KHUNYING DAWKLAO (AUNT YING) POV:
The old house was quiet, filled only with the soft, lingering scent of sandalwood and the steady, rhythmic tick of a grandfather clock I'd inherited from my own mother. It was past two in the morning when the rap came at the door. Not a neighbor's tentative knock, but a sharp, authoritative summons, like the sound of a fist striking a coffin lid. My breath hitched, a cold premonition coiling in my gut. This was not a friendly visit.
I rose slowly, my bare feet silent on the worn wooden floor. I could feel Thyme's panicked energy from the living area—a frantic, buzzing fear that felt like a trapped bird against the windowpane of my mind. The child was awake. He would be following me.
I opened the door and the cold, lifeless air from the street rushed in. Standing on the threshold was Sakda, a man as devoid of warmth as the night itself. His perfectly tailored suit seemed to absorb what little lamplight there was, and his face was a polished stone, telling me nothing. I knew his kind. A vessel without a soul, a tool in the hands of a much more dangerous master.
"Why are you here, Sakda? It is a quarter past two in the morning," I said, my voice a calm, steady river, hiding the dread that was beginning to churn within me.
"Khunying Dawklao," he replied, his tone as flat and emotionless as his expression. "Khun Metharaj requires your services. Immediately."
The name struck me like a physical blow. Metharaj. The same cold, cruel energy I had felt from the moment the child appeared in my home. He had found Thyme. I kept my face an impassive mask. My hands, hidden behind the door, were clenched into fists.
"No, Aunt Ying, don't follow him!" I heard Thyme's panicked plea from behind me. The boy's fear was a sharp, raw blade slicing through the quiet. "You can't go with him! That man, his boss... he's a monster! I saw what he did! He kills people, Aunt Ying, he kills them and he doesn't even blink!"
I turned my back to Sakda, a silent, almost imperceptible apology to the child. My hands were already moving, reaching for the bag I had prepared, a silent, frantic ritual of my own. I grabbed a pouch of dried herbs, a small, white cloth I had embroidered with wards against malevolent energy, and a small, carved anito of a guardian spirit. These were not for my own protection; they were for Thyme. I would not allow his naive, frantic energy to draw the monster here. I would be his shield.
"Please wait for me for a moment," I said to Sakda, my voice still steady, before closing the door.
Thyme immediately moved to block my path, his heart hammering against his ribs. I saw the raw desperation in his eyes, the terror of a child who had seen a ghost and was now watching a loved one walk into the darkness. I gave him a warm, fragile smile, a lie I hoped would ease his panic.
"Do not worry, child," I said, moving around him as I gathered my things. "Khun Metharaj requires my help. He will not harm me." The words felt hollow, even to my own ears. He would not harm me because I was useful to him, a temporary tool. But what would he do when he discovered the real prize?
"But he'll harm you to get to me! Or... or he'll hurt you just because he can!" Thyme's desperation was a raw, primal cry. "Let me go with you, Aunt Ying. I can... I can do something. I can protect you."
His innocence was a dagger to my heart. He had no idea what he was asking. He thought he could face a god. The facade of my calm broke. I stopped what I was doing and grabbed his shoulders, my grip like iron, my gaze fixing him in place. The time for soothing lies was over. I had to terrify him into understanding.
"No, Thyme," I hissed, my voice low and urgent, laced with the ancient power I so rarely used. I met his wide, frightened eyes with a fierce, unwavering intensity. "You do not understand. He can see you. And to him, you are not a lost child; you are a flaw in his perfect, brutal logic. A contamination." My fingers dug into his shoulders, forcing him to listen. "He will not see a boy to be protected. He will see a variable to be eliminated. A puzzle he will solve by taking it apart, piece by bloody piece. You think you have seen what he is capable of? You have seen nothing but a fraction of his cold fury. Do you want to know what it is like to die by his hands, to feel the light in your own eyes extinguish under his cold gaze?"
The boy recoiled, shaking his head, his throat too tight to speak. My heart ached for him, but this was the only way.
"Then you will stay here," I commanded, my voice dropping to a near-whisper, each word a shard of ice. "You will not attempt to follow me. You will not leave this house. That is not a request, child. It is the only thing that will keep you alive."
I watched him nod, a single, jerky movement of pure submission. I released him, my own hands trembling now, and walked down the stairs, my back straight, my every step a conscious act of will. I opened the door and stepped into the cold night, closing it behind me. The finality of the sound was a vow—a promise that I would do everything in my power to ensure that door would open for Thyme again, and that he would walk through it, alive and whole, back to his own time. I would be a shield, a diversion, a lamb offered to the wolf to protect a more precious life. And as I disappeared into the dark with that silent, stone-faced man, I felt a sorrow so deep it was a physical weight in my chest. What was he planning to do to me? I did not know. But I knew that, for the first time in many years, my life was no longer my own to command.
