If you are conscious enough, to be able to see without your eyes, of every living paste of your skin, then you have the power to control every single one of them.
When the moon rose upon the castle's towers, Sikir returned to the expansive library of Faudwick. Candle wicks lit, the mages still awake in their pursuit of knowledge and cleansing, quietly shuffling between grimoires and tomes.
People weren't to be relied upon consistently. They were of use when the time comes, but ultimately, they would get in her way. Edfallas didn't listen to her, only finding to stab her back with his proper and right knowledge. He didn't see, he couldn't see it. That thing wrapping around the queen.
And with the presence of the king still here within Faudwick, a foul scent wafting off from his entire being, Sikir had no time to consider explaining it to other people who would most definitely cast doubt upon her first before believing her words. They'd just go report it to the queen, and who knows what else would happen?
When there was still sunlight, Sikir took a moment to reconcile with her thoughts. The established information was that the king had been replaced with another person through some means of soul manipulation. This fake known as "Leah" ran off and escaped this world through the Lake of Disparity with a rite of returning a hero home.
Sikir shoved a stack of books aside before placing new ones in their place, some of the tomes slid off the table and fell over each other. Some of the aspiring scholars who were peacefully sorting out the rune literature flinched. The assassin had hogged about thirty percent of the library's property to her table.
They were unsure of how to react, and any attempt to approach her would result in an iron feather dagger thrown at them, puncturing the wooden shelves or a book they had confirmed as safe. The biggest sin for magical historians like them; the destruction of any valuable recorded literature.
As the scholars whispered amongst each other, Sikir continued to flip through each page of the new stack of tomes she had just picked from another shelf. Any title that would seem to be connected to her interest, any book that exuded this strange feeling of exaltedness and fear. She'd go through them, the knowledge that she'd flick, the people who would wince, and the frustration she'd have when it all resulted in nothing.
Something as intricate as a power to manipulate the soul in some way would obviously be sensitive information. Because that was exactly what 'Dyr' was. The soul will usually manifest itself as a deeply rooted tree, leaves that are attached to each pale white branch replaying the memories one would have. The moment they wither, that memory would be forgotten.
It's no shock that she found close to nothing in the tomes that the mages have filtered. Any knowledge to uproot oneself was contraband, something like replacing someone with another person would be even more so. That power would most definitely be removed for the safety of everyone.
Sikir closed another book and shoved it aside once again, the candle stand next to her tipping over and falling over until another hand caught it.
"When it was reported to me someone was ransacking the great archives, I was not expecting thee, Flint." The gruff and scornful voice, ever so familiar from the rest of the people she'd have most likely offended.
"None of thine matter to careth, Nadrak." Sikir stood up, not even bothering to face the imposingly taller man next to her. His hands were large, enough to wrap around her entire head and strong enough to carry her with one arm. Could even crush the bones in Sikir's body if he ever wished it.
Even when night fell, he still wore his gallant suit of armour made of durable metal. Covered from head to toe, usually with the image of him with a three-meter shield to protect him and everyone behind him. A walking iron giant, some would say.
And that was who Nadrak the Bull was, Captain of the Sable Knights. A forthright paragon, loyal to the cause, and one who believed sorcery should be beyond human touch. Sikir knew that he never liked being in the library in the first place, so his appearance was slightly odd to her. His footsteps would also warrant some weight to them, what with the heavy set of armour he was wearing.
"Don't meagerly walk away, Flint." He called. "Clean up the mess thou hath created. Pity not the maids and scholars who must compensate for this?"
"First thou'st ever considered literature of any worth. Has that small head of yours finally come to accept tomes?" She still didn't bother to turn. There'd be no significance in such an act. She'd just be staring at a literal living suit of armour, one yapping suit of armour.
"I could speak of the same words. Thou hath never cared for such a thing either." Nadrak carefully hovered his hand over the book that Sikir had closed. He didn't dare touch it. Witchcraft, he'd spout to it, turning humans into something inhuman. Something feral, like the thing in front of him.
"What I do is none of thine business. Return from whence you came, I've no interest to mingle with your kind."
Telling Nadrak of her situation would be utterly pointless. Nadrak was one of the queen's dogs, the "Sable Knights" was Kyriaki's idea in the first place. It was rather ironic for the captain of an order of knights, created by a blind witch, to be phobic of magic itself.
And the blind witch herself, the queen whom Sikir doubted, is the last person that Sikir wants to know about Azra Faudwick's replacement. She can sleep with that clone all she wants, she doesn't care at all.
"My kind?" From behind the helmet, he squinted. "You dare speak ill of us when the same 'kind' brought you kindness and compatriots? Have there been no thoughts of our sacrifices? Of all the problems thou hast caused?"
Her feet shuffled around, eyes staring directly through the visor of the helmet.
"Don't lump thou'st sacrifices with me. Thee works of ambition to serve thine own purpose, thee has murdered my elk no different than the scrappy hunters, all of thee lack as much of a heart."
"They were… necessary."
"Ah, please, don't lie and meagerly say that thou find pleasure spilling blood as much as I have. It's a way of life. Hatred is a universal factor, Nadrak. Sacrifices? For thee, and thee only." The assassin spat.
Sikir the Flint, never liked humans. She would conversate, and she would hate. May it be justified or not. The loop of anger and the refusal to understand how others perceive.
"Then, explain why you follow His Majesty? Why heed Azra Faudwick?"
Her eyes shifted into a quiet stare for a moment before they puffed up into a manic look. She was smiling, grinning ear to ear, holding back the dry air that was disguising itself as laughter.
"Why? Why so I follow Azra Faudwick?" Odd tears piling up between her cold eyes. Because he was the sun to her shadow, the light to create her. The words that he said to her on that day, how much they meant, how much they changed, how true they rang inside her ear until today.
Her curled lips spoke.
"It's because he is the messiah, you stupid, stupid man. He's not human, unlike your kind. That's why I follow His Majesty. Because what he knows, is beyond your comprehension."