The Knight barely acknowledges the festivities as he moves towards the stall. I do not pause even to question what moves me forward; I only know that there is something, an inexplicable force that pushes me towards him.

  In a few steps, I find myself before him. His frame is large and broad, so much so that it almost blots out my view of the moon. An odd stillness clings to him—a disquieting sense that he is somehow different; somehow other. His gaze drifts downwards to meet mine.

  I should turn away. I should go back to Naeve, back to the festivities, back to something familiar. Yet I stay.

  "You do not celebrate." he says, tilting his head slightly. "Is the Empire's anniversary of no interest to you?"

  "I could ask you the same thing." I retort.

  "I am here for a reason." he replies. "That is the difference between us."

  "And you assume I am not?"

  He pauses for a moment, then gestures slightly towards the crowd. "You belong there, among them"

  I arch a brow. "And where do you belong?"

  His lips pressed into a thin line.

  "Elsewhere."

  His voice is flat, yet there is weight behind it. The words linger in the air, heavy with hidden meaning. The Knight scans my face for a reaction that does not come, and frowns. There is a tangible shift in his demeanor. I open my mouth, ready to calm the situation down with a few quips, yet no words come out. A startled gasp escapes my lips, and an involuntary expression of fear clouds my features. It is as if I have lost control of my body.

  That momentary lapse in control is all it takes for the Knight to react. In a few moments he is upon me, his drawn sword painting a deadly arc through the air. The blade descends swift and merciless...

  And slices right through me.

  There is no pain, no impact. Only a strange, fleeting sensation, as though i am being unraveled, my very form slipping away like sand through fingers. A gasp catches my throat, yet I cannot hear it. I cannot hear anything. I fall.

  Like a puppet with its strings cut, I collapse in a heap on the ground. My limbs become heavy, refusing to move even as I strain my muscles to their limit. It feels as if my arms and legs have been replaced by giant slabs of stone.

  "Who is she?" someone asks, their voice uncertain.

  "Is she a criminal?" another murmurs.

  "She doesn’t look dangerous."

  "I swear, the guards are always making a scene over nothing."

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  "Did you see what happened? She just—collapsed!"

  "No blood. No wounds. That’s not normal."

  The whispers grow, spreading like wildfire through the crowd, a mixture of curiosity, suspicion, and unease threading through every hushed word. Some voices are laced with intrigue, others with irritation.

  "Must be serious if he’s involved."

  "Whatever it is, I want no part of it."

  Yet despite the apprehension, no one dares step forward. They watch. They wait. And the weight of their collective gaze is infuriating. An unexplainable wave of anger runs through me like electricity through a wire. What right did they have to just stand there while I suffer? How dare they refuse to help me!

  With a sense of indignation that isn't quite my own, I shoot a hateful glare at the Knight as he approaches. The large man sheathes his silver blade, extending his arm in my direction. His large fingers grasp my collar, lifting me into the air. In a swift motion, he throws me onto his shoulder.

  The knight takes a deep breath, and leaps.

  He launches himself—and by extension, me—into the air. The rushing wind sends strands of my hair flying into my face and eyes. I narrow my eyes, squinting in order to avoid the stinging pain. The Knight leaps from rooftop to rooftop taking me farther and farther away from the festival's epicenter. I see a faint silhouette racing towards us, and as I open my eyes, the familiar anger reawakens within me. Naeve's face is coated with a layer of perspiration, illuminated only by the lamps that line the edges of the flat-roofed houses we are on. She is gaining on us fast, which makes sense considering her Path. The 'Windswept Wanderer' certainly seemed like one of those speedy Paths.

  A burst of envy clouds my thoughts, mixing with the ever present rage in a particularly venomous reaction. It doesn't take much introspection to realise that the words threatening to spill from my lips are not at all mine.

  Not entirely, at least.

  The Knight halts and then whips around, having unsheathed his sword in that short timeframe. The flat of the blade slams violently into Naeve's face, blood spraying all over as my niece gets sent flying, coming to a stop only a few buildings away. She moans in pain, and then falls still.

  Seeing Naeve laying unconscious on the ground sends a jolt of fear—an emotion this time certainly my own—running through me. I attempt to struggle, yet my limbs remain as unresponsive as they were before. The Knight continues moving after sheathing his sword. And it does not take long for us to arrive at our destination.

  The dingy hut is located somewhere in the Western Forest, cleverly hidden among the gigantic trees populating the area. Its faded beige walls give it a somewhat weathered appearance. A Copper Current Receiver (used to tap into stray electrical currents in order to power houses) hangs crookedly from the side of the roof. Its red warning light blinks periodically, indicating a low signal. The hut's interior is in a much worse condition than its outside, utterly lacking of any meaningful furniture. There are no beds, no couches; only a single, lopsided table accompanied by two wooden stools. A metallic musk permeates the air within the hut.

  The Knight unceremoniously dumps me onto the floor and lumbers off to some unseen, shadowy corner of the room. His large stature obscures his movements, but as he shifts, a length of rope glints in the dim light, coiled tightly around his hands.

  My hands and feet are quickly bound, an action that seems quite pointless. The Knight secures the final knot, then steps back to inspect his work. I don't bother struggling—what would be the point? My limbs remain as unresponsive as before, my body little more than dead weight.

  He watches me for a moment, his expression unreadable. Under the dim lighting, his hands seem formless shadows as they slide forward. Without saying anything, he presses his two thumbs against my forehead.

  A sharp jolt spreads through my body, like a surging current through my veins. My fingers twitch subconsciously, and then flex. Feeling floods back into my limbs.

  I have regained control of my body.

  I lift my head, heart pounding.

  The Knight leans back, resting his forearms on his knees. His gaze is heavy, expectant.

  “Now,” he says, voice cool and measured, “What do you know about the Cult of Azntenia?"