The morning, in the end, had decided it wanted to go rather benign for Rigel. After he had opened his crazy volume of gifts and rested for a moment with Hern, they both agreed to venture out in search something sate their boredom, which actually proved to be an extremely difficult task on this particular day. This was because, as per usual, on specific birthdays the whole town shut down to celebrate, which then made most shops close and the high-street become all but desolate; a stark difference to its usual hive-like buzzing activity. Some of the younger children, though, took full advantage of the towns off day and were using many of the houses as make-believe bases of sorts and using wooden swords and fighting with each other – to the dismay of their many parents.

The boys ventured through Minister Square where a plethora of people were all fixing their own varying stalls employing inventions imported from many of the big cities far and wide. Hern made sure Rigel knew the specific stalls he would completely, as Hern put it: wreck his high-score. Most important being the steam powered bullet-gun target practise.

As they travelled onwards out Minister Square and up on to Thistle street, they bumped into Anderfil again, and Rigel got given a time and place for his training trip: tomorrow at noon, which was rather soon but Rigel thought better of asking any changes. Hern thought it funny to joke about Rigel getting lost in the woods and being eaten alive by bear or vampire, though, it backfired horrendously when that fact was made all too real by Anderfil, who told the boys that it was, in fact, very dangerous out in the world. That, for all its myriad of wonderful scenery and lands, nature belied serious and deadly threats littered everywhere, and only those who were experienced should dare head out into the open world alone – and it was very reasonable to believe his words. The world, albeit as explored as it was, still held dangers round not all but a chosen few corners. When one ventured near the big cities, though, the worst thing you could come across would probably be an ill-tempered human. And seeing as Rigel and Anderfil wouldn’t be going too far from civilisation, Hern decided to would brush off the remarks while Rigel just tried not to think about the dangers he was about to possibly place himself in.

Midway down the street the boys passed one of only two coffee shops in the entire town: Coppers Twist, and by some stroke of luck it had remained open despite all the other shops closing. Thistle Street called itself the unofficial hub for all coffee goers within the town. This was because Marionette’s – the only other coffee shop – sat just a few stores down from where Coppers Twist was, and, of course, the boys had to disagree on which was better. Rigel was all for Marionette’s, while Hern stood next to Coppers Twist vigilantly. Though any disregard for one another’s opposing café preferences weren’t voiced today; only one was open and that made things quite easy.

“Harold’s obviously made the right choice,” commented Hern as they stopped outside Coppers Twist.

As dead as the street was, the shop had about two dozen people sitting merrily within it, getting quick fixes of caffeine before the celebrations to come.

Rigel scoffed.

“If you want a quick brew, mate, all you have to do is ask.”

Hern shoved him.

“Shut it, you … but you’re entirely right,” he said mumbling at the end.

“Never wrong?” Rigel chuckled as the two made their way towards the shop.

The outside of the caffeine establishment held large plain glass windows giving excellent views in and out of the store. And the shops exteriors was a charcoal black, with the name Coppers Twist written in extravagant fancy golden writing above in a large banner.

Rigel pushed open the door and a loud bell rung out from above and the smell of what must have surely been every flavour of coffee washed over them. The shop was a large open-plan room, with a long thin copper counter on one side and sturdy black metal tables scattered about on the other. The walls weren’t painted either, the bricks were left bare for all to see, and above them, a large open square looked up into the second floor in a sort of half-balcony. But by far the thing which drew the eyes most had to be the large gold and black industrial machine sitting behind the counter. Pipes ran in all directions threw and outside the mechanism all leading to about six nozzles on the front facing side. This was what created the coffee. Thus was the very distinctive draw of Coppers Twist; it capitalized on Skylans vastly growing steam market.

Both stores, you see, had their own unique draws; Marionette’s proudly paraded itself as the only store within all of Sera to hold true to the old ways, brewing coffee for hours on end and manually pressing the beans, giving what they believed a better taste; Coppers Twist, however, threw those old ways out the window in favour for the far more efficient steam engines appearing up and down the country. It’s become a little bit of a friendly competition between the two shops; old verses new.

Rigel lead the way as they approached the counter. On the other side, a tall, white-apron adorning man fiddled around with switches and handles in practised rhythm. He had muted ginger hair which was closer to brown than anything else, and a great bushy beard which seemed to have grown in such a way that made the man look as if he were constantly smiling.

Rigel came to a stop and leaned on the counter while Hern grabbed the only barstool left.

“How’s it going, Harold?” asked Rigel.

The man turned his head, his hands still running around the machine even as his eyes left it, and smiled.

“It’s the birthday man, himself,” he said in a voice like bubbling fizz. “Same as always, I expect?”

“Too right,” said Rigel, and he nodded towards Hern. “Same for him, as well, please.”

Harold nodded and went back to working his machine. Rigel liked coming here for more than just the designed look too; Harold was the only one in the entire town to refer to him as an adult. And call it smugness, but Rigel felt just that little bit older after hearing it.

“See that spot upstairs,” said Hern, peering up through to the second floor. Rigel nodded, already knowing the spot he meant. “We’re taking that one, yeah?”

“Here you go!” Harold suddenly said right next to them, placing a large cup of black espresso and a creamy latte onto the counter.

“Cheers, Harold,” said Rigel, fumbling around to reach the correct change. Harold saw this and quickly held up a hand while shaking his head.

“No need. You can see I’m already getting quite a bit of business, it’s on the house.” His bushy beard pulled up in that of a warm smile.

“Shut up, Harold, you’re getting money,” said Rigel humouredly.

