That day, after his sister Clea came to pick him up, Clark went home with her. On the walk back, she noticed his wide grin.
"Did something good happen today?" Clea asked.
"No, just the regular," Clark replied.
Clea nodded. Her brother had always been distant from other kids. That changed when the quiet boy named Evan arrived. Clark wasn't exactly close to him. But Evan never pushed him away like the others did. For a lonely boy like Clark, that small acceptance was more than enough.
They soon reached their house. It was larger than their neighbors' homes and had a bigger lawn. Their father owned several warehouses at the port. He rented them to traders for storing goods. This business provided enough money for the family to live comfortably. They never had to worry about finances.
But their father hated this easy, dull lifestyle. So, he frequently went on long 'business' trips across the sea. Whenever he returned, he would fill the house with his new souvenirs, loud stories and wild adventures. Under his chatty influence, Clark had grown talkative too. It was a trait that had often caused problems for the young boy.
When Clea opened the front door, a shadowy figure suddenly pounced on her. But she did not panic. With practiced ease, she simply sidestepped and held the door open wide. The figure stumbled forward, unable to stop its own momentum. It tumbled out of the house onto the lawn. Clea stepped inside with Clark and calmly closed the door.
She removed her shoes and placed them on the rack. As she turned to go further inside, Clark spoke up.
"What about Dad?"
Muffled noises were coming from the other side of the closed door. Looking down Clark was still wearing his outdoor shoes. Clea sighed and went back. She opened the door again.
Her vision was immediately filled with the grinning face of her father.
"I knew it! My daughter—" he began, arms wide for a hug.
But before he could finish, Clea grabbed Clark by the collar and tossed him outside. Then she firmly shut the door on their faces.
Father and son stood on the porch, staring at the shut door in shared bewilderment.
Clea felt she had done a very good deed. How could she bear to separate such a loving pair? Now she had even given them private time for bonding. Where could anyone find such a considerate sister and daughter? Satisfied with her logic, she went to her room and started her days' homework.
When Clea's mother returned that evening, she found her husband and son on the porch. They were huddled together, sobbing pitifully.
"What did you do this time?" she asked, taking her house key from her bag.
Both looked at her with wounded expressions. Her father spoke first. "I just tried to give her a big hug."
Clark added, "And I just tried to ask her to let Dad inside again, after she locked him out."
"Ah, figures," their mother said with a sigh. "It's just the regular thing."
When Clea was little, her father had a habit of rubbing his scratchy beard against her cheek. When she squirmed, he would laugh and say she was secretly enjoying it. And this was just one of several such things. She had endured this for years. But now that she was older, all her pent-up annoyance was finding new and creative ways to express itself.
The mother opened the door and finally allowed the forlorn duo back inside. They had just stepped in when they heard footsteps on the stairs.
Looking up, they saw Clea staring down at them. Her gaze was flat and unreadable. Father and son swallowed hard.
Clea's eyes shifted to her mother. A slight, polite smile touched her lips. "Welcome home, Mom," she said. Then she turned and went back upstairs without another word.
Scary, the father and son thought in unison.
That night during dinner, Clark's father recounted tales from his latest voyage. Clark listened with rapt attention. Their mother watched them with a soft smile. Clea maintained a deadpan expression through the whole meal. She was only thinking of ways to escape the awkward atmosphere.
After dinner, Clark went to his neighbor's house to return some borrowed tools. He lifted his hand to knock. Just before his fist touched the wood, his world went dark. A rough cloth was pulled over his head. His arms were pinned behind his back. Something stuffed his mouth, gagging him.
He didn't even need to think. He knew he was being kidnapped.
But this baffled him. Weren't there standards for this? Shouldn't they try to lure him with candy first? Or pretend to know his parents? Or slip something into his drink? When did child kidnapping become so direct and brazen?
When Clark didn't return after some time, Clea went out to look for him. She found the toolkit lying on the path in front of their neighbor's house. She picked it up and lightly knocked on the door.
An elderly woman with snow-white hair opened the door. "What is it, dear?"
