The Colossal Horror was headed towards Rizadon.

Of this fact Aidan could say with near-absolute certainty. While not inherently a person to be content with being confined by walls, the king had spent the last couple of hours poring over books and notes. The conference chamber of the Faolahn's abode had been converted into his personal study, a large map of the continent unfurled across the wide circular table. A multitude of colorful pins were stuck onto the map, embedded deep into the ebony surface due to the force Aidan stabbed them with. They marked the path which the Colossal Horror seemed to have taken, from the very first report of its sighting to its latest destruction of Yhlifa.

Lines had formed between his brows. His chin sunk low as he skimmed through a massive tome, turning the crisp pages delicately with his calloused fingers. The paper was yellowed by age and frizzed towards the edges. Yet despite the sheer volume of his resources, Aidan was no closer to unraveling the mystery of their conundrum.

History had a way of repeating itself, often in an uncanny fashion. As such, Aidan attempted to seek counsel from records of the past, to no avail. The Colossal Horror was a near-unprecedented situation. He'd found recounts of strange monsters that emerged from the Mist, from the attack on the aerhyan shores a mere decade ago to the legend of the three-headed Devil that appeared during the World's End itself. Legends often had roots in reality; now with the confirmed existence of the Colossal Horror, Aidan was very much inclined to believe the existence of such a gigantic monster in another era.

Aidan shut the book with a heavy sigh, shoving it aside. His eyes, wearied from the strain of reading fine print for hours, rose towards the ceiling. He locked sights with the glassy, dark orbs of the mounted swine head. Its stare was one of disapproval, its snout wrinkled in dismay at his fruitless endeavors. Aidan glared at it with a small scowl.

"To hell with you, too," he grumbled.

"Were you talking to the pig, Your Highness?"

The king jolted in his seat, quickly whipping his head round to look at the newcomer. Jonathan the Hound was standing in the doorway, arms crossed in front of his sturdy chest. Aidan had not heard him enter the room, which was odd, considering the heavy groaning of the oaken doors' hinges. Jonathan paused at the entrance of the door. His round brown eyes seized up his appearance in their quick, scrutinizing way, seeming to penetrate deep beyond Aidan's physical features straight into his mind.

He knew that Jonathan was a good man, but his seemingly clairvoyant eyes unnerved Aidan in more than one occasion. He held his breath in silent anticipation, wondering what words would tumble out next from the Shield. The half-calaian's eyebrows had gradually sunk closer towards his eyes, pressing the folds of his lids downwards.

"You've been here for hours, my King," he said, concerned. "You are very much not the type to be sedentary. It would do you some good, to go outside and get some fresh air."

"I'm fine," was Aidan's automatic reply. Jonathan was right, of course. At heart, Aidan was a warrior, not a scholar. He could not stomach the monotony of literature studies for long periods of time, and his legs were already itching for release. Again, it was beyond him how uncanny Jonathan's intuition for people was.

Jonathan pursed his lips. "You were talking to a dead decapitated pig."

"It was disparaging me."

"You're most certainly not fine."

Jonathan made his way to the table, casting his gaze down towards the map on the table. An index finger found its way onto one of the marker's heads. Pressing the tack's colored head with both his thumb and index finger, he attempted to pull it out. It was lodged so deeply into the wooden surface that it proved to be a much harder challenge than anticipated.

He finally gave a tut.

"If you weren't the king, Lady Catriona would have you tried for assaulting her table."

Aidan's lip curled into a bemused smirk, the point of an invisible feather tickling closely at his chest. Jonathan had delivered that with perfect stoicism, his voice completely deadpan and his face carved out of stone.

"She might have me tried for it regardless of the fact that I'm the king," he replied.

Jonathan shrugged. "Then it would not be a fair trial, as the word of the king is absolute."

Aidan chuckled, but the words of the Shield rang a bell of truth. His words became the law the moment the crown touched his head during his birthday. But was he really fit for this?