Harold chuckled and said, “You get one every year, this is that one. Now take it.” He ignored Rigel’s incredulous stare and went to serve another customer.

Rigel chuckled and shook his head, mentally noting to pay the barista double next time, thanked him kindly, and he and Hern made for their favourite spot: a table on the edge of the second floor balcony which gave a perfect view out the two-story windows.

Hern flopped down and took a sip of his double-espresso before saying, “When’s Florence getting here ’gain?”

“’Bout twelve, I think,” said Rigel.

The boys then took to sitting in silence for a moment, listening to the people around them and the clangs and bangs from the machine creating coffee downstairs. Café’s were always a calming thing for Rigel, and simply the atmosphere of the place was likeable. He had come here to write most of his essays and drag through his university personal statement. Hern loved the place for most of the same reasons, but it was the weekly newspaper which drew him here.

Rigel eventually leaned across and grabbed one of said newspaper from the empty table alongside them and started scouring the back page with tense eyes. The front faced towards Hern and the older boy could make out the heading, 25th World Cup celebrations as Banifell win bid to host.

“Rea’s probably having a good time with that,” said Hern.

Rigel looked up at once and asked, “with what?” Hern nodded to the front of the paper and Rigel flipped it over to inspect the title.

“What’s it say?” asked Hern, searching around for another paper, to no avail.

Rigel studied the section and read allowed:

“With the 25th World Cup now a mere year away, Banifell has come out ahead of host competitors Bridgmound and St Myrell and won the bid to host. With a monstrous three new stadiums built, two more than either competitors, the Three Nations Association (TNA) saw fit to award Banifell with host status. Lord Minister Jacqueline is said to be ecstatic with the news and told The International that, ’the world cup will see a staggering influx of tourism and diversity. It will give Banifell’s locals a chance to show off their city and the cup will see a boost to the economy which some will find helpful.’ With Banifell’s smallest stadium, New Hanorsfield, able to sit 90,000 at full capacity and the renowned Halo Stadium topping out at 175,000, the 25th World Cup is looking to be well catered for next year.”

“Honestly quite jealous of Rea right now,” Hern grumbled to himself.

Rigel agreed, flipping the paper over.

“She’s in for it when the tourists all pour in.”

“So what’s the boards saying?” Hern asked after a minute, taking another sip.

Rigel flipped the paper over and started scanning tensely, studying a long list of team names up and down the back page.

“It’s looking good,” he said after a moment, “Arbadoure City beat Fort George-”

“Really?” said Hern, sitting up straighter.

Rigel gained a smirked look.

“Mate, it gets better; Chapel Place beat Viewford Herald four, one.”

Hern leaned back, clapping his hands together and said through laughter, “My boys! They’re on the way, for sure. Who they up against next? Please tell me it’s Jamieston.”

“Nope, better.”

Hern gave his friend a shocked look.

“Shut up! Don’t you dare!”

“St Myrell, Chapel Place,” said Rigel, folding the paper and tossing it to the nearest empty table.

Roughball was a large sport in the three nations of Sera, Skylan, and Fringrad. And nearly every town and city held a team of their own. Hern was an avid fan of the St Myrell team; they had been champions thrice in the last decade so prospects of them winning were all right, to say the least. Rigel, on the other hand, was all for Chapel Place; runners up countless times, they were always close to winning. But, of course, both teams would normally always lose to the reigning champions, Warbrin.

Hern smacked his now empty cup down on the table, fire burning bright in his eyes, and said, “I’m calling it now. St Myrell are taking it this time.”

Rigel scoffed at the thought.

“Mate, the Chaps are doing it, no arguments.”

“Five gilds on it, then?” snapped Hern, firing out his hand.

Rigel grabbed it and gave it a firm shake. “Five it is-”

“You’ve lost, old boy,” Hern sniggered.

Rigel ignored him and started talking about the other teams.

They stayed there for about two hours, discussing the finer points of strategy for their chosen teams and the different matches still to be had. Over a hundred years of the modern game had passed and it was still going strong.

It wasn’t until the clock struck half-eleven did they make a move. They came downstairs, dropped their cups off with Harold, and set off towards the outside of town.

It wasn’t long before the boys passed out of Thistle Street and onto the one which would take them out the north end of the town, Rosebery Street. The houses round here weren’t as big or as the large terraced houses surrounding Minister Square, but they did, however, boast large acre gardens which the houses in the centre of the town did not. Rigel thought himself lucky whenever he thought about his own home; he got the best of both and had a large central home which was part of the seven original houses.

They continued walking on this street headed towards the northern entrance to the town, the only things around those parts were the beginnings of the Lerington forest and a long path which shot straight out of the town and delved into the depths of the wood.

“So we just gonna hang out here until Florence arrives?” asked Hern, kicking a few loose stones from the cobbled ground. There wasn’t much out here but the street, houses and a few stones.

Rigel had to mull it over for a moment.

“Suppose so. Unless you’ve got a better idea?” he said slowly.

Hern grunted beside him and studied the road ahead a little harder.

“If I had any better ideas we wouldn’t be at the end of Rosebery Street, now, would we?” he mumbled, kicking another stone which shot off and bounced off a nearby steam pipe. Great copper steam pipes every so often came out of the houses and travelled along the corner of the road before disappearing down into the ground. They were all connected to the steam room nestled at the south-west of the town. Hundreds of pieces of coal burned there, every day, producing steam power for all – but every house had an emergency engine just in case anything happened. As far as Rigel knew, humans were the only ones on the planet to utilise steam power as a source for all. The Fringradians used about a quarter of what the Seran and Skylanian people did. Ghouls and valcirins had no time for what they called The Machine. So humanity had all the power they wanted, and it still infuriated Rigel to no end that Warbrin didn’t give the order for rail travel to reach the southern end of Sera.