"Did my brother come here?" Clea asked.
"No," the woman said, shaking her head. "Did something happen?"
"No!" Clea replied too quickly. She handed the toolkit over. "Just returning these. Thank you."
She hurried home. Her heart felt heavy. She drank a glass of water in the quiet kitchen. Her hands were slightly trembling. Her parents were still chatting at the dining table.
With a heavy heart she walked over to them. Her voice was low and serious. "Clark has been kidnapped."
Her parents stared at her, dumbstruck. Then the meaning of her words crashed down on them. Their faces paled.
"What exactly happened?" her father demanded, gripping her shoulders.
Clea explained everything without emotion. Normally they might think Clark had wandered off. But with the recent kidnappings, even he knew better than to go out alone at night. The final proof came with a frantic knock on their own door.
It was another neighbor from down the street. His face was etched with panic. "Have you seen my son?" he gasped.
This was not a single kidnapping. It was a mass kidnapping.
Even blinded by the hood, Clark could hear the world around him. He heard the clatter of a carriage on cobblestones. He felt himself being lifted and carried. Then he was dumped onto a hard, stone surface.
A short time later, new sounds erupted. Metal clashed against metal. Men cursed and shouted. Then he was grabbed again, carried farther, and placed down once more on a wooden surface. This surface was rocking gently. The salty smell of the sea filled his nose. The sound of waves slapping against wood told him he was on a ship.
He had complained to his father about wanting to sail. But he never wanted it to happen like this. His first journey from the port was as a kidnap victim in the dead of night.
Soon the hood was ripped from his head. He blinked in the dim lantern light. The ship was huge, as large as the biggest trade vessels in port. But its design was strange and foreign. Dozens of other children sat around him, silent and terrified. The men guarding them had hard faces. Some had hair with strange red tips, like dipped in paint. No one made a sound.
He overheard two kidnappers talking nearby.
"Why did we move the schedule up?"
The other grunted in reply. "One of the grunts got caught snatching a kid. The guards are onto us now. Security had gotten tighter. We had to grab what we could and start the ritual early." He grinned, showing a smile. "Once it's done, none of this will matter. We won't have to fear anything."
They both laughed. But it seemed like a harsh, joyless sound.
The ship sailed for what felt like hours. Soon it approached a cluster of small islands a dozen miles from the port. Smaller ships often used these islands to resupply, avoiding the crowded main port and its fees. Their ship docked at the outermost island.
All the children were forced off the ship. They were marched down a narrow path to the island's center. Armed men lined the route to prevent any escape. Most of them looked like outsiders, not locals from the city.
Clark's heart sank when he saw their destination. A massive, intricate diagram was drawn on the bare earth. Hundreds of children already sat within its lines. Their eyes were open but completely vacant. Clark and the new arrivals were shoved into empty spots in the pattern and forced to sit.
As soon as a child took their place, the light in their eyes died and they became like their predecessors.
Soon it was Clark's turn. He tried to struggle. An adult backhanded him across the face. Dazed, he was forced down into the dirt. He thought it was over for him.
But a strange thing happened. He felt a deep weakness settle into his bones. His thoughts grew sluggish. Yet he could still think. He could still twitch his fingers. However he stayed perfectly still, hoping not to draw attention from the kidnappers around him.
There were a lot more people here than on the ship. Their leader was a thin man with hair the color of fresh blood. Clark had never seen hair that wasn't black or brown. The man barked orders to his henchmen. Then, his face suddenly tensed and without any warning he vanished while looking up.
Clark stared, dumbfounded. The other kidnappers acted like this was normal. They just continued their grim work.
A low hum began to vibrate through the ground. The diagram beneath Clark began to glow with a sickly red light. He felt a terrible draining sensation. It was as if his very life was being siphoned away. It became a struggle just to keep his head up. He stared at the dirt between his feet, fighting to stay conscious.
Just as he was about to give up, a tremendous BOOM shook the island. The ground trembled. Some of the kidnappers chuckled nervously. Then, a few seconds later, a sound like shattering crystal echoed from high above. The island shook even more violently. This time, the kidnappers' smiles vanished. Their faces grew grim.
