The inn that belonged to Judine was small, with only three rooms available and no second story to boast of.
"Heya, Dalt!" Philos smiled widely with a wave as they walked through the entrance.
But the room was empty, silent save for the soft crackle of the fireplace.
"Where's—?" Uri started, looking around as he adjusted his big round glasses.
"He went to the graves," a beautiful blue-eyed young woman said as she entered the room.
"Hey there, darling." Joseph approached her and took her by the hand. "What might your name be?"
Suddenly, a strong force yanked him by his shirt, the great hand of Alphonso pulling him away.
"That's enough, you smelly dog!"
"I'm a..." Joseph started, holding his throat and coughing, "cat, you fat bastard!"
"Please excuse them..." Philos smiled, scratching his head of blondish hair.
"No worries at all," the old woman said kindly. She turned to the young woman. "Kerri," she said. "Go get Dalt while I help our guests get situated.
Kerri nodded, then walked to the door and stopped still at the sight of Sir Smith.
"Mom!" Her deep blue eyes were wide and wild, her face wan. "You brought an Angel into our home?!"
Sir Smith said nothing, his piercing glare shadowed under the light of his halo.
"Don't worry, Miss Kerri!" Uri smiled as he approached the doorway. "Sir Smith is a bit coarse, but he's not evil or anything."
The Angel scowled. I am not coarse, he thought.
"I..." Kerri began, catching her breath, "I'll go find Dalt!"
Sir Smith sighed as he watched her scurry away.
"I'm sorry—" Judine started.
"I'm accustomed," the Angel interrupted with a wave of his hand. "I'll be at the bar for now."
Philos looked at Uri, Joseph, and Alphonso and shrugged as they watched Sir Smith shut the door as he left.
"So, Miss Judine..." Philos said after a moment of awkward silence. "What did Kerri mean when she said that Dalt was 'at the graves?'"
Sudden gloom washed over the old woman's face, her laugh lines sinking to a frown. "It's a sad story, if you want to know," she said. "But it is an important story, I guess. Very well I will tell you something."
Philos watched the old woman intently, her old face growing morose and grim.
"I am not..." She paused. "I am not related to Dalt. I am his godmother. Kerri is my daughter, but Dalt's parents are...not with us anymore."
Uri leaned forward on his chair, his green eyes big behind his large spectacles. "You mean?..."
Judine sighed. "I suppose I will tell you the whole story..."
The night air was stale and the wind was dead, fitting for a graveyard. Dalt sat in front of a small gravestone, his eyes gazing at the inscription without reading it. He didn't have to. He knew what it said; he knew what it meant.
There, carved in the gray stone, were the names of his mother and father.
"Why...?" the words vaguely left his lips and scattered into the air.
He could hear footsteps approaching him. He knew who it was.
"Dalt?" Kerri said as she stood behind him, her voice soft with sympathy.
"I don't care," the young boy said. "I don't wanna talk to those guys! I don't care if you think they saved me! I was better off on my own! I don't need any body...I'm..." his voice began to tremble as tears began to well in his eyes, "I'm all on my own..."
"Dalt..." Kerri said, coming to sit by the young boy.
"I told you I don't care..." he said, this time softer.
"Listen," the young woman said, wrapping her arm around his shoulders and pulling him close. "No one blames you for what happened. You're safe now. We love you!"
"Then why..." Dalt trailed off before beginning again. "Then why do I still feel like it's my fault? Why do I still feel like, if I did better they would still be here?"
"Dalt..."
"I should have never found out about the sword." Kerri could see tears begin to flow from the child's eyes. "If I had just kept my mouth shut, they'd still be—"
"Well, well!" a voice behind them cackled. "Finding you was easy enough, little brat!"
That voice... that voice caused cold fear to freeze Dalt's veins. Slowly his head turned. Behind him stood Fox, a spiked bat in his hands.
"You—" Kerri started.
"Leave, girl." Fox nodded his head, a devious smirk curled upon his lips. "I won't hurt you as long as you don't act stupid." The short man brandished the bat in his hand, waving it forward as he approached Dalt. "It's the boy I want."
Dalt gulped. Under the light of the silver mood above, his eyes met Kerri's. There was fear in her eyes, a mortal terror that he had only seen once before. The fear in those eyes...
...it was the same as his mother's.
"Kerri..." his voice cracked. "Run..."
The bar was still empty. Perhaps people were still afraid; perhaps people thought that the presence of an Angel had now jinxed the meager tavern.
Who was to say?
