Benedict reached into his left pocket, withdrawing a toothpick and a vial containing a sanguine powder. He set both items carefully on the cobblestones, their surfaces gleaming under the moonlight.
He exhaled heavily, the sound carrying a note of weariness. With deliberate care, he twisted the cork loose.
As the bottle opened, a cloud of fine, crimson dust swirled into the air, releasing an intoxicating blend of citrus and pine that filled the night with an almost tangible aroma.
Holding the toothpick at eye level, he placed the vial under his beaked mask and inhaled the compound briefly. The motion was methodical, almost ritualistic.
Was he using Mistomancy?
Before Sinclair, I had only seen the sorcery once—from a Sparrow on the battlefield. Sparrows weren't rare in combat; it was standard for officers to be either Sparrows or Finches, each with their unique abilities.
Observing the Crow now, I noticed a common theme between the two archetypes—they both inhaled a substance to fuel their powers.
However, Sparrow Mistomancy was unique. It didn't bend the laws of nature but rather worked internally, manipulating the very essence of the user.
From what I recall, the Sparrow I had seen also used a vial. But instead of a red powder, it held an auburn hue.
My nose twitched as the floral scent enveloped the air, mingling with the lingering notes of citrus and pine. It was a heady mix, disorienting yet oddly calming.
Eyes fixed on Benedict, I watched as he placed the glass bottle on the ground and held the toothpick with a firm grip. Energy seemed to surge to my fingers, the air growing dense and charged with an unseen force.
The sensation felt eerily similar to my first encounter with Otto, except this time it was more of a whisper than a punch—a subtle, insidious power.
A thin, inky tendril unfurled from Benedict's nostrils, a sinuous ribbon of darkness that stretched toward its target. It moved with a life of its own, curling and twisting in the air.
With uncanny precision, it wrapped around the toothpick in a silent, lethal embrace. A sharp crack echoed through the night as the toothpick splintered in two under the unseen force.
My face contorted in confusion as I looked back at the masked sorcerer in utter shock.
The broken pieces bounced against the stone ground—the masked mute then shoved them into my hand with a rough, demanding gesture.
I looked up at Benedict, only to receive a sharp slap across the cheek.
What—
The sting radiated across my skin, leaving a burning sensation and a gnarly scent that lingered in the air. The suddenness of the slap had caught me off guard.
My hand instinctively rose to my cheek, feeling the heat and sting of the slap. My eyes widened in shock, a mix of anger and confusion flashing across my face. The unflinching crimson eyes of the Crow only infuriated me further.
Slap.
Another slap echoed sharply through the air, a sudden, jarring crack that broke the shocked silence.
"Grhh…" the brute growled, his pupil dilating as he pointed at the toothpick halves within my grasp.
What did he want?
After looking down at the broken pieces, my eyes rose upward—only to receive yet another slap. The pattern was maddening, a relentless cycle of pain and confusion.
Without warning, the cloaked barbarian seized the toothpick remains and held them a few inches from my eyes. His movements were precise, almost mechanical.
Was this what he wanted?
Questions flooded my mind as Benedict thrust the toothpick into my hand once more. Following his nonverbal instruction, I raised my hand—toothpick in hand, centimeters from my eyes.
"Grhh," Benedict released another growl, seemingly of affirmation. The sound rumbled through the night air, carrying an odd sense of approval.
What was supposed to happen now?
I lifted my gaze in expectancy for the next command. But none came—instead, a stern hand connected with my cheek again, the slap echoing in the stillness.
A minute turned into ten, as ten turned into an hour, an hour—into three. Under Benedict's unyielding supervision, I learned one rule: never, under any circumstance, remove my attention from the toothpick…
"Is he done for today?" a grizzled voice punctured the courtyard's stillness. My neck twitched in apprehension, and I released a heavy gasp of air—noting that I had almost been lured by the stimuli.
"Grhh…" the monster's growl stretched longer than usual as he began picking the assortment of items from the ground. Each movement was methodical and precise.
"Splendid," Otto continued. "On to the next, I suppose."
Next?
Otto's gentle voice cut through my focus, startling me from my trance.
I avoided the masked killer's gaze, setting the toothpick fragments down with a clatter before hurrying toward Otto. Anything had to be better than enduring more of that monster's training… or so I hoped.
"Don't worry," Otto's voice was calm, almost soothing. "We'll wrap up the day with something lighter."
The blind man spoke with a tone that should have been reassuring, but his slight grin only deepened my unease.
His dark robe fluttered as he moved, revealing a hint of the intricate patterns woven into the fabric. He glided smoothly across the cobblestones to the fire and drew a blazing plank from it.
Why did he need a torch? The sun still blazed high in the sky.
I followed Otto toward the southern corridor. A gnawing sense of dread grew as I realized—we were heading inside.
My hands grew clammy, my heart thundered in my chest, and the cold ground seemed to sap the warmth from my feet.
This is it.
A shiver ran up my arm as Otto's previous warnings echoed in my mind. Panic surged, slowing my steps and widening the gap between me and the elder.
"Time is a resource we don't have in abundance," Otto's voice carried a stern edge as he stopped at the corridor's entrance.
I hesitated, my resolve wavering. Otto's irritation was palpable.
"I don't like resorting to force," he said, his tone sharp with annoyance.
Faced with two equally ominous choices, I could only move forward into the hall of death.
With no alternatives, my trembling legs carried me toward the inevitable.
Here we go.
A cold, calculating grin stretched across Otto's lips. "Proceed through the hall, and you'll find a room," he instructed, turning his back to me. "Enter, chop the firewood, and you'll be done. Return, and dinner will be ready."
As he walked away, his words hung in the air, heavy with promise and threat.