A palisade of blazing horns deafened their eardrums.
The horns were in a grid-like formation, aligned on a large wall, screaming.
It sounded like the bleating of a thousand timid goats behind each and every one.
Looking at the wall, it was mainly purple but had discolored, darker patches with violet and mauve undertones on it. And when the colors separated, they didn't blend. It almost looked like a form of camouflage, as they were stitched together.
The parapet of it was blanketed in horn-shaped barbs, with stakes projected out, making sure nothing could climb over it.
Malik still sensed the unease of the fog creep from the hill behind him, the suddenly healed injuries in his foot, and the overwhelming nature of the situation.
Maybe I reached past the fog because I passed another one of the tests. Yeah, that has to be it.
He once dwelled in his string of constant thoughts; now he faced it at that moment.
Fear. He smiled as his heart pulsed rapidly. A smile crept as he hadn't felt this in such a long time.
When it died down, Awan snapped his fingers, declaring, "Fear not, Nawra! We have come to deliver our exiled folks, and myself included. I am Awan, the vice-chief of Marah! Son of Asem!"
Cowering voices from behind whispered to each other and made a collective agreement. They spoke like they had never heard that Asem had a son, but narrowly shrugged it off.
Then, gears turned, and from it, an aperture opened. It was a small crevice that one would have to wedge themselves through to get by.
Malik tapped Kaya on her head, and her eyelids slowly opened.
"M-Malik?" she groaned, blinking rapidly.
"You were awake, weren't you?" Malik asked.
Kaya gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. "I wasn't, I swear," she said, muffled.
Malik grinned. "You're not a heavy sleeper. There's no way you didn't wake up to those horns. Now c'mon, let's get you down."
She sighed in relief. "Yeah . . . yeah." Darting her eyes to her hand, she remembered what she dropped, but her body felt the same.
Malik helped her slide down his back as she stood on both feet.
"Where are we?" she asked.
Malik knitted his eyebrows. "Nawra. How we got here is another story." He stored his thoughts elsewhere and paid attention to the thin entrance, but they lurked.
If the blade stores memories I haven't experienced, have I stored a memory it hasn't experienced? But if that's so, why don't I remember putting it back in my pocket?
Then, he looked down at his feet.
My feet are fine, but I remember that pain. But I'm still stunned as to how they healed, or did it happen in the first place? The blade doesn't remember it, but my pulsing heart does . . .
Maybe Awan was right, I shouldn't pay too much mind to it.
"Dude! We gotta go; they probably won't leave their door open for that long!" Zayne shouted, breaking his train of thought.
Malik followed the rest of them. They maneuvered their bodies through the fissure, and Malik was last to face it.
Eyeballing it, Malik sized it and saw that the wall was made of cold stones, and above the cranny lay a dripstone, trickling droplets of water hitting the ground, marking the gateway.
With a deep breath, he narrowly crossed it, and when he felt both obelisks of the wall's slit hug his chest and back, it felt like a bitter hug between two people.
As he exited, he saw that his foot was jammed between the stone pillars, so he stepped back and dislodged it.
He exhaled in utter relief and caught the sound of quaking gears turning abroad.
Then, the wall was sealed shut, forming a rampart.
Beside him, he saw the group talking to a quiet young man.
"You almost got caught in it. It was made that way to ensure anything larger than us gets clogged in it," a low whisper spoke.
Malik tilted his head. "Do I know you from somewhere?"
The young man crossed his arms, his back facing the barrier. "You've met my grandmother before. She sent me a letter and told me to wait for you today."
Malik smiled, dusting off his clothes as he got up. "So I'm guessing you're Noam."
"That's right," Noam said.
His face was delicate and had fair skin. Long bangs covered his eyes, and his lips were full but weren't long. His stature was about the same as Awan's, and he looked like somebody who kept to himself.
Malik offered his hand as a kind gesture, but Noam shook his head.
"Sorry. We don't do that here. It's a whole thing the Ishkanans here spread. They say it's a bad bind between Solythes."
Malik stared at Kaya briefly; he recalled the moment they first met—the feeling of her hand shaking his, and her greeting everyone else in the crew with that gesture.
Was that prior greeting of hers more than I thought?
Nodding in greeting, Malik escaped his recollection. "Nice to meet you, Noam."
Kaya raised another question from her silence. "Wait, Noam, how did Adirah know we would be here if we just got to the island yesterday?"
Noam sighed, pressing his back tighter to the wall. "You guys aren't the first visitors she's tried to help. She really has a heart of gold, unlike some others."
Then a pause. "Luckily, you're the first people that made it to me in all her attempts," Noam spoke softly.
. . .
A frigid wind passed, and the group went awfully quiet.
"So, there's been others here?" Kaya asked, frowning.
Noam nodded. "We'll talk about it later. For now, we need to get moving," he said sternly.
He walked away and waved to the group. Following soon after, they felt an aura of disconnection from this place.
Inspecting the tribe, they saw that the houses were oddly spaced out. People walked by with their hands close to their hips and looked away from each other.
On the roads, eyes were everywhere, but they weren't gleaming in golden joy. Instead, they were purple and cautious.
"Our floor is our security," Noam said monotonal. "Nobody's bold enough to defend this place, so the eyes do the work for them."