It didn't matter anyway, or at least not to Sir Smith. Regardless of if it was empty or not, it would clear out once he entered. The fact that it was empty now just saved him the hassle of dealing with the commotion.
Well, the tavern was almost empty. There, sitting at the bar, was one man in armor.
"I wondered when we'd finally meet again," the man said without turning, "Sir Smith."
"You know my name?" Sir Smith said as he sat beside the man. "You don't fear that I am an Angel?"
"I know your name well enough to know that 'Sir Smith' is not your real name, now is it?"
Sir Smith narrowed his eyes, looking the man over. He was large, the air around him frigid. Under the light of the bar, he could see frosty mist escape the man's mouth.
"My name," the other said, chuckling as frost seeped from his mouth, "is Gilliam." He reached into his pocket and pulled out an obsidian medallion, then slid it to the Angel. "Do not worry. I am a friend."
Sir Smith studied it for a moment, noticing the image of a rose that was carved into the ebony stone.
"Why are you here, Black Rose?"
"I should ask you the same thing," Gilliam replied. "But, if you must know, there are a few reasons I'm here—some more important than others. Which would you like to know?"
"Just speak."
"We will work our way up, then." Gilliam took a drink of his whiskey. "I've been following you. Sources say that you want to fight Azazel—that you want to take down the Morning Star Kingdom. I just thought it was interesting, so I followed the news. An Angel challenging a god? Ironic."
"Azazel is no god." Sir Smith said, his voice low and bitter. "He only fancies himself as such."
"God or not," Gilliam said, smiling, cold fog spilling from behind his teeth. "He enslaved ninety percent of the world overnight. The man can move the heavens at his whim. You should know his power best. You are his brother, after all, right, Metatr—"
"Silence." Sir Smith snapped back, a rigid scowl across his face. "I will hear that name no more. Speak it again and I'll kill you."
"Alright, alright..." Gilliam chuckled as he held his hands up in surrender. "Just thought I'd try it and see what happened."
"Tell me why you're really here, Gilliam. I don't believe that you merely followed me on a whim. You could have just as easily learned my news from one of your informants. Tell me the real reason you trailed me all the way to the Outskirts?"
Gilliam sighed, a large cloud of frigid breath blowing out of his mouth.
"Because I'm following the word of the Sword."
"Sword?"
"I hear that, somewhere in this town, a fragment of the Cosmic Blade, was found. I first heard about it a year ago, but my trail went cold. Ever since, I followed the word on the wind—mainly rumors and hearsay—and it led me here, to Hazelnut Village. It's here somewhere, and if you plan on using those boys to kill a god, then by the Aeons, you'll need it."
"The Cosmic Blade..." Sir Smith said, his voice an awestruck whisper. "Exillio."
"Of course," Gilliam continued, "only someone of the legendary Line of Vespira can wield the sword." He smiled. "That's where you came into the picture."
"So you followed me in order for me to lead you to the Starborn?"
"Bingo! But not just any Starborn. If I needed anyone of the blood, I would have just used the Chief or his youngest grandson. No. I needed you to play the part of catalyst for a particular Starblood."
Sir Smith raised an eyebrow. "You mean?"
"The slave once known as 'Number Nine.' The one you call Philos."
"Why him specifically?"
Gilliam shrugged. "I could ask you he same thing. Philos is a mysterious young man who disappeared years ago. Kept in an Angelic laboratory under the tightest security. They experimented on him, you know? Azazel took the Starblood for himself."
Sir Smith said nothing, his eyes suddenly frozen.
"No," the Angel finally said, his voice slow and distant, as if somewhere far away. "He already had it..."
"But perhaps there is still hope," Gilliam said after a moment, "perhaps the true Starblood will scream once again..."
Judine stirred a stew that swirled in a cauldron, heated by the flames in the hearth. Philos watched the old woman, the dim light fully reddening his reddish-brown eyes. Judine was old, her face and hands leathery from the flow of time and the hardships of rural life. She was wrinkly, but he could see laugh lines under her eyes.
She was a gentle woman; he could tell that much.
"So." Judine looked down, her eyes filled with a wistfulness, as if longing for the warmth of a day long passed. "As I said, I'm not related to Dalt. I'm just a family friend...a godmother, really."
"So that mean's Dalt's parents..." Uri said, a hint of horror in his voice.
"Are dead..." Joseph finished his friend's sentence, his ears slightly lowering as his yellow eyes softened.
Judine sighed, then spoke. "It happened one year ago..."