Rigel tapped the tips of his toes as he walked and said thoughtfully, “You never know, mind you, some wagon could come down stacked full of gold. We’d be set for life,” He wondered, referring to Hern’s earlier statement

“I’d just move to Warbrin and rule the world,” said Hern.

“Right then! Like you could,” barked Rigel, grinning wildly.

“You kidding?! I’m the prime contender here,” replied Hern, tossing around a stone from the ground.

“Aside from high fantasies, what you planning to do tomorrow while I’m gone?”

“Don’t worry, mate, I don’t need you around all the time to have fun,” Hern told Rigel with a condescending voice.

“Shut up, don’t lie. You just sit in and cry when I’m not around,” Rigel laughed, turning and looking at Hern. They had finally arrived at the edge of town and stopped at the beginning of the forest. Even though the trees here were recently planted, they boasted a tall and strong height.

“Oh, sure, obviously I sit and dry my tears with all the grass I don’t sit and pick all day,” rumbled Hern, throwing the stone deep into the forest.

They sat themselves back against the nearest tree facing onto the now dirt path.

“I’ll be finding golden leaves growing on these trees soon, as well.”

“You could probably have Florence cast something for that,” Hern pointed out in a matter of fact voice. As soon as the words left his mouth, both of them looked at each other and then quickly at the leaves and then back to each other again, grins appearing on both their faces.

“Claimed!” screamed Rigel.

“Right, then! You can have fifty diamonds and a couple of houses, too, while you’re at it. I’m asking her,” snapped Hern.

“Yeah, well I claimed it.”

“I’ll tell Alison you were the one that took her bourbons,” Hern warned.

Rigel’s eyes popped out his head and he looked at Hern, aghast at the thought.

“Fine, we can both ask,” he barked after a moment; arguing with Hern proved fruitless anyway. His friend punched the air triumphantly and began thinking of what goldmine awaited them if Florence could do it. They both shared a chuckle thinking about such.

Time slowly trickled on after that and Rigel decided to drift off into thought staring at the clouds. The shapes they made never ceased to amuse him; today saw the clouds serve up a rather odd looking boat with sails that travelled backwards and a small wheel that looked similar to a water wheel but it had spokes that travelled far past the rim and ended in great big spikes. At one point he saw a hundred different steam inventions all melded into one, then he seen a dragon drifting lazily. Clouds always did what they want.

But what spoiled the silence where the bees. Every now and again one would buzz past Rigel and it wouldn’t annoy him in the slightest. Though they, without fail, took a rather fond liking to Hern and buzzed around him for a couple of moments before realizing there wasn’t any pollen and buzzing off. Now, it was safe to say that Hern absolutely despised bees; he hated them with a passion. And he reacted differently each time, hands normally flailing or jumping up and running for a few steps, wishing he had a steam gun or cannon to end them before they stung him. Each time was accompanied by his shrieking and this continued on throughout the morning, Rigel looking at the clouds and Hern avoiding bees, until both boys eventually drifted off into a light snooze with the hot sun helping somewhat.

Sometime later, the sun had crept over the sky and soon found itself in its highest position, noon, when something happened. The trees in the forest started to creak and crack as though some giant beast were pushing them. Some even sounded as if they were getting physically pushed over. Even the tree the boys snored against leaned back and moved slightly. They were awoken when said tree let out an ear-shattering crack.

CRACK!

“Not the bees!” shrieked Hern, jumping up and spinning round.

Rigel was a little more aware and realized it was the tree.

“Look!” he yelped and grabbed Hern’s shoulder who was still flustered.

Hern stopped and looked to where Rigel pointed and something was happening to the path that lead into the forest. Something odd. The trees that would normally be standing still and straight, not as straight as a pencil or a ruler, mind you, but at least stagnant to the naked eye … were bending. They were bending outward from the path at the bottom in a half circle shape. The bottom stayed were it was but the middle bent straight out and curled slowly back to its original position as the tree travelled upwards. The boys stared. The trees should have snapped by now, at least – logic simply implored that they did so, but nothing. They all curled around the path in such an extraordinary position that the path looked more like a royal carriage way. It certainly held enough room now to fit four, maybe five carriages.

“I don’t like this,” said Hern in a worried voice as he took a slow and calculated step backwards.

“Maybe we should go,” Rigel agreed slowly as he, too, started to creep backwards. The cracks and snaps of the trees seemed to fill the air even more now and both boys now walked backwards at a normal pace. They were about to turn tail and jog back when Hern stopped and tapped Rigel repeatedly.

“What’s that?” he snapped, pointing down to the very end of the path.

Rigel squinted, he could see something. No. Not something, someone.

“It’s Florence!” yelled Rigel.

Far in the distance, walking towards them was the witch, Florence. She wore black trousers and a black suit jacket that seemed to do nothing but add to her character. Her hair was snow white and it tumbled down her head to her ears and on her head she wore a small bowler cap hat that somehow seemed to repel the leaves as they fell from the surrounding trees. She walked with grand poise using a piano black vinyl cane. But another thought came into Rigel’s head, and that was: was it Florence doing this? Now, Rigel knew witches had a profound effect on the world around them but never so much as this. Mind you, he had never actually seen Florence arrive, he normally found her turning up at his door just as he was about to leave or in similar situations.