He realized that he was barely a man, and yet the fate of a lot of people now rested upon his hands. With one word, he could send them to their deaths. With one mistake, he could cause his nation to slip into ruin. An entire nation hinged on the decisions of a boy who'd just turned a man only weeks ago. That mere truth was daunting, and one that Aidan thought he was not prepared for.

In the momentary silence, Jonathan approached the king in his seat, as if he'd sensed the inner turmoil that had brewed within Aidan in his strange way.

"Your Highness," he spoke, dipping his head slightly. "You know there is a reason you have a Sword and a Shield. You do not have to shoulder the burden of everything."

Aidan met the gentle, knowing eyes of the half-calaian. Throughout his life, he'd encountered far too many men with steel in their muscles, yet rare was the person with a heart as tender as his Shield's. He found himself nodding slowly, shedding the pride he'd put up as a facade. A low sigh was pushed past his lips as he drew himself up to his full height.

"You may be right. Perhaps some fresh air would do me some good."

Aidan clapped Jonathan on the shoulder, before leaving the gloomy chamber. He walked through the winding corridors of the fortress with an eagerness to flee from the stone-walled coop. His body sang with relief as the lingering warmth of the sun caressed his skin. The sun was already receding past the horizon, bathing the sky in a flare of orange with its last dying rays.

People believed that the celestial ball of light was the body of the primordial goddess Solaith, who'd died in her fateful fight with her brother Lucanor- or according to the faeries, fell into a comatose state. Whenever the sun set, it was said to mirror the way she'd fallen- fiercely clinging to her ideals until the very end. The tale of Solaith and Lucanor was a tragic one indeed: two siblings fighting to prevent the end of the world foreseen by their sister Yildeza, only to have both of their demise be the catalyst of the world's. Both had the same goal, yet their different approach had caused them to clash.

Does this not reflect us? Aidan thought, morosely. All of them wanted to prevent the apocalyptic Colossal Horror from wiping them out, yet each wanted to look out for their own people. Thus, like the case of Yhlifa and Coven, they fought. They fought each other for their rights. Would all of us, in the end, meet the same end as Solaith and Lucanor?

Glein was a tranquil place when not wracked with riots. The Faolahns' temporary solution had been to separate the refugees from the residents, setting aside areas for their encampments. It was an effective solution for the short term, but Aidan knew that it would not last very long.

He found himself walking straight into the Coven's little camp, which was a small settlement of tents. The people glanced towards him as he walked past, some furtive and others more discreet. They all had the same wariness in their eyes, as if Aidan was an alien amongst them. It was something that Aidan was not used to. All his life, he was used to people looking at him with reverence and awe. Despite this, he could not particularly fault them for feeling the way they felt.

After all, they were looking at the man- no, the boy who held their fate in his clumsy hands.

"Your Grace! What a lovely surprise!"

He turned to find Eleanora behind him. She wore a smile on her dainty rose red lips, her face glowing with a radiant beauty in spite of the darkening sky. Even then, Aidan could not decide how old Eleanora was. She looked like a woman in her thirties or her forties, but her skin was as flawless as a newborn's. Her eyes twinkled with the energy of a teenager's, yet an elderly melancholy swam behind them. He dipped his head politely, but did not return her smile.

"What brings you to our camp?" she inquired.

"I only wanted to check on how things are going."

"Then, would you do me the honor of allowing me to show you around?"

Aidan nodded. He thought that he could appreciate the company, and certainly learn more about the people of the Coven. Eleanora stepped up to his side. They began to make their way through the camp.

The young king marveled silently at how vastly different the people of Coven were from his own subjects. Things that the people of Althewyn would consider supernatural and only achievable by Runecraft were everyday routines. Aidan observed people lighting fire and weaving water into shapes with their bare hands.

"Do you know how magic works for us, the people of Coven?" asked Eleanora. Aidan shook his head.

