"Art is a uniquely human intervention. It did not exist in my time, nor was it practiced by the Stars who knew only the bounds of their innate domain. The act of weaving color into a canvas, to invent through song and dance an imaginary story, or sculpting, shaping, giving life and character to that which is inanimate: these are all branches of the Creation that Cosmos so cherished. Their children inherited it, and so they continue on creating even after having forgotten their mother."

  —The Knight

  ———

  The Knight

  In every corner, from the alleys to the storefronts illuminated in bright, dazzling lights, a festivity of art and song is proudly celebrated by the merrymakers wandering the busy district. Their faces are flushed, hearts bared in revelry, yet the cheers are but a faint whisper before the roaring ballads and poems spilling forth from the bards lined all about the cobble promenade. However, it is not just their voices that are fanciful. A whimsical set of garments cover their bodies: red, yellow, green and blue. The musicians are swathed in soft, billowing fabrics, purposely jutting out as if demanding for the world to lay its eyes upon their flamboyance.

  And yet their songs are but one part of a much greater whole: Artists stained in blotches of paint create lifelike portraits for a meager price; aspiring Astrologians bid Creation forth in a playful show of sorcery; and playwrights set up curious makeshift theatres where the only actors are puppets and models performing in front of a hollow wooden frame.

  Athletic stadiums, gambling halls, grand auditoriums of stone… it would be highly difficult to experience all there is the city has to offer in a single night, and yet that is precisely what Dariel has sworn as his mission. The Knight is hurriedly shuffled back and forth between an innumerable number of opera houses and venues, leaving not a single second for rest before it’s time for a new show—a new production. Yet never is the Knight overwhelmed. It has not had such pleasantry in a very long while.

  However, all the excitement is much too stimulating for the child still hiding atop its head. Aegis can only last for so long, his body struggling in a perpetual battle to remain awake, before he eventually drifts off to sleep. It is a shame, for the Knight can feel his heartfelt desire to witness everything around him. It can feel his curiosity overflowing with a pure love toward the physical world, only to be forced into the realm of dreams in the end. Still, it is a wonder he has managed thus far given the day’s events. Even whilst plagued in boredom during the court attendance and Annalay’s tour, he has remained hidden well, never uttering so much as a grumble. His rest is well deserved; perhaps it shall take him back in the morrow when he is more alert.

  That is, so as long the presence trailing them halts their futile hunt.

  The Knight can feel it—a madness soaked in perversion, the very same it sensed back in the castle. They merely lurk out of sight for now, but it has no doubt their passivity will not last for long. It must handle this soon or else their obsession will burst and lead forth to a more physical confrontation.

  “Thank you for following my whims so far, Lorelai,” Dariel says as the two stroll along the dwindling avenue. It is close to midnight now, and the festivities are slowly coming to an end. “I, um, didn’t intend to make you see so much on your first visit, but I guess I was a bit overzealous. There’s so much I wanted to show you and—well, not enough time to do so. I’m sorry if this whole night has felt rushed.”

  “We did fly through the fair rather quickly,” it replies with a small laugh. “But this night has been nothing but pleasant, Dariel. Thank you for accompanying me today.”

  “Hehe, I’m glad. But don’t think we’re finished just yet! I’ve saved the best performance for last.”

  The two gradually come to a stop and approach their final destination of the night: a towering theatre building of onyx and crystals. A bright twinkle covers its every surface, and the words “The Arthurian Theatre Company” are engraved in fanciful swooping lettering. It is a wonder of architecture, second only to the King’s castle, and the two quickly join the long line of sharply dressed men and women spilling out from the entrance.

  “Here we are!” Dariel says proudly. “The Arthurian Theatre! While the other venues in the district are all quite charming, this building and company have been here since the days of the founders. Their performances are truly of another quality, so much so that you have to reserve your seats months in advance due to how popular they are.”

  “Oh? Will we be alright, then?” it asks.

  A shy grin tugs at his lips, and he shuffles away as a flush shades his cheeks in a bright red hue. “Eh-hem, though I don’t particularly enjoy touting my status, it does allow for some certain… privileges.”

  “My, my, Dariel. I thought you beneath the use of corruption,” it teases, to which the flustered officer quickly begins to shout out in protest.

  “N-no, I promise I don’t do this often! It’s just, well, if you’re going to visit the theatres, then you may as well be treated to the very best. I know fully how this looks, but it’s not often you come by—”

  “You can relax, Dariel. I was just teasing you. I know you’re doing this for my sake, and for that I am very thankful.”