Florence also appeared to be walking aside someone else, they noticed. This was going to, apparently, be the third time that she brought someone along. This other person was a little bit taller and, as best as Rigel could see from his distance, carried him or herself far more gracefully than the witch. This other person wore obelisk black robes that fit the shape of his or hers body a little better than Florence’s. Built for moving, perhaps? That. and they looked like they were from older days. Robes weren’t very much used in today’s age; far outdated by trousers and shirts. The person’s hair was long and flowed with a little too much fluidity.

“Come on!” said Rigel excitedly, making a start for the sorceress.

“Wait!” shrieked Hern, grabbing him. Rigel was about to complain but Hern pointed to the trees. They were still bending frighteningly far from Florence and the other person.

Rigel huffed in annoyance.

“If they can walk through it then we can, too. Come on!” he told his friend.

Hern took a worrying glanced at the curving trees but nonetheless agreed and they both set off towards the witch.

When they got closer, Rigel could see the serene smile of Florence and he could now see that the person next to him was a woman. And she wasn’t a witch or wizard like he’d previously thought; he would recognise those very specific type of emerald green eyes anywhere. She was a ghoul. He almost stopped dead after that realisation. Many tales and gruesome facts had been divulged about the ghouls, but he pushed them away and normally made light of their extra abilities. Florence was walking alongside her so if must be safe, Rigel told himself. Hern, who was tiptoeing along behind his friend, couldn’t help but stay smack bang in the middle of the path away from the trees, eyeing them cautiously.

Rigel held no such qualms about the big wooden things and marched on towards the witch. And once close enough, he waved frantically.

“Florence!” he called out happily.

The witch seemed to only now notice him, and she smiled as Rigel came to a halt before her.

“Been a while, Rigel,” said Florence in a warm voice only old people can have, contrary to her young face. “How’s your birthday been, so far?”

Rigel glanced back at Hern.

“Same as usual. He’s been no help whatsoever; destroyed the food table in the house-”

“Oi! Was bloody good food!” Hern shouted from behind.

Rigel shook his head before adding, “And I think my arms are about to fall off from all the birthday dumps I’ve gotten.”

“Oh, that hardly seems anything to complain about,” Florence told him casually. “Why, when I was at a birthday for a long past friend of mine … oh, I’ve quite forgotten his name. Well he’d already drank the entire array of beverages available to him by twelve after starting at ten.”

“Twelve!?” said Hern in astonishment. He’d eventually gotten over his small fear of the trees breaking and hitting him to stand alongside side the others.

Florence favoured him a comical look.

“Lovely to see you, too, Hern. And he was a Fringradian, so I expected nothing less. Needless to say, he almost ended up in hospital due to that indulgent night.”

“Sounds more like a challenge than anything else,” said Rigel, giving a light push on Hern’s shoulder. Hern nodded in agreement.

Florence gave them both a piercing look.

“Boys,” she said sharply. “I trust you both know to never try and out match a Fringradian when it comes to drinks. They’re quite fond of the stuff,” she told them.

“Sure thing,” rumbled Hern. He then suddenly took notice of the ghoul standing with them and jumped slightly. “Can I ask who that is, by the way?” he said pointing at her.

“Ah, this …” Florence started but stopped. She flipped her cane up and smacked Hern’s pointing finger. “Do stop pointing, Hern. It’s rude in many cultures,” she quipped. Hern made a face but dropped his hand and nodded. “This is Meliya. She’s a ghoul messenger.” Florence gestured with a hand to the ghoul standing before them.

Rigel frowned at the fact and said, “Never thought I’d see a ghoul in Watsonford. She’s safe right?”

Florence couldn’t stop the laughter bursting out at Rigel’s question.

“Meliya’s not about to eat the entire town, if that’s what you mean.”

Rigel turned back to the ghoul, looking like he had just discovered a treasure trove.

“Well that’s swell. Lovely to meet you, then, Meliya.”

Said ghoul bowed her head slightly in acknowledgement.

“Pleasure’s all mine,” she said in an innocent voice which looked and sounded completely out-of-sorts for a ghoul. And the swords hanging from their sheaths all over her simply screamed anything but innocent.

Up close, Rigel could tell why the ghouls were differentiated from all others: she had bright surreal vivid emerald eyes that moved with quick precision. Ghouls all held the standard colour and it was that which set them apart from all others. Rigel also noticed that, upon closer inspection and disregarding the lengthy swords, Meliya was armed to the teeth with small daggers here and a letter opener sized swords there. He suddenly found himself thinking back to what Anderfil had said about the outside world truly being dangerous and Meliya being a messenger ghoul meant her travelling between the ghoul cities throughout the world.

Rigel found himself even more excited when his mind ran the words friends with a ghoul through him. Ghouls, you see, have never truly left their reputation for the beast-like race that they were previously. And while it was fact that the ghouls in the past ate humans in cold blood, it wasn’t the story in today’s age. Though, the stigma was still labelled in big bold writing on their entire race which made for relations with the other inhabitants almost null and void. And while they were not actively hated upon or abused, it was frowned to invite a ghoul into one of the bigger cities. But, of course, Watsonford had to be the middle ground. The town’s mayor, Elizabeth, proclaimed all races were open to enter the town’s borders whenever they pleased, so long as they held no ill intentions, that is. And it was partially that reason why Florence offered the ghoul to accompany her to the town. Meliya wouldn’t normally do so, she was a relative novice in her messaging career. Her current task was only her ninth assignment.

Now, Hern knew some bits and parts about ghouls, but he didn’t really care at the moment, for he had his eyes transfixed on the surrounding trees.

