ocean of leaves and flowers swirling beneath the eternal symphony of spring. The air was thick with the scent of flowers that couldn't possibly exist in any mortal realm, sweet as vanilla freshly plucked from paradise. Every breath I took was a gentle assault of nostalgia, reminding me of something I'd never truly possessed.
I hid behind a boxwood, my body dissolving into shadow, peering at the tea table set in the heart of this springtime expanse—a table that looked more like an altar, a tribute to a goddess who never slept. I could feel it, every second, every particle of air dancing around me, yet my own body felt like an illusion.
My hands? Nothing but a vague concept—no flesh, no bone. My legs? As if severed from another dimension. My face was frozen, my mouth locked, my voice trapped somewhere in a throat I could no longer sense.
This wasn't mere refusal; it was as if my limbs had never existed at all. I was a single dot, a particle adrift among the colors and fragrances of this garden. My existence was too small, too fleeting, to leave even the faintest trace among the blossoms.
Yet longing stabbed at me, sharp as a rose's thorn—longing for the woman who always graced this lonely garden. She, the sole creature who breathed life into spring, walked barefoot, her figure tall and willowy. Each step she took was poetry in motion, and the flowers and small creatures seemed to race after her.
Her dress was never the same—just the other day, she wore a white gown patterned with lilies, sheer as mist, revealing the shadow of a body that was almost unreal. Her pale feet danced beneath the flowing skirt, while a white hat shielded her face from the sun's bold gaze. Her hands were bare, daring the sunlight without a single thread for cover.
Every day, I waited here, the faithful audience to a performance I was never invited to. Watching her brought a peace I could never buy, as if this entire spring had been conjured for her alone—the blossoms, the whispering breeze, all of it for that woman.
Sometimes, she would dance in the center of the garden, her steps weaving a melody only a yearning heart could hear. Green hues would take flight, flowers bursting like heavenly confetti. When weariness claimed her, she'd sit at that table, pouring tea from an antique pot, its sweet aroma drifting across the distance, as if inviting me to share in a warmth I could never quite touch.
Sometimes, she'd sit quietly, reading the newspaper, her black hair cascading over her shoulders like midnight ink dancing across the canvas of dawn. Every movement she made—even the simple act of turning a page—was so graceful, so meticulously poised, it was as if the universe itself slowed time just so I wouldn't miss a single heartbeat of her elegance. There was never a flaw to disturb the scene.
I watched her always—not just in her moments of stillness, but even when she accidentally spilled tea onto the tablecloth, she managed to turn mishap into art, her composure transforming failure into something almost beautiful.
Or when she sang songs I'd never heard before, her humming slipped into my memory, a gentle song weaving through my mind, light as pollen drifting on a spring breeze.
Even as she traced that lines with careful attention, I found myself transfixed, unwilling to let a single moment slip through my fingers.
Not a day passed that I didn't observe her, and today was no different. I waited here, dragging my existence—a mere dot. Slowly forward, defying the laws of possibility, just for the chance to witness her once more.
Suddenly, a familiar footstep echoed—a secret melody only the garden and I understood. The colors around me flared to life, vibrant but never harsh; the wind raced to greet her, birds burst into song. The garden gate swung open, and there she was—the center of gravity in my tiny universe.
But before I could savor her presence, an alien voice slithered into the scene, gnawing at the edges of this garden's reality. A man's voice, faint at first, then swelling, like a radio dialed up to full blast.
"Wake up," the voice commanded—firm, undeniable.
The spring garden began to fade, its colors bleeding away, the woman vanishing, and I was hurled into a boundless darkness. Only that voice remained, echoing through the void.
"Wake up!" it barked, this time splitting the silence like a thunderclap. I jolted upright, eyes snapping open, and suddenly I was back in the real world.
sprawled on a bed far too familiar, morning light smacking me in the face without a shred of mercy.
"Finally, you're up!" Erin's voice sliced through the air, sharp as a freshly honed kitchen knife. "Aren't you even a little afraid of being late?"
"Huh?" I mumbled weakly, the world still spinning around me like a busted carousel.
"Your first mission from Hozi is today, right?"
Oh, right. Hozi and that whole Fianna business.
Look who finally bothered to speak up. Guess you've got some nerve after all," I retorted
"I get that you were pissed yesterday. But really, what choice did I have? If I hadn't stepped in to deal with that clown, you'd have been toast long before Cabalena even showed up" Erin's words echoed what he'd said yesterday, almost word for word.
He'd only resurfaced yesterday, right after I'd stumbled back to Hozi's place. I was wandering outside, the last traces of night still clinging to the air, when I ran into Paris at the front door. He greeted me like it was nothing out of the ordinary, not a hint of surprise—like vanishing for three days was just another part of the routine.
