He was glad she died.

At least he didn't have to worry about her anymore. The thought oddly reassured him, despite the sore grip of the two men's hands on his arms. He swore he'd never let another person touch him again, yet here he was now. He immediately went back to the horrifying presumption of being returned to the Wren House. But no, he wasn't going to let his mind return there this time. He needed to be someone other than someone's captive.

As he jerked his arms free, the two men swiftly shifted their grip to his back, urging him forward as they walked into the passage, seemingly wary that he might attempt to make a run at any moment. He had no idea where the passage ended or who it'd lead to, nor was he looking forward to finding out. He'd met enough strangers to know to keep away from them, but fate kept sending more his way.

Come with us, and we can save you from this disgusting whorehouse they have made you call home.

These were the words that pushed him to follow the two regally dressed strangers. Now his entire body felt the unease of his mind. Every man that spoke to him had assured him of help, only for him to find out that it was a lie.

Anyone can lie, but he'd never know who would.

We are Serets, and our promises are made true. Trust us and you will fear no more.

His mother trusted the wrong people, and now she is buried in the soil stained with the blood of a thousand martyrs.

"Trust us, and you will fear no more," they said, but he was afraid anyway. Treading on an unknown country, on foreign lands where the soil was brown and not red like he knew from home, he could be taken to be sold into another Wren House. No, he wanted to trust them. He needed to trust the Serets, not fear.

Their steps accelerated. The ground felt harder to walk on. The gold light touched his skin first, from brilliant giant torches affixed to the walls flanking the long hall. His gaze had met the broad open door in front and the uniformed men ranked by its sides. The serets didn't spare any moment for him to take a longer look at their half-enveloped faces, their unwavering attention remaining straight and nowhere else.

They descended quickly down a flight of stairs shrouded in darkness, and yet another narrower passageway, then halted when they met a metal door, framing a series of spires and rods interconnected like an intricate mechanical gate.

Two hands appeared in front and covered his eyes, blinding him softly from the world. There was silence, coarse and grating. Then were the sounds of metal against metal, soft, sometimes ticking like a rapid clock, and then a harsh-pitched sound. This is a prison, after all, he thought. Was he going to be locked in this place, whatever it may be?

He heard a giggle from the Seret behind him. Clearly, they didn't want him to see how a door should be opened. When he had scanned the attire of the two men beside him before he left the Wren House, the only noticeable accessory on them was a gilded belt around their waist, with a feather hanging on the side, but no sign of a key. Perhaps it was a great gate, not unlocked by a key but a different mechanism, one significant enough that can only be entrusted to certain persons of authority. But who? Who was supposed to be behind that door? The impatience was stinging him.

There was a swish and eventually a sound as though it came from a horn. The door screeched as it opened, and he was allowed to see again. He squinted; the light from the room here was much more intense. The Seret nudged him forward, and they entered a grand foyer.

The gigantic pillars were the first he noticed, geometric carvings wrapping straight around the curves of each monolith that touched the roof. An archway opened to another chamber in front, and a man in robes, tall and bearded entered from it looking stern and troubled, immediately addressing the Seret.

The language was foreign. That meant he had definitely travelled far, but couldn't make a probable guess on how far. Any distance longer than three horsedays could never be managed on foot. He had heard one of the men in the Wren House speak a week ago. He knew of the Kesh in the south, a country scarcely populated but the desert still had its favours to those who were worthy, and that was where he assumed he was taken to. He knew of Ater, the forest that turned denser the deeper you ventured into its country, a land told to be abandoned and feared. He knew more importantly of Qardis and the pleasures of living in the opulent mercantile state.

The robed man bent his head down on him, chin inward, taking a moment of scrutiny. Then he questioned, "Va osmik?"

The boy remained quiet.

The man tried again, "Fos se alen?"

The silence followed again before one of the Serets from the back said, "Hwa Mishkin."

Mishkin. He knew that word. And he wished it didn't mean 'home.' But where was home? Nowhere, now that he'd been taken from what was. But was it ever home? Had he ever had a chance to call any one of the numerous places he'd been forced to and displaced to as home?

The robed man asked again, "Where are you from, child?"

"Kouch." The boy was whimpering.

"We found him from a Wren House," the Seret said.

The robed man made a face as though he saw a ghost. He dropped his eyes on the boy, approaching him closer and studying him thoroughly head to toe. "Are you hurt? How long were you there?"

The boy's eyes watered. "I-I'm not sure. They took me in a month ago. My brother went missing and I ..." He stopped, realizing. By now he must've learnt to keep everything secret, even from the parts of himself he couldn't trust anymore, the part of himself that was talking right now.