“Is it you doing this, Florence?” he asked the witch bluntly, waving a hand to the trees and bushes all of which were leaning further and further away from the group.

Florence looked at the forest in question as if she had only just now noticed.

“Oh, I think the forest still has a slight distaste for me,” she said thoughtfully.

“The forest does?” Rigel blurted out confused while glancing around him.

“Indeed, the forest,” said Meliya plainly. “It is perfectly alive and well, as is all other plant life. You would know such if, perhaps, you humans had the knowledge.”

“Condescending green-eyed little git,” muttered Hern. He had already developed a dislike for her. The younger ones were often blunt and simple, no beating around the bush.

At that point, Florence tapped her cane on the ground, making a muted snapping sound bush of their ears and ring through the forest.

“Remember, Meliya, humans aren’t as straight to the point as ghouls are,” she said softly, turning her old eyes on the ghoul in question. “And these two might not know, but others do.”

Meliya looked as if she had just remembered the world’s biggest secret and looked down, slightly ashamed.

“I’m sorry. I’m … somewhat new to this,” she apologised.

Rigel and Hern exchanged a bewildered look with each other.

“She’s young and hasn’t had much contact with humans,” supplied Florence. “Fifty-five is when they’re first given the privilege-”

“Hold on, fifty-five?!” exclaimed Hern.

Florence nodded.

“Yes. Anything below sixty for a ghoul is considered young,” she told him, as if it were simple knowledge. And it was true, ghouls from every city counted anything below either sixty or seventy to be young. And normally ghouls below that age barrier held not the slightest clue on how to act around the other races. Their quirks like being straight to the point and blunt about everything were still present for all to see.

Hern spluttered for a moment but regained himself and he pulled Rigel quickly towards him.

“Ghouls are immortal, aren’t they?” he whispered quickly.

“I think so,” replied Rigel. He got a ’you think so’ look from Hern. “Oi, I only know as much as you do,” he barked in a normal voice while raising his hands.

“Immortal from age, Hern, yes,” said Meliya calmly. “However, I am just as susceptible to death from damage as you are, albeit I require several tiers more than humans do. And believe me, my age stands for nothing against some of us.”

Both boys snapped their heads to the ghoul, their faces painted incredulously. Hern asked that question in a voice barely above a whisper, Rigel himself had to double-check what Hern had said before answering, and here was Meliya speaking as if they had asked her the question outright.

Meliya let a smirk pull her lips and tapped one of her ears.

“I can hear about twenty-times better than you.”

“Well that’ll certainly put on a show, tell you that for free,” grumbled Hern, annoyed the ghoul had heard him.

Rigel sighed next to his friend, he could see he was going to have a long day with this.

“Well, are we just going to stand here like dear caught by a lion or are we going to carry on?” fussed Florence, moving her cane forward and starting off down the path.

Rigel and Hern soon fell into a nice walk beside her while Meliya drifted behind them. She had a look of bewilderment about her.

“How has your mother been, Rigel?” Florence asked merrily after a minute.

Rigel faltered slightly.

“She’s doing good, I think,” he told her woodenly. “That sickness hasn’t left her yet but I think it’s on the mend, at least.”

Florence peered down at him, concern etched on her face.

“She’s still not mended? Has it gotten any worse?”

“No,” said Rigel. Though, he somehow doubted his own words. “It’s just, like sitting there and not moving. I think she’ll get better eventually, though.”

“Yes,” murmured Florence slowly. She looked down the path to the nearing end and her face belied the amount of thinking she was doing.

“Florence, could you do some magic to stop the trees doing that?” asked and irritated Hern at last. He had his slightly scared eyes pinned on the trees.

Florence chortled.

“Dear Hern, I do not command nature. I merely ask it to do things for myself. If the trees want to bend away from me then let them. If they break then it’s their own fault.”

“So that’s a no, then…” Hern said in a deadpan voice.

Florence glanced at him.

“No,” she agreed. “If you want anything done by nature then best ask the ghouls. They have the strongest connection to the planet, after all.”

Hern’s eyes snapped towards Meliya who was studying the trees and plant life as she walked.

“Hey, emerald!” he called. Meliya came out of her daze and narrowed her eyes at the boy. “Can you do anything about the trees?” Hern continued, a little more politely.

She gave him a sour look and said a little acidly, “No. They aren’t keen on Florence, here.”

“Why’s that?” Rigel asked looking at the witch, stumped at the logic behind it.

Florence frowned for a moment but breathed a chuckle.

“It seems that is a story for another time, Rigel; we’ve reached are destination,” she said fuzzily.

They had just left the forest and were now back into the beginnings of Watsonford. The heat was certainly far more intense out in the open, as opposed to within the shade of the forest. A bee buzzed past Hern and sent him scampering off a few yards ahead of the three. Meliya found genuine amusement at this and smiled to herself as she held out her hand and the bee came to a soft landing on the tip.

“Scared of bees, are we?” she asked in a voice of someone who had just discovered a cheat to life.

Hern glowered at her.

“Don’t you say a word,” he growled.

“What is Meliya doing here, anyway? No offence,” asked Rigel.

Florence raised her eyebrows and turned to the ghoul. She had almost forgotten that Meliya was actually here for a specific reason and not just to visit the town.

“I bumped into her on my travels here, she wanted to summon me to Endoll but I declined. She was quite insistent,” Florence told them, eyeing the swords Meliya carried. Some of which were quite close to her own throat at one point. She gave the ghoul an impassive stare as if to confirm her silent thinking.