"Do you often not come home?" I asked Erin, my voice rough, side effect of being yanked out of sleep too fast.
"Work demands it," Erin replied, his tone flat, almost as if he were reciting lines from a play he'd performed a thousand times. "Sometimes I'm gone a whole week. But Paris rarely asks questions, so I don't lose sleep over it."
"Strange, considering your line of work is shady as a willow tree," I teased, half-joking, half-accusing.
"Guiding people isn't shady," he shot back, quick as a whip.
Yeah, but you guide them straight to hell, I thought. The words hung heavy in my mind, too dense to speak aloud, so I let them settle in the morning air.
A hush fell between us, thin as mist clinging to the ground. I tried to shake off the gloom, then stood up and started getting dressed. Crisp white shirt, black pants that hadn't seen an iron in ages, a half-hearted attempt at taming my hair—each move slow and unhurried, calm as a lake at dawn. There was no reason to rush.
***
"What if I refuse?" I asked Hozi, my voice deliberately steady, each word sharpened to a point.
"Too bad for you, you're not really in a position to refuse," Hozi replied, lips curling into a thin smile, eyes glinting with a hint of amusement.
"If you get stubborn, we could always hand you straight over to Tytoal-ba. They'd have your head on a pike in front of the townsfolk, no fuss, no ceremony. Sure, they're all about progress and shiny tech, but when it comes to punishment, they still swear by the old ways." Hozi's voice flowed calm and smooth. For some reason, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, as if I could already see the executioner's shadow dancing at the edge of my vision.
"I've told you, just because I'm the last one standing doesn't mean I killed them," I protested.
"True or not, that's a problem for later," Hozi leaned back in his chair. "Tytoal-ba's people don't know yet that Kaleb went into that dungeon. But give it two, maybe three days, and this secret's bound to leak. And when it does, you won't be the only one caught in the crossfire."
He fixed me with a sharp look, then added, "That includes you, their guide."
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry as a desert. Every word from Hozi landed like a sledgehammer against my defenses—and I knew, deep down, there was nowhere left to hide.
"To me, the death penalty just ends a life, it doesn't undo what's already been done," Hozi said, his smile never quite reaching his eyes.
"So instead of throwing your life away, why not join us?" he offered, as if handing me a golden ticket.
I glanced at them one by one—Hozi, Cella, Castenyan. Calculating faces, each hiding their own agenda behind unreadable eyes. Hozi's words made sense—too much sense, like honey slathered on a mousetrap. But… was it true that I really had no other choice?
"You're not going to hand me over," I said, keeping my voice as calm. "You've had your sights on me from the start. That's why you pretended to be a hobo the first time we met, isn't it?" Fragments of memory began to surface.
"That means I'm important to your plan. Whatever business you have with that Tytoal-ba professor, you can't finish it without me," I continued, locking eyes with Hozi, surprised by the steel in my own voice.
"Joining you isn't on the table. What I'm after is a deal—partners, not pawns," I stated, bracing myself for their reply.
Cella was the first to snap back, her voice sharp as shattered glass. "Did you not hear a word Hozi just said, huh?" But Hozi simply raised a hand, cutting her off mid-rant.
"Go on," Hozi said, his eyes gleaming with interest.
"I'll help with your little hero-wannabe circus act—on one condition: you get that book back for me," I said, fighting to keep a sly smile from creeping onto my face.
"That's it?" Hozi leaned in, eyebrows arched.
"And one more thing. If the Cabalena and Lingard Onison deal goes through, I want a cut. Fifty-fifty."
"Deal," Hozi replied, not missing a beat.
Heh, quick on the draw.
"Why are you so eager to agree?" I asked, narrowing my gaze.
Hozi just shrugged. "Makes sense, doesn't it? We wanted you in the game anyway. As for profits, we'll cross that bridge when we get there."
His words were like a spider's web, I'd known for a long time that this monkey never played it straight—not even with his own shadow.
"One more thing," I said, holding my breath. "I want to know more about this Archiveline you keep talking about."
Hozi's eyes narrowed. "You want to become one of them?"
"Yeah. Like I said, I don't know the first thing about this Archiveline you mentioned. And you know that."
"Archiveline isn't child's play, you know. Those who fail… turn into something worse than any monster you've ever seen." His voice dropped low. That word—Archiveline—rolled lightly off their tongues, but it settled heavy in my mind.
Hozi stood up, casually grabbing his plate, then shot me a smile full of riddles. "But if you're really curious, meet me in two days at the Wetlands market."
"That's your first mission as an intern member of the Awesome City Club."