  “… Rude,” he pouts. But his mood quickly lightens as the two make it to the front of the theatre’s door. Even the entrance is lavish, for a long, flowing red carpet is unfurled below and a golden rope bars entry inside.”

  “May I see your ticket, sir?” the registrar asks.

  “Ah, one moment. I believe this will suffice?”

  Dariel takes out what appears to be a pink metal plaque and displays it with a rather bashful expression. The registrar’s eyes widen in shock, but they quickly return to their prior air of professionalism.”

  “Oh, dear! Forgive me for not recognizing one as esteemed as yourself,” they say with a bow. “Our company shall always welcome a member of the Cherubims. Please, come in; the exclusive seating for V.I.P’s shall be made available to you on the upper floor. Welcome to the Arthurian Theatre, and I do hope you enjoy tonight’s production of The Nebulas.”

  The Nebulas? The Knight barely manages to steady itself upon hearing the name. Its breath slows, its eyes narrow, and its movements stiffen as a curious lull rumbles deep within its chest. How interesting. I thought I burned all copies of that text long ago, yet here it lies—transcribed in stage form. The question is… how accurate is its portrayal? I suppose I shall soon see.

  “Is something the matter?” Dariel asks.

  “Oh, I was just surprised. The name is familiar to me, though I can’t remember why.”

  “That’s not surprising. The Nebulas is a classic fable, after all; grandfather would read it to me every night when I was little. I’m sure this is a good sign that your memories are returning!”

  “… Perhaps. Let us hurry. I am quite excited to see the performance.”

  Dariel and the Knight walk past the atrium. They climb up a spiraling staircase covered in rugs of exotic patterns before eventually arriving at a long curtain. Dim candlelight flickers above them—casting a shadow against countless paintings and the odd statue set alongside the walls—and as they pull back the cloth, a grand space is revealed before them. Gone are the crystals; gone is the shadowed interior. Instead, a splendorous display of gold and red swathes the entirety of the rotunda, and a gigantic chandelier illuminates everything from the farthest corner to the cushioned seats lined below. From their private view nestled to the back and high above the floor, it is as if the entirety of the theatre is presented solely for them.

  Suddenly, the lights go out, and a spotlight shines upon a lone presenter standing on the stage.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” they declare. “I would like to welcome each and every patron that has come to visit our beloved theatre on this day. Soon, the clock shall strike midnight. And a performance like none other will begin. Thank you one and all and immerse yourselves as we bring to life a fairytale of old: The Nebulas, the story of humanity’s creation. Enjoy.”

  They disappear; the curtains unfold; and then, the actors arrive—dancing, dancing, gliding about with mesmerizing steps as the leader of the troupe triumphantly marches forth and speaks out with a clear, powerful timbre.

  “Our story begins with a twinkle and shine

  Of a blessed star, of a radiance so sublime

  Stolen story; please report.

  There, high above the milky clouds, lies a never-ending sea of darkness and shrouds

  But among the haze, through the stifling night, there frolicked a sparkle, a glimmering light

  They were the Stars, divinities of play

  They were the first, immortals come what may

  But even eternity has its loathful end, and soon came boredom to a lone Star wishing for a friend

  Her name was Cosmos, a name as beautiful as the celestial expanse

  But even she could not escape the hold of solitude’s trance

  The other Stars mocked her, they called her a freak

  For she was a frail child, her powers ever so weak

  ‘Oh, woe is me. Woe be my name,’ she cried. ‘For I have naught a soul in this space. A companion to give me grace.”

  She wept, she sobbed, she bawled herself to slumber

  And then came a miracle, a granted wish of wonder

  Creation had come and answered her call

  Creation had come to awaken her lull

  Thus was it born, a life full of sanctity

  Thus was it born, the progenitor of humanity.”

  The performance ends, and as the actors gather to give one final bow, a roaring applause bids them farewell. Hm, I do not think that rhymed. A pity, the arts are still far beyond my reach.

  The Knight is bewildered. The play is certainly done quite well, but there is something off about the ending. It feels detached, cut off without resolution, and it soon comes to realize the source of the discomfort: The second half is absent. They do not speak of what Cosmos has lost. They do not speak of that Star’s sacrifice—of the reason why humanity is caged ever so tight. It supposes this is a good thing; ignorance is bliss. If they are to ever discover the truth, then their beloved creator will become sacred no longer. It does not want that. Let that lonely being be remembered for their love. That is what they deserve.