“It was urgent!” snapped Meliya, pinching her temple.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that for a second,” countered Florence, staring pointedly at Meliya. “But in my books, Rigel’s birthday comes before anything,” she turned back to said boy, “So I set off here and told here that whatever business I had in the capitol could wait. She ended up following me and she’s apparently going to escort me to the ghoul city after.”

“What’s so urgent?” Rigel asked glancing at Meliya. The ghoul was now looking directly at Rigel. And not just any sort of normal look, this look felt like she was drilling a hole in his head with her eyes. Rigel suddenly felt uncomfortable under her sight.

“I’m sorry, but that doesn’t really concern humans,” she said coldly. Rigel’s lips formed a thin line and he turned to Florence for an explanation but the witch just shrugged.

“Come on,” the witch said with soft excitement. “I can’t wait to have some of your mothers fresh mint tea.” She then set off for Rigel’s home with Meliya close behind.

Rigel stood for a moment in the sunlight, staring scornfully at the ghoul and he took a breath to calm his simmering nerves. The only sound that met his ears were the trees cracking and snapping back into place behind him and the distancing steps of Florence and Meliya. He wondered to himself if he was over thinking things – he was bad for that. He had overheard a conversation between Sten and Mr Burlist and it went along the lines of saving the night.

Rigel, of course, took that quite literally and thought the town was going to fall to ruin. It turned out it was just a sweet mulled wine that the two had to cook for a second time.

Rigel was interrupted from his musings when Hern gave a single hollow laugh beside him.

“Don’t like her, too?” he mused.

Rigel shook his head once.

“Nah, it’s not that – might just be the way she is. Did you catch the way she answered me?”

“What? Rejecting your question flat out? Yeah, I saw it. But I wouldn’t think anything of it. She’s probably one of those characters that thinks she’s all high and mighty and stuff. Just leave it,” Hern told him. He had a point, Rigel thought.

Rigel heard from travellers making their way through Watsonford every now and again that ghouls tended to think themselves above most other races. Sure, they were an apparently peaceful race, but that didn’t stop them thinking greatness fell from their very steps.

“Cannot wait for the cake later on,” said Hern longingly.

“Hopefully it- crap they’re that far already!? Come on!” Rigel blurted and starting jogging.

Florence and Meliya had passed off Rosebery Street and on to Thistle Street. The boys caught up to the two as they entered Minister Square.

Florence gave Meliya a brief but insightful description of the place as they passed, pointing out some of the original houses facing towards them. Rigel got a quick look at a good bit of his favourite stalls getting put up and his excitement started building.

They only walked for a small while longer when they arrived at Rigel’s front door at last.

“This, here, is Rigel’s home!” announced Florence, waving at the five story jigsaw puzzle of a house.

Meliya raised her eyebrows at something.

“It’s built into that oak-wood tree,” she stated slowly.

Florence looked up at the tree and back to Meliya.

“Yes?” she asked simply.

“And it’s still alive? That shouldn’t be possible, no human has the techniques to do that.”

“And yet, here stands a house that does,” said Florence airily. The witch continued staring distantly at the house and did nothing whilst Meliya stood patiently for a couple of seconds, as well manners implored, but she became bored quickly.

“Are we going in?” she asked.

“Nope. We’re going to wait,” said Florence simply.

“For what?”

“Nothing in particular. I was just curious to see if you would or not.”

“Creepy witch,” muttered Rigel from the witch’s side.

Florence rapped him on the head with a hand.

“Ears aren’t quite as they used to be. Speak up, Rigel!” she said sarcastically and loud.

Rigel held the back of his head and scrunched his face in defeat whilst muttering, “Didn’t say a word, Florence.”

“Your silence is deafening, dear Hern,” rumbled the witch without looking at said boy.

Hern didn’t want any part in annoying the witch whatsoever – easier things could be done.

“Is that a certain witch I hear?” called Alison as she opened the front door with a soft smile.

Florence forgot her current endeavour and nodded her head slightly with a bitter-sweet smile. Rigel was right, she thought. Alison didn’t look well. Apart from that, though, Rigel’s mother had aged from Florence’s last visit, even though it was just last year. Alison, on the other hand, found herself inwardly shocked; Florence hadn’t moved at all in age, or if she had she hid it well. Alison filed that away to ask about later.

“A pleasure to see you as always, Miss Alison,” said Florence.

“Oh, shut up, Florence, you’re always with those formalities,” bustled Alison with a light chuckle.

Rigel scratched his head.

“Always does that with you, doesn’t she,” he wondered aloud. He then waved a hand at Meliya. “I think she’s probably gonna be the same, as well.”

“I believe she has a name,” quipped Florence sharply.

“Green-eyes,” muttered Hern while trying to cover it with a cough. Meliya was far too aware of the surrounding noises and turned to Hern with fire in her eyes.

“Now, now, Hern. Be nice,” said Alison, defusing Meliya’s growing annoyance. “It’s not often we have a ghoul in our humble town. Might I invite you in, Miss …?”

Meliya smiled for what seemed like the first time today, revealing a row of piano white teeth.

“Meliya, Miss Alison,” she said politely and bowed her head as she did with the boys.

“Well then, Meliya, come on in and make yourself at home. Florence, I trust you know how to find the kitchen.”

“Don’t worry about me,” rumbled Florence, waving a hand dismissively.

Alison stepped aside and both Meliya and Florence entered the hall.