They passed an assortment of houses, which were all made of old wood, but each home was decorated with different accessories. Some had chimes, shrines, and quilts hung for display.
Their display wasn't to gravitate attention; instead, it felt like it wanted to ward away any eyes laid upon it. The chimes made visceral tinklings, the shrines were coated in vigilant eyes, and the quilts spoke different messages.
Among them, some saying "Run away," "Leave," and "You don't belong here" really resonated with Malik. It presented a chill that he strangely leaned toward.
He stared at it for a second too long, and somebody tapped his shoulder.
Zayne gave a wry expression. "Listen to the words, Malik. We gotta move on."
Malik snickered and kept going, taking one last glance, reflecting on his brother's words.
Listen to the words he says . . . I always said that to myself every day before getting here.
Observing, every dull color in the town had slight hints of amethyst within it.
Then—
"We're here," Noam muttered flatly, fluffing his hair.
In front of them, a small, cozy-like cabin lay in patches of short grass.
They stepped on creaky stairs reaching the porch, but before Malik could make the first step—
"Malik, I'm gonna go and write a letter back to my tribe to let them know we reached safely. You can come if you like," Awan offered.
Malik planted his foot away from the steps. "I'm up for it."
"Great. Whenever you're ready." Awan grinned widely. "Besides, it'll be a nice opportunity to meet some new people, y'know. One thing I get from this tribe is that they don't put on a shallow performance."
Malik nodded and placed his hand on a rail near the stairs. "Guys, I'll be back in a bit. Save a spot where I can sit."
As Zayne entered with Noam, Kaya murmured, "Stay safe, Malik. I'll be waiting."
They both waved to each other with a bright smile.
. . .
The afternoon settled, and the purple sky was beginning to latch onto darkness soon enough.
Awan hovered his hand as both of them went on their objective.
"Awan, you speak of these people like you've met them before. How long have you been raised here for?" Malik tilted his head.
"Ten years ago. I don't really remember my home before this place, but I've gotten to know all the tribes because my father said that making connections is a key factor to success."
"Do you believe he was right? Connections really make a big impact?" Malik questioned.
"Is my tribe gold?" Awan sneered.
Malik chuckled as they walked through a spaced-out neighborhood.
"If I remember correctly, there should be a town hall somewhere nearby," Awan whispered to himself.
Malik surveyed the people walking by; they seemed to be mesmerized by him. Their eyes were wide, and pupils dilated at the sight of him.
Then, one of the wide-eyed tribe members awkwardly walked up to him.
"Y-you. You are the storm . . . no, the bayonet, as the rumors say. Am I right?"
A frail man came up to him, as the people behind him murmured in hushed voices.
Another spoke from the shy people, "He's the bayonet who tore apart the depraved council! He's an inspiration for Nawra!"
Then, "He and the vice-chief brought a new kind of joy to their gilded tribe! They will be treasured!"
The once-avoidant neighborhood had stripped a layer of fear off their faces, and all spoke in utter reverence.
Malik placed a hand on the man's shoulders. "I'm not a fan of labels. They're too limited."
The man's mouth went agape at the touch as the two went onward.
Near a corner, Awan found it in the distance. "There's the town hall. Let's get this over with," he said.
The murmurs from behind them began to overlap with one another. Suddenly, an entire spaced-out group of people kept their distance and saluted.
They all bleated with shrill, timid voices, "Nawra welcomes the bayonet!"
Malik waved to them, and the people responded with a quick nod.
"I'm only doing what's right. Never be afraid!" he cheered, raising his arm, pretending to hold the bayonet.
. . .
Silence.
Their celebration fell flat.
Malik wondered why the cheers died down so quickly.
Surprisingly, their temporary smiles dropped again, and they all walked away.
After a second, the town returned to its etiquette. People looked away from each other and quietly went back home.
"Did I upset them?" Malik turned and tapped Awan in front of him, who was knocking on the front door of the hall.
"In a sense, you kind of just told Marah to never smile," Awan responded.
Malik gave a half-smile, watching them go back to their routine. He felt disappointed in himself for a second.
Awan continued, "Don't worry, they still respect you. My father always told me to be careful with my words, because people will always twist them no matter how pure they are."
He paused. "Your voice, and the words you utter, have to be impeccable. Even the most cowardly of people will devour you if you slip up."
Then, the door behind him opened.
Malik scanned the exterior of the hall, but it presented itself just like any other regular run-down home in the tribe.
The only thing that made it notable was a small sign on top that read: "Nawra Hall."
Out came a tired-looking middle-aged man from a dark room. "Awan. What brings you here?" he spoke grimly.
Awan gave a frown. "I have to deliver a letter, David. You know how it is."
The man, who appeared to be in his late forties—David—only tilted his head, signaling them to follow him.
Awan entered the dark hall and waited for Malik to come in. "You comin'?" he raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah, I am," Malik said, staring at the empty road where people once cheered a label he rejected.
For a moment, his thoughts almost consumed him.
Nobody had a name for me they could cheer upon, but when I got it, I didn't think much of it. Now that they moved past me, it feels so jarring.
I didn't really care about it when Guan Sui was my only blame to shift upon, but now that's only me, I wonder.
Does this . . . bother me?