On that day one year ago, the winds were fair. The sun had just rose above the horizon, dousing the scarce clouds in crimson. Dalt woke that morning to the smell of his mother's cooking. In the kitchen, his parents, Jeram and Cindy, sat at the table, unaware that their blood would soon stain the floor.
"Dalt!" his mother called out from the kitchen. "Come get your breakfast before it gets cold!"
"I'm coming! I'm coming!" the young boy said as he entered the small room.
The kitchen was connected to living room to create a small rectangular space. Because of this, the kitchen floor was carpet, stained with this or that from years of use. Dalt didn't mind, but then again most children wouldn't.
"I've got something cool to show you today, son!" his father exclaimed, throwing up his hands. "You'll never believe what I found while tilling the farm."
"Treasure?" Dalt's eyes grew wide. "Did you find treasure?"
There was a twinkle in Jeram's eye. He was a tall man, wiry for a farmer, but he was strong enough for the job nonetheless.
"Better!" Jeram said. "What I found is magical!"
"Magical?" Dalt said, his eyes wide with wonderment.
Jeram winked. "But you gotta promise to keep it as our little secret, okay?"
"Okay!"
"Now then," Jeram said as he stood from the table and, walking to the back door, motioned for his son to follow, "it's just this way!"
Outside, the morning air was slightly breezy, comfortable enough for a light jacket now, but stale and foretelling of a warmer day later.
Dalt followed his father over tilled land until they came to a place where the ground was dug deeper than the rest of the field.
"There." Jeram pointed into the depression in the ground.
Dalt suddenly felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He didn't know why, but the object unnerved him. There, in the center of the depression, a part of a weapon—what looked like only the hilt of a sword lay lodged in the dirt.
"Beautiful, ain't she?" Jeram said, placing his thumbs through his belt loops.
It was beautiful; it was exquisite, even. The hilt was wrapped in white leather. The wrist guard was larger than any Dalt had ever seen. It looked to be made of a void-black metal with gold accents decorating the blade. In the center of the wrist guard was a hole filled with a strange X-symbol.
"Never seen nothin' like it," Jeram said, placing his hand on his son's shoulder. "Looks like a broken weapon, but I don't know who would leave such a beauty just lyin' around like that."
"Are we gonna sell it?" Dalt looked up at his father with inquisitive eyes.
"Well," Jeram said, scratching the stubble on his chin. "That's where it gets complicated."
"What do you mean?"
"Well," Jeram said, "go try and pick it up."
"It's only a hilt," Dalt began as he stepped cautiously into the hole. "It shouldn't be too hard to pick up."
"Just try it."
Dalt stood over the odd hilt. It was beautiful, and the young boy was certain it would be worth so much money that his family could sell the farm and live in wealth and comfort for the rest of their lives. Just the thought of such a life made him giddy. Full of excitement, Dalt reached down and took the hilt in his hands, then—
But it wasn't that easy, was it? No. Most things that seem too good to be true most often are.
Dalt lifted and pulled with all of his might, but the sword fragment would not budge. He couldn't even move it an inch. It was as if the artifact, though small, weighed as much as the Emerald Wall itself.
"See what I mean!" Jeram laughed. "The thing's magical! I've been trying to lift it all morning. Won't budge!"
Dalt stared at the strange broken sword. Its air was odd...
...different.
"Now," Jeram said, patting his son on the back, "how about some breakfast?"
The sun had reached its zenith for that day. Despite the excitement from the artifact that was uncovered that morning, Dalt could sense a darkness looming over his parents.
From his bedroom, he heard his father say. "We won't make it, Cindy. Captain Wolfe keeps raising the taxes and, well, we just don't got the money this time..."
Dalt heard his mother gasp. It made him sick, a grim sigh that, from what he could tell, was full of worry. He knew what this meant. The ones who failed to pay up were jailed. He knew that his father and mother would be locked deep in the depths of the dungeon.
And he knew he'd never see them again.
Sudden panic entered his mind.
I can't let them get taken away! he thought. I won't!
But what to do? What could he do?
Wait! The thought hit Dalt like a warm breeze. He knew what he would do!
He would show the captain the sword! Surely the captain could have it removed. It was definitely worth something, so maybe it could pay for the house!
Dalt nodded. Yes! That would work!
Hurriedly, the boy threw on his clothes and slipped past his parents, who were too busy worrying to notice him. Soon, he was out of the house.
It was noon, and Dalt told himself he would be home before dinnertime.