Florence took off her bowler cap and placed it on a hook normally reserved for jackets and rested her her cane in the corner of the porch. She favoured keeping her trusty cane on her person most of the time but Alisons house was a relaxing thing for the witch. Florence then looked left at Meliya and frowned meaningfully at her sheathed swords and many other daggers upon her. Meliya, in return, shook her head aghast.

“You’ve studied human traditions, haven’t you?” Florence pointed out, unblinking.

“In all six forms, yes,” Meliya agreed.

“Then you’ll know it’s polite to disarm yourself once invited into somebodies home. It’s a trust issue,” Florence told her. She jabbed a thumb to the coat hangers and shoes strewn out over the hall.

“I really like my silvery,” mumbled Meliya with a curdled smile. Obviously these studies of hers weren’t up to scratch.

Rigel was trying to get his head around the fact people studied human aspects and rituals and it made him feel quite similar to the animals he had studied while at school. He couldn’t think of people doing that sort of thing for the ghouls or any other of the races. History’s about them, sure, but full blown study? He wasn’t too keen on it.

Meliya quickly untied her swords and pulled out three different sized daggers within the same sheath and placed them all atop the shoe box. She then took out two other swords on both her legs and then yet another sword secured on her back. Finally, as if there could be more after all that, she took daggers out from each wrist and placed it on top of the now piled high stack of deadly weapons.

She turned back to Florence who in return smiled approvingly, dismissive of the weapons. The witch then turned her grinning face towards Alison who mouthed the words ’thank-you’. She had been too busy grown more and more shocked as the stack piled higher to say anything. And it must be said, she wasn’t actually aware that such a sheer volume of offensive weapons could be held on a single person.

Alison shook her head, opened the hallway doors, and the three of them vanished into the living-room.

Once they had all gone, the boys couldn’t help bursting out into hushed laughter. Hern put hand on his stomach.

“Didn’t realise coming out here required so many weapons,” he laughed.

Rigel had composed himself a little faster and took a deep breath.

“Idiots. Maybe the ghouls get things wrong because they hardly speak to us?”

“Or maybe they aren’t as intelligent as they think.”

“Right you two. That’s enough,” snapped Alison sternly, coming back into the hallway. “She’s a guest and she’ll be treated as such.”

Both boys muttered an apology and entered the house, such was the authority of the little woman that was Rigel’s mother.

They trudged into the living room and found Florence alread sitting with a cup of tea and Meliya was eyeing Alison’s Crownfield set of tea cups sitting on the shelf with curios wonder.

Rigel sat in the only armchair in the room and looked at the cups while Hern slumped on the sofa.

“Mum got them from a tourist ages ago,” Rigel informed the ghoul. “Think it was before I was born, actually,”

“Recognise them, I think,” said Meliya, far away in a daydream.

Florence cleared her throat.

“So what’s the story so far, Rigel? Who gave you what?” she asked.

Rigel then spent the next ten minutes recounting the eventful morning he had and Hern supplied a sentence or two when needed, as well. The boys also noticed that as they chatted, Florence kept refilling her tea cup without actually moving and somehow never ran out. She would take five drinks and the cup would be empty, but then she would take sixth drink and it would miraculously refill, and this cycle repeated.

“How’d you do that?” Rigel asked when his curiosity couldn’t bare it.

Florence returned a puzzled look.

“What?” she asked before doing the same thing again.

“That right there! You keep refilling your cup without moving?”

Florence looked at the cup for a moment and then back to Rigel.

“Little bit of magic for us lazy magicals when we don’t want to move,” she grinned.

Hern gawked at her.

“Oh, you jammy git,” he grumbled.

Florence frowned at him and said woodenly, “If you could do magic, Hern, the world would not be as it is today.”

“Obviously,” started Hern with a smirk. “I’d change everything for the better. I’d take my good friend, Rigel, here, along for the ride-”

“Which I wouldn’t mind-”

“Exactly, and we’d do anything we wanted.”

Florence tutted at them both.

“Like I said, wouldn’t be the same.”

They all lapsed into silence then; Florence was content on drinking her tea, Meliya was still studying the house’s ornaments placed randomly around the room, Hern was leaning back into couch with his arms folded, most likely in a trance about magic, and Rigel was thinking about all that could have happened to the witch in the year he hadn’t seen or heard from her.

“So, Florence,” Rigel asked once he got tired of the quietness. “What did you get up to in the last year? Anything eventful? Get into a scrap with anyone?”

Florence’s eyes squinted slightly as the question hit her head and she mulled over if she could actually say; divulging the duties of a witch wasn’t the done thing. That said, Florence had to debate whether she should or not and she worded nothing but random sounds while trying to come to a conclusion.

“Come now, Florence, you have to tell us,” said Alison, who had just came through with a tray of biscuits. She placed them upon the coffee table and stayed there glaring at Hern. “These are for everyone. Not just you,” she said flatly.

Hern looked around distraught.

“I didn’t even say anything,” he blabbered.

“No, but your eyes said more than enough,” Alison remarked.

Hern scrunched his face and turned away. At this point, the best possible thing hit Rigel’s mind: he couldn’t help but lean over and pick up a biscuit, slow and calculatingly. He took a whiff.

“These smell absolutely top notch,” he said loud enough for Hern to hear. He took a bite, “Mmm, mate, these are stupendous-”

“Right, I’m about five seconds from picking up that tray and decking you with it,” Hern warned.

“Didn’t you all want to know what I’ve done over the year?” asked Florence over the boys’ bickering.

They both turned to her in sync and nodded, forgetting about the biscuits. Disaster averted, thought Florence.

