The brass-rimmed clock above the bar of The Rusty Gear ticked with a mechanical precision that Aim usually found comforting. Today, however, it felt like a countdown. Saturday mornings in the Southern District usually meant a temporary reprieve from the crushing boredom of the gate, but the atmosphere in the city was shifting. The air felt "thin," as if god forgot to bestow it for us today.
Aim sat across from Isolde, nursing a glass of lukewarm cider. Between them lay the morning edition of The North. The front page was dominated by a charcoal sketch of the "Erudite Institution," but it was the headline that had trapped their attention.
NEW STAR RISES FROM THE SOUTH: UNKNOWN THEORIST SHOCKS ERUDITE INSTITUTION WITH GROUNDBREAKING FRAMEWORK ON THE LOGIC OF FORESIGHT MAGIC
Aim stared at the paper. Then at Isolde. Then back at the paper.
They were sitting in Rusty Gearl, a bar that smelled permanently of burnt grain and old wood, which was to say it smelled like every bar in the South District. It was a Saturday. Aim had specifically chosen Saturday for the explicit purpose of doing nothing, and yet here was the universe, personally offending him.
"It says his framework directly challenges the precognitive theory that Professor Einswansen of the Erudite Institution spent forty years building. And not only that — it might actually be better." Aim red slowly
"That seem like hard thing.. what is 'precognitive' tho, Isolde?"
"Foresight magic, Aim" Isolde replied. They had been reading it since they sat down. Her coffee had gone cold.
"Forty years, Isolde."
"I heard you."
"He arrived four days ago. With sand in his hair.."
Isolde set the paper down with surgical precision. "There is a follow-up debate. Central Park of the South District." She checked the clock above the bar. "In two hours."
Aim was already putting on his coat.
"Let's see how that guy will be moving on podium, this getting interesting." Aim put the money and bill on bar counter then tug Isolde's hand out
Isolde brush his hand off.
"Oh sorry, Solsol. Let's get moving, mad at me later"
The streets and slum area between The Rusty Gear and Central Park told the same story they always did on weekday mornings — one that the Gazette preferred not to print. A family of six sheltering under a broken gas lamp and manys other refugee family living like that too, that flicker empathy in Isolde and Aim's heart
"It getting worse" Isolde said.
"Indeed." Aim let out a hopeless sigh. "When we were kid, twenty years ago—before those damm Omen come everything was normal."
"I miss when I used to go on trip to Thalassia with my family." Isolde let out nostalgic-sad sigh "But they are gone now, everything outside these damm wall.. The sea was so beautiful there, the sand wasn't gray like this back then."
Aim replied with a simple nod then walk over to the family, the sight truly broke him—a refugee family of six living under what as big as stall of cosmetic seller.
"Hey little one.." He wave at the eight years old girl of that family who got nothing to play, no toy, no snack and not even well cloth
"Take these from big brother, it will help your family. Atleast little." He handed the little girl two silver coin before patting her head adoringly yet sad about their fate before telling her to go back. The girl was very happy about the money—with these it can feed her family for whole week and half if they only buy cheap thing.
"Thank you big brother!" The little girl replied
Before the girl can run back to her family—Isolde shout "Hey, you!"
"Big sis wanna give you something too." She walked over the kid then crouch and hand her few candy and four silver coin.
The simple act of receiving candy make the smile in little girl's face brighten up and pull Isolde in tight hug. It sad yet cute that a girl would be this happy from just mere few piece of candy.
"Big sis, you are the best. What is your name!"
"Isolde." She adoringly replied.
"Isolde.. Big sis Isolde.. Isolde big sis.." The girl mutter cutely
"Thank you, Isolde big sis! I will never forget how kind you are"
Isolde simply pat the little girl's back then give her sigh to return to her family already
Once the girl was away—Aim behind where Isolde was crouching, he tilt his body down slightly to look at her more properly. They both made eye contact
"Good with kids huh.."
"Shut up." Isolde replied
They two continue on their path to central park.
As they walk—a unit of RMO officers came cutting through the narrow street at a brisk march — silver-grey uniforms, hands already glowing faintly with prepared spell-work, faces set with the particular blankness of people who had stopped being surprised by disaster. Isolde's hand moved instinctively toward her own badge.
She had already stepped forward. "Officer Isolde, Greycoats rank. Do you need additional support on—"
"We're covered," the unit lead said, not breaking stride, not unkindly. "Officer under rank of Whitecoat can't assist on active mega size Omen purification. Due to regulations. It's " He was gone before she could reply.
"Regulation," she repeated.
"Tsk.."
---
Central Park in the South District was truly built for events to hold on. Wide cobblestone paths curved between old oak trees, and a modest stone stage sat at its center — used for academic lectures one week, street performances the next, public announcements the week after that. It wasn't grand. But it was alive, and the people of the South District had decided long ago that alive was better than grand.
Aim hadn't expected a crowd like this. Scholars in the layered coats of the Erudite Institution stood in clusters near the left side of the temporary podium, their gold-trimmed collars marking faculty from students. A contingent from the University of Orenthel had claimed the right flank — Aim recognized the burgundy sashes. Researchers, journalists, a scattering of RMO theorists, and a substantial crowd of ordinary people who had apparently heard that something interesting was happening and decided that was enough reason to show up.
"Is this—" Aim started.
"Him," Isolde confirmed, with an expression that suggested she was recalibrating something internally.