  “Bewitching, was it not?” an unfamiliar voice asks by its side. The voice is rich, smooth with an enchanting tone, but hidden ever so subtlety is a poisoned tongue dripping in insanity. “This play is a favorite of mine. It portrays it well, the beauty, the tragedy, and the heartfelt love our blessed creator must have had for humanity. And yet, I have never been able to rid this feeling of hesitation. Is that truly how she felt? No, something is amiss. But what?

  “A question plagues me. Some may see it as blasphemous, but I cannot be rid of it no matter how I try. It stalks my dreams, tortures my mind, but I do not shy from it. Its allure is impossible to resist, for the answer is just so tantalizing to imagine. Do you think you can solve it? Tell me: If Cosmos truly adores humanity, then why has she abandoned us here, alone, on this earth?”

  The Knight turns to its side and is greeted by a tall, lanky man wearing a peculiar floral mask.

  “I daresay that is quite the dangerous question,” Dariel interrupts, shoving himself awkwardly in front of the Knight so as to face the strange new gentleman. And for good reason: His appearance is quite different from the common Polus citizen. Long, blood red robes cover the entirety of his guise—patterns of flowers are sewn on the hem—and delicate carvings are etched all about the surface of his porcelain face. However, what draws the most attention is the vibrant rose blooming from where the right socket should be. The left contains an eye of crimson and a pupil glaring with a serpentine quality.

  The Knight is not certain, but there is something different about that rose. It has the same appearance as a regular flower, the same fragrance, and yet it oozes a sinister aura as if the bloom is something else entirely.

  As if it is begging to be ripped out and granted a swift end.

  Dariel’s body turns defensive, and his brow furrows in distrust. It is clear something about the man is unnerving him. He doesn’t appear to know exactly why; still, he maintains a clear boundary and speaks with not a tremble. It does not prevent him however from breaking out into a nervous sweat. “A question, I should say, we are not inclined to answer, especially to an odd fellow such as yourself. Who exactly are you? I don’t recognize that appearance, and I’ll have you know I’m very familiar with the nobles allowed in this booth.”

  “Oh dear, there is no need for such hostility,” the masked man chuckles. “I am but an admirer of the arts. The esteemed stewards of this theatre have been ever so kind; they granted me permission to peruse their performances from atop this view.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” Dariel grumbles.

  “Ah, but it is true. You see, I am a florist of a humble flower boutique: ‘The Floral Bloom.’ It is a quaint boutique, one nestled away from the rush and excitement of the city, but nonetheless I take pride in the quality of my craft.”

  The man gestures around him. “Why, my darlings can be seen at this very moment! Beautiful, are they not? I have spared no effort to cultivate an arrangement befitting this fine theatre.”

  His words are true. The walls of their private viewing, and the theatre as a whole, are embellished with delicate flowers of red and gold. They blossom together, conjoining in twisting stalks, until a portrait of a single merged flower blooms out into the world.

  “I see,” Dariel says with an apologetic look. He is still wary of the man, but the creases in his eyes have slightly eased. “Do forgive me for being so suspicious toward a new face—er, mask I suppose.”

  “Please, my good sir: You have nothing to be apologetic about,” the man replies, his voice rumbling with a deep, silky bass. “I understand. I really do. To be cautious of the unfamiliar is but our base instinct; it is our impulse to be hesitant toward change, and I do admit my appearance can be rather eccentric. But is that not what makes life—us, as individuals—so unique? And there truly is no shortage of uniqueness in the capital. It is why I have settled here despite the rather prudent reception from the locals.”

  “You moved into the capital recently?” Dariel asks. “That’s rare, especially in these times unless you’re a knight recruit. The process must have been quite the slog.”

  “On the contrary, I found it rather simple. Very simple indeed.”

  There is an eerie charisma about the man. His polite speech, his charming voice, and the manner in which he carries himself are all to bring about a deceitful solace. The Knight harbors not a doubt; it can recognize a fellow swindler. But this one’s purpose is far beyond the likes of mere manipulation. No, his facade denotes a more degenerate cause.

  “But I’m afraid I do must take offense over your prior statement,” he continues. “For why must a simple question be labeled as dangerous?”

  “Um,” Dariel stammers, struggling to refute the man’s rebuttal. “Well, it’s rather inciteful, don’t you think?”