"Why were you there?"

"I didn't have a choice," he sobbed. "A man came..."

"Your brother? Where is he?"

The Seret told quietly, "No sign of family remaining."

The boy felt the tension in the room growing, and the man's face was a clear indication. But then he resumed talking back in the foreign language, and he stood there between them, clueless about the conversation.

Why speak in another language as soon as his brother came up? Why talk about him at all? What were they intending to do with him? The kindest faces you see are not always the kindest. His mother's words echoed in his head. She had left him nothing but her words and caution in this cruel world they lived in.

The robed man looked like he was in charge of whatever this place was, this place that looked like the insides of a large cave. His dress spoke of authority, and he didn't need to know more. Men, he noticed, moderately dressed, who he assumed must be servants walked in and out of the several doors in the room, glimpsing at them as they passed. Some lingered long enough to stare at him and the terror inside him sparked again.

Horrible men and women stared at me there. Horrible men and women touched me there.

He looked around. Mishk didn't have an intricate architecture different as this one. But if he was away from Mishk, he was away from the Wren House too, and that brewed more thoughts.

He was only a boy at their stomach's height, thin and frail, but he knew he was fast. All those days where his only memory of them were running with his brother, and he realized he could run.

Slowly, he began shuffling away from between them while their conversation seemed to turn more augmentative. The metal door behind was open. The room was too loud for second thoughts, and before he knew it, he made a sprint to the door.

"SUKH HA!" the boy heard the robed man yell.

The ground he ran on thundered. How senseless of them to disallow him watch a door be opened, only to leave it that way for him to run through. However the Serets were gaining on him. But he was a boy and not an old man, and he urged his legs to run even faster.

He went through the broad open door, not sparing any moment to look behind at the stationary soldiers and their unnatural stares at the walls ahead. But he couldn't tell if they were really there. They must have moved away somewhere else or simply taken hiding within the walls. He was quick for assumptions. A Seret remained back cursing by himself while the other continued chasing him. He felt his steps gaining on him. He wasn't fast enough.

The tunnels were a challenge. But they weren't a maze, however. The floor was rocky and one of his sandals tore off its strap. The dim light from within faded the further he ran out. But any pain his feet endured right now was only a fraction of what his entire body had been through for weeks before this.

He could see the first glimpses of light creeping into the hollowed mountain. Any thoughts of what he'd do if he escaped this house of captivity was reserved until he had saved himself from any human sight. He recognized the path he was taken on inside. In the distance was the tall wide crevice, white and pale, open and waiting for him to see the light of dawn. The dunes were pale blue, poorly reflecting the colour of the sky. He spun his eyes round, trying to settle on a direction to run towards, but damn this, he was going to run straight as far as his legs could carry him. When fear got over you, the fear controlled you from then onwards.

"Stop, do not run!"

He didn't listen. It was hard to. He did what he shouldn't have done. The voices in his head argued, louder with wide step he took, and he listened to none but to his own heartbeat, encouraging his feet to match the pace at which it kept beating. His feet sank a depth with each step he hiked, even using his hands to crawl his way to the top of the dune. One of his feet had sunken deep enough for the other to pull him down into the sand, and he rolled all the way to the bottom.

The Seret called him again, shouting for him to come back. He almost sounded distressed this time. Aden wasn't sure what to make of it.

People lie.

That was all he told himself. He put every effort as he strode off on the sand, trying to navigate a less-steep path at the same time. But that was when he felt the vibrations. The soft ripples of the sand began to shift around him, as if the dunes were going to move.

His mind burdened him with a thousand doubts. He had stopped. The Seret was going to catch up to him. Was this mild tremor a risk he was going to take to escape from a couple of men? The entire series of events today had been nothing but an unfolding conundrum, randomly hitting him on an indiscriminate day.

More questions followed now that his head allowed the reserved skepticism to run through. Where will he go? Did he have money? How long was it since he ate? Where was the nearest town? Can he make it by himself? Or was this all just an illusion? A dream? A vision his heart had begged his mind to craft for him in his sleep in the desperation of breaking free from the Wren House? The latter seemed to make more sense.

This was all but a dream, he thought. He could be a dreamer, but that was the least of his worries. Travelling unconscious for who knows how many days, and now he was struggling to find a way out of the desert. He would never go back to Mishk, not after what he had seen of it and endured of it. He needed refuge, somewhere safe. He needed to trust someone. Someone who wouldn't dare think of touching him. He needed the warm lap of his mother again. But she was beneath the rubble.