"Our kind is a fascinating one indeed," she went on. "Thierans are, by far, the most unimpressive of the nine races of Jordarys. We do not live as long as the yildeans and aerhyans, nor are we attuned to magic like all the other races. We cannot change our form the way the calaians do, and we do not even repopulate as rapidly as the rodents. Yet, I dare say we are the most malleable of all the races. Our bodies can do extraordinary things when pushed past its limits. That's how we, people of Coven, attune ourselves to magic when others could not. We push ourselves to the limit and break through."

Eleanora paused in her tracks and glanced to the side. Following her line of sight, Aidan watched Yves sitting in front of one of the tents. He was gently holding the wing of a crane within his fingers, stretching it outwards to reveal the burnt feathers that limply hung from it. A pile of clothes were folded to the side of the crane. Aidan surmised that the bird was Cerise: she was, after all, an ornith calaian. Yves's other palm glowed with a vibrant green aura, like the color of life itself.

A shadow of sadness passed over Eleanora's face. "Magic is rewarding, but they do not come without sacrifices. Some are willing to pay a much larger price than necessary."

"Why?" asked Aidan, keeping his eyes on Yves and Cerise. The witch shrugged.

"Some do it for love, others for power or other reasons. Depends on who you're talking to."

"No, why are you telling me all this?"

A chuckle slipped out of her throat as she turned her head to the taller king. "To remind you that we, too, are thierans. Horrible misconceptions may have been spread about us. The minds of people are so easily biased."

Aidan held his stoic gaze. "I like to think of myself as an objective man, Lady Eleanora."

"Oh, I've no doubt about that, Your Grace. But people are rarely so infallible. Forgive me if I might have unintentionally came off as rude."

"No, it's fine. I probably needed to hear that."

Eleanora smiled once more, but it only ended at her lips. "I do not envy you, King Aidan," she said. "You have a tough decision to make. I should never hope to be in your position."

She paused, letting the silence drag on as she turned away from Yves and resumed walking. Aidan followed her pace, walking side-by-side with the witch. His lips were pursed. He knew that it all conversations with these people would sooner or later come down to this- to the dilemma at hand. He realized that the woman was probably trying to sway him to her cause, but there was an inkling of truth to her words.

"Your father is a kind man, King Aidan. I see the same compassion within you," she finally continued, shattering the silence. "Say, would you take some advice from an old woman?"

When Aidan nodded his head reluctantly, she went on, "You're pressed by time and conflicted on picking your choices. To help you, I would tell you one thing: listen. A good king listens to the counsel of his advisors, the aspirations of his subjects, and the whispering of his conscience. Listen to the people around you and yourself."

Aidan nodded slowly, allowing her words to leave its mark upon the slate of his mind. Before he could thank her for her advice, a loud bang drew both of their attention to a tent. Yellow puffs of smoke snaked out of the tent's flap, accompanied by the hysterical shrieking of children. Eleanora visibly winced at the sight, shaking her head with a low groan.

"Ack, Morgana's at it again," she grumbled. The witch flashed Aidan an apologetic grin. "My apologies, but I should tend to my children and see what sort of mischief they have managed to cook up."

She bowed towards the king, before rushing towards the smoking tent. However, she suddenly paused midway and pivoted her head back to face Aidan.

"Please think long and hard about your decision, Your Grace. People are counting on you."

With that, Eleanora left Aidan back to his troubled mind.

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Chapter Writer: VeryBigMess

AN: TWO. WEEKS. For two weeks, I have struggled with writer's block and health issues induced by school. I can't help but feel that forcing this chapter out made it subpar in quality, and it sort of bugs me how redundant it is to the advancement of the plot (albeit it does offer some character building and lore tidbits...). Yet I do feel that if I kept overthinking on whether or not I should post this chapter, I would end up never advancing the story and THAT is something I'd want to avoid at all costs. Please leave any comments and criticisms you might have!