Had someone come to rescue them?
But the moments stretched on and nothing changed. The silence returned, heavier than before. However, the draining feeling intensified.
Clark wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep forever. But he knew that would mean his end. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms. And with all his willpower he managed to hold on.
Just when he thought he would succumb to it, a blinding light erupted from the sky. A sound like the world breaking filled his ears. The terrible pressure holding him down silently disappeared.
All around him, children began to collapse. Looking sideways he saw the kidnappers on the perimeter dissolve into clouds of shimmering golden particles. Then using the last ounce of his strength, he looked at the source of it all.
High above, floating in the air, was a woman. She looked exactly like the statue of the Goddess from the Cathedral. Her form blazed with serene light. After glancing down once, she vanished into thin air.
Clark's last bit of strength left him and his vision faded to black.
He was woken by a stinging pain on his cheek. His eyes quickly flew open and his father's tear-streaked, relieved face hovered above him.
"Thank the Goddess," his father whispered, pulling him into a crushing hug. "Your hands and legs are still attached and you are still breathing"
Clark looked around dazedly. Many people were moving through the clearing. Some wore the uniforms of the city guard. Others were private guards hired by the merchant houses. They were carefully gathering the unconscious children. His father lifted him into his arms. Exhaustion washed over Clark, and he fell asleep again. His last groggy thought was, Did he really have to slap me?
The next time he woke, it was from a dull ache in his legs. Opening his eyes he was on the deck of a large ship. Children were laid out all around him. Two younger kids were using his legs as a pillow, clinging to him in their sleep. He gently shifted them and sat up.
The familiar skyline of the port city was visible on the horizon. They were finally going home. A sense of relief washed over him.
His gaze drifted to the ship's rail. A teenage girl sat there, her back to him. She was dressed in the baggy white robes of the Church of Light. Her legs dangled over the side, swinging slightly. He slowly got up and walked over to her.
"Excuse me," Clark said.
Lyria looked at the boy who had approached her. She felt she had seen him somewhere and then remembered—he was a friend of Evan's who sometimes came to the Cathedral with him. Since he was an acquaintance, she decided to humor him a little and nodded for him to continue.
"Do you know who saved us?" Clark asked, his voice full of awe.
Lyria's first instinct was to play dumb. But the boy's expression was so earnest as if he knew something. Her eyes flickered. For a split second, her irises shifted from their usual brown to a brilliant, luminous gold.
Startled, Clark jumped back. "What is that?!"
"These are eyes that see through the truth," Lyria stated flatly. It was technically correct.
She looked at him more closely. The very thin layer of perceptual mist that should have been clouding his body had disappeared. It meant he was free from the Perception Dissonance spell. Him asking this question meant he must have seen her when she used Her Light, and this was just his way of seeking confirmation. Quite a sharp child, just like his friend.
Lyria Pierre Luciana was just an Ascender, not the Goddess herself. If she didn't set the record straight, this boy might go around saying the Goddess had descended. Most people would forget due to the spell, but what about the few, like him, who didn't? She couldn't let the Goddess's name be used for such a trivial cleanup task.
She gestured for him to come closer. She spoke in a clear, matter-of-fact tone. "Lyria Pierre Luciana."
Clark scrunched his face in thought. "Never heard of her."
"She is the Daughter of the Goddess of Light."
"Still never heard of her. When was she born?"
"About thirty years ago."
"Huh. Maybe the news didn't reach here." Clark leaned in, his curiosity piqued. "So, who's her fa—"
He never finished the question. A sharp, precise flick from Lyria's finger connected with his forehead.
Thwack.
A bolt of pain shot through his skull. His world went dark again. He slumped to the deck, out cold.
Lyria lowered her hand. She repeated a silent chant in her mind. He is a just child. He is just a child.
For a little while, the sea around the ship grew choppy. The waters churned as if agitated. But as the port drew nearer, the waves slowly settled into a calm, gentle rhythm.