We finally reached the estate of Metharaj. The massive iron gates slid open like the jaws of some great, sleeping beast. I felt a wave of profound worry. I did not want to put that child in trouble. My sister… she would never forgive me if something happened to him. I needed to act normal. I needed to be a shaman, not a guardian.
Sakda knocked on the heavy oak door of an office. "Khun Meta, the shaman is here."
"Let her in," a voice responded from within, the coldness in his tone a palpable force that seemed to drop the temperature in the hallway. Sakda guided me inside. I looked at Metharaj directly, meeting his gaze without flinching. The cursed book was still on his desk, and I could feel the ominous aura of sorrow radiating from it, a silent, screaming thing.
"You may leave us, Sakda," Metharaj said. The door clicked shut, and I was alone with him.
"What help do you require of me, Khun Metharaj?" I asked, my tone deliberately infused with a dominance to show I was not afraid of him. He offered a thin, cruel grin, as if satisfied by my lack of fear.
"Please, have a seat," he gestured to a leather couch. He did not touch the book. This was about something else. My heart began to pound. This was about Thyme.
"I require your assistance in locating the boy from the book's visions," he stated, his voice a flat line. The words I feared most.
"And why do you need to find this… boy?" I asked, forcing my composure to remain intact.
"I cannot wait for him to manifest again at random. He is an unpredictable variable. If I allow this matter to escalate, I will be… compromised," he said, choosing his words with a chilling precision.
"Compromised? What do you mean?" I pressed, feigning simple curiosity.
"I have priorities," he stated, his eyes narrowing. "He is a threat to my future plans. Therefore, I must find him and eliminate him before he can cause any further disruption."
The cold, ruthless logic of his voice sent a shiver down my spine. I fought to keep my face a blank canvas, terrified he might see the truth in my eyes—that the boy he wanted to eliminate was sleeping safely under my roof.
"I cannot find someone who walks through the passages of time," I said, the lie tasting like ash. "My ability is limited to what the spirits show me. He is a ghost on the river of time; I cannot simply pluck him from the current." I needed to leave, but I knew that any sign of haste would be an admission of guilt.
"I anticipated that possibility," he said, a flicker of something that might have been disappointment in his eyes. He seemed relieved. "So, instead of finding that bastard, I require your assistance with something else."
"Can you bless this gun and this knife?" he asked, placing the two objects on the table between us. My blood ran cold. I knew what he was thinking.
"I can," I said, my voice steady. "But for what purpose do you require such a blessing?" I had to pretend. I had to know for sure.
"I need them to have the ability to kill spiritual beings," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I can kill that bastard with my bare hands if he ever fully materializes. But in his current state, bullets pass through him. If these are blessed, he will have nowhere to run. I can terminate the variable, permanently."
I needed to calm myself. I could not show any emotion. "I…" I started to say I couldn't, but he cut me off.
"I have already had this gun blessed by another shaman," he said, picking it up and inspecting it. "But I believe his power was… insufficient. I require a more potent solution. I require your power."
My mind raced. I saw the faint aura of a blessing already clinging to the weapon. He was telling the truth. If I refused, he would simply find another, more desperate shaman to do his bidding. And when he discovered my refusal, his brilliant, paranoid mind would make the logical leap: the only reason I would refuse to help him kill the boy is if I were protecting the boy. He would know Thyme was with me.
I was trapped. But then, Thale was with me, a whisper in the back of my mind, a frantic, desperate plan.
"I will perform the ritual," I said. I immediately pulled my tools from my bag: a small statue of Phra Phikanet, a white cloth, two white candles, and one black one. And then, another idol, one I had packed on pure instinct. An Anito that represented Mak-iling, a trickster spirit from my mother's homeland, whose domain is mischief, the disruption of plans, and playful chaos.
I performed the ritual as Thale guided me, a silent, desperate prayer on my lips. It was a blessing, but a twisted one. A sleight of hand.
"I am done," I announced. "You can have it checked by another shaman if you doubt my work." I had to make the offer, to show my confidence, knowing that any weak shaman he consulted would be fooled by the trickster spirit's illusion.
Khun Metharaj smiled, a look of pure satisfaction on his face. "Thank you for your assistance. You may collect your payment from Sakda."
I packed my things and stood. "I will be leaving now, Khun Metharaj." I had fooled him, for now. But as I left the estate, the weight of what I had done—and what I had failed to do—settled over me. I had not armed a killer. I had merely given him a malfunctioning weapon. But he would find out, eventually. And when he did, he would come for the boy. And he would come for me.