  “How so?”

  “It encourages unrest. Our nation is one dedicated to her word. Our beliefs, our values, our traditions… to question that devotion is to shake the very foundation of our identity, not to mention blatant heresy as well. If the Mother truly has abandoned us, then why grant the gift of Creation to the world? Why can we still use her power? Frankly, I find it hard to believe how anyone could be a nonbeliever with such clear evidence of her Will around us.”

  The man cackles before Dariel’s firm assertion and feigns wiping a tear off his expressionless mask. “I believe you are confused. Why, I am an adherent of Cosmos as well. None are as devout as me, or so I tout. But there is a difference between blind obsession and an inquisitive faith.”

  “Blind obsession?”

  “Indeed,” he says with a snap of his finger. “You claim to understand the Mother. You think yourself knowledgeable of her wish, but is that truly the case? History is fickle; who is to say the words of one are not the twisted lies of another? It is our duty as her children to question the world around us, to decipher the truth hidden beneath, and yet you run around spouting doctrines not of your own. Have you ever sought to understand why the common faith is the way it is?”

  “N-no—”

  “No. You merely believed; you failed to know. What is that called, if not blind obsession?”

  Dariel doesn’t say a word. He remains quiet, face downcast as he attempts to hold back a trembling fist.

  “I, on the other hand, choose to think differently,” he continues, voice rising high with a fervor of a mad zealot. “I looked at the world, I looked at the skies above, and I witnessed a different purpose for us. I saw the suffering in this world, the love, darkness, hate, joy, and back then when I was but young and ignorant, I cursed this existence for what it was: colorless. Bland. A miserable, rotting pile of filth and decay. Everything was monotonous, stretching endlessly as the people sunk further and further into their hopelessness. And yet, despite it all, Cosmos remained far out of reach. She continued to watch us fester.

  “One day however, I finally understood why we needed to endure such hardship, and it was then I was truly reborn. Amidst a field of bloom and torture, enlightenment came to me. It is my own realization, a unique duty of my own. And so it is that I seek others to fulfill my sacred destiny.”

  Dariel looked confused and rubbed his head. “What are you talking about—”

  “You do not need to understand,” he interrupts, leaping from his seat and smothering Dariel’s mouth with his palm. “My question was not directed at you. It was never meant for you. No, the answer I desire is from your companion—the one immersed in an endless abyss of ink. You… tell me. Why do you think Cosmos has abandoned us?”

  The man is dangerous. Not in might, not in power, but in his way of thought. If left alone, he will one day bring about terror. His beliefs will infect the masses, and so it is they will contribute to the spread of chaos. Even so, the Knight is a bit curious: What shall happen if it feeds into his craze? It is not easy to break away from the common belief. Perhaps it shall grant him a small piece of the truth.

  “Rather than ponder over why she has left,” it says to him. “You should ask whether she is still here. If she has ever departed in the first place.”

  He freezes, scarlet eye lit ablaze, and suddenly latches onto the Knight’s arm.

  “Ah,” he whispers. “Truly, you are the masterpiece I’ve been searching for.”

  Dariel is utterly baffled by his behavior. He attempts to drag the man away, but it is useless. He latches firm, desperate, and with a strength unbefitting of his gangly structure.

  “Ugh, you’re really being quite disrespectful now,” the officer grunts. “If you don’t stop this, then I am afraid I’ll have to resort to forceful measures—”

  “It is okay, Dariel,” the Knight says with a raise of its free hand. “Actually, I would appreciate it if you could take your leave first.”

  “What? Are you sure about this?”

  “I will handle it. Trust me, you know who I am.”

  “But—”

  “Dariel,” it asserts. “Please, this is for your own good.”

  He sighs, concern still evident on his face, but eventually gives in and begins walking away with slow, hesitant steps. “I don’t know what you plan to do, but… be careful. If there’s anything you need, the nearest guard outpost is only a corner away.”

  “Thank you. Have a good evening, Dariel.”

  And with that, he is gone, leaving only the Knight and the masked man alone in the booth.

  “Now then,” it says, voice no longer attempting to maintain a friendly tone. “It is time to reveal your true intentions.”

  He chuckles. “Why, I have but one desire. A small wish, really.”

  “Get to the point.”

  “Very well. All I ask is for you to come grace my humble boutique with your presence. I promise it shall be an experience to remember.”