The tremor had died. His arms were raised on his sides as he studied the ground beneath him. Then he detected movement. From scattered parts around him, figures rose, sand flowing down like liquid as they emerged from the dune's surface. Aden's heart hadn't tired of beating, and now they were rapid, drilling against him chest.

The figures wore cloaks, light airy fabric wrapped around their bodies and face, beige like the desert and freely flowing in the soft wind while the eyes and hands were left unconcealed. They were like phantoms that were born from sand and took the form of ghosts. Desert spirits, maybe?

The boy stepped back and they stepped closer, their hands slowly shifting backwards as they pulled out S-shaped knives from their back. Aden's chest tightened. Other than the wailing wind, the silence informed of death.

I shouldn't have run. I SHOULDN'T HAVE RUN!

An armed ghost in front raised his elbow, aiming to shoot the blade right through him. The figure's eyes were ghostly silver; the moon does pick sides, he thought. But he was quick on making a scheme. This wasn't the night he was going to be captured again. Fighting against his fear, he anticipated how he'd be attacked. He was going to dive down when the knife came for him. He would be able do nothing but evade them. He observed if the others were doing the same, pulling out there weapons at him. Just as his eyes swerved from one ghost to another, around him, the sound of a knife sliced through the air. He cried as he ducked down. Incontinently it was the sound of metal tearing through flesh.

The boy unfolded his arms shielding his body. He unfolded his eyes and watched the figure that was about to attack him fall to his knees with a long feather impaled into his chest. Before he could even gasp, his arm was jerked back.

A Seret gripped him tight with one arm, and the other directed toward the body lying on the ground. The boy dared to look back up, to catch the terrified expression of his saviour's face. Although it wasn't the Seret, but the robed man who had spoken to him earlier, sweat dripping from his jaws and panic swimming in his eyes.

The boy understood now.

"I told you not to run!" he whispered harshly.

His eyes couldn't hold the tears no more. His chest began drilling again. He'd watched the figure die, and now its friends spun their heads at them, nearing ever so slowly, stalking, heads bent and knives drawn.

"A Seret is waiting by the entrance."

The boy cautiously listened to every word he said. This was the first time he was saved from someone who needed to hurt him. Or something.

"When I push you, run and don't look back. Understood?"

His mouth quivered. "Yes."

Both of them stepped back one at a time, keeping watch at each of the ghostly figure's faces as they neared the summit of the high dune he rolled down on. The figures were stalking up on them, unbothered about their dead accomplice.

The robed man brought a hand to the boy's chest, and gently pulled him back. Then he pushed.

The boy heard the sounds of knives piercing through through flesh once again as he rolled down for the second time. He fell lying on his stomach, spitting sand. Two hands clutched his arms and pulled him on his feet.

"Does trust us mean 'run away' to you?" The Seret cursed as he ran inside the crack of the mountain with the boy.

He couldn't feel anything but a pounding heart for the robed man who risked his life for his own. No, he wanted to believe he was alive and that he saved himself from those men. He must have. He had been taken inside too soon to glance back. But would he ever know? Would these men of this world that hid numerous secrets tell him anything? No, it had always been for him to find the answers on his own. It was always up to him to find anything that was lost. For him it meant to fight for the justice the world deserved that he could only picture in his mind. And when he did fight, a price always came.

He knew nothing but pain and torment, and to see the light of kindness had turned more into a myth every day. Perhaps the land was greener somewhere else, or perhaps a greener land was yet to come. But who would sow it? How did stories of tranquil pastures and the warmth of love exist if only war and bloodshed was the familiarity people knew. It had existed before, and it could again, he believed. Surely his mother hadn't been feeding him lies, but he remembered that every word she spoke, she meant from hope and truth, from the only heart bright enough that never meant him harm. He'd pray for her, but he lost his faith ever since he saw her blood on his hands. Who would he seek help from after the very Sentries they venerated disappeared one by one? Who did he even have in this world anymore? His hands would be the only companions he could trust. Anyone else, was a liar or would turn to be a liar. His brother trusted a liar, and him walking amidst some clandestine people had become the ultimate aftermath.

He couldn't help but realise every person that cared for him, only wasted away sooner or later. He couldn't allow anyone to bridge an affinity with him. He didn't want any more death to follow.

Although he learned an important lesson that day.

The world is death. Anyone who defies death will never see themselves to live long. Anyone who thinks they are safe, death is coming for them.

And death just reminded him today that it was always near, waiting for it to pounce at any wrong move. This was indeed a lesson, one that he'd have to learn to accept the questions are never answered immediately. And if he wanted to stay alive, he'd have to learn to outsmart death itself.

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"And so, the story unfolds..."

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