The witch ruffled her hair and put her cup down for the first time and said, “Well now, where to begin? Think Flyndester might be a good point, that’s the other ghoul city boys, up at the top-left border between Sera and Skylan,” she told them. “Anyway I was there just passing through on my way home when I got stopped by something rather odd: string of muggings had occurred earlier the same day. Now, that city is renowned as one of the safest places on the planet, you know, and the fact that the population is made up of ghouls. So you can understand I was concerned and, quite rightly, curious.

“Each of the victims also had a large amount of black, uh, gel on them – you wouldn’t understand the precise name for the stuff. So I obviously decided to follow it,” Florence trailed off for a second, lost in thought.

“So what happened? Did you find out what did it?” asked Rigel confused that he hadn’t heard of this. Mind you, word doesn’t travel very fast in Sera, and the fact it was a ghoul city,

“I have no idea,” said Florence thoughtfully. “I was lead on a wild good chase for the next week and lost track of whatever was doing it as soon as I started getting close to something. It was as if the person, or whatever it was, knew I was searching for it and ran,” she told them, amused at the thought.

“That’s right,” said Meliya, clicking her fingers as she did. “I remember hearing about the incidents when I was in Mayana. Arnaro was considering sending some support as well. I do not know the details – they were held from me due to my age-”

“Fifty-five,” muttered Hern. Rigel shoved him slightly and Hern grinned and shoved him back.

Alison just looked at Meliya and her eyebrows knitted together.

“You’ll have to tell me your secret,” she said jokingly, admiring Meliya’s flawless skin, as most ghouls had.

“Yes well, I would if I could, Miss Alison,” Meliya told her kindly. “As I was saying, Arnaro was going to send a division ghouls but they were stopped by Sosfin. He said the incidents received full investigatory controls from the Protection Force and with added aid, most likely a result of you, Florence, starting to intervene.”

“Yes,” Florence agreed as she started wondering what it could have been again. “Anyway,” she rattled, “we’ve chatted long enough. Rigel, front and centre,” she ordered, snapping her fingers. Rigel grumbled slightly about tired legs but got up and made his way over to the witch. Florence looked at him mischievously. “It’s about time I gave you your present,” she told him, pulling out a small red box from his from her pocket. Rigel’s eyes lit up with excitement, even Alison was slightly curious now. “This is for you.” She handed the small box to him.

“Thank you…” said Rigel meaningfully, taking the box and rolling it around. It didn’t sound like there was anything in it. Normally any of Florence’s presents were weird and wonderful inventions from the other big cities or, if not that, they were small cultured gifts from the Fringradians, ghouls or valcirins. Rigel looked back at the witch who only nodded towards the box.

“Open it, idiot,” came Hern’s loud order. Rigel spent no longer wondering what was in it and started delicately lifting the perfectly wrapped red paper. It came off surprisingly well and the actual colour of the box the red paper hid was glossy white. He lifted the lid and saw that inside sat a small white thing. Similar to the newly invented violin picks. It sat there on top of some cotton, not making any sort of sign that it weighed anything at all.

He looked up at Florence.

“What is it?”

“That, my dear Rigel, is something not many have the liberty of saying they own,” started Florence. “If I remember, there are only sixteen in the world. That is, apparently, a dragon scale.”

Rigel jumped a little, lurching to steady the box as he did. Dragon scale? He had to be joking. Rigel hadn’t read any books about dragons being in the world. Or if there were, then humanity hadn’t discovered them. And that was saying something, considering humans had ventured over most of the planet.

“How?” asked Rigel, the only word coming to his mouth.

Florence favoured him a thoughtful look.

“It’s said that dragon scales are forever lasting,” she told him – probably learned from one of the many books she had read. “They never shrivel away or turn to dust. And each colour brings something with them to its bearer. That white scale supposedly brings luck to the person who holds it, so much so that you can actually see its effects taking place, if you look closely enough. While I can’t guarantee its authenticity, I can bloody well guarantee you it broke my funds, so happy birthday.”

“How lucky is it?” asked Hern, eyeing the scale.

“Not sure, its most probably all talk, but it might be very lucky,” said Florence while picking up her tea cup again.

Hern delved thought at that moment; he knew magic was a very real thing in the world and that weird and wonderful creatures lived out there, so he didn’t put it past Florence to have, somehow, come across one. Rigel picked the scale out of the box and found that it wasn’t delicate at all, like he thought it would be – far from it. In fact, it felt like it could take most types of strains. He gave it a slight squeeze and it didn’t so much as budge.

“I take it these can withstand a lot, then?” Rigel asked, giving word to his pondering.

Meliya, from her chair beside the window, peered over and inspected the scale after hearing that and Florence nodded once.

“Correct. Not much can break a scale.”

“Make an armour out of them, you’d be unstoppable,” Hern wondered in awe.

“Think of the dragons, then. Their bodies were made from these things,” said Rigel, tossing the scale at his friend. Hern caught the scale, after missing it twice and flustering around keeping it in the air, and looked at it closely.

“Maybe it will bring you good luck when the festival starts,” Alison commented offhandedly. She bent down over the couches and squinted at the scale in question.

It took only a moment but when Alison’s words registered with Hern he sat up quickly, his mind raced and he slowly drifted his eyes towards Rigel. Said boy put out an open hand.

“The scale, mate,” he said carefully.

Hern tentatively got up and his hand suddenly found itself gripping the scale as if it were the only thing in the world that meant something. He flashed a cheeky grin at him.

“Come get it.” He then broke into an all-out sprint, more nimble and fast than a cat, through the hall and out the front door.

“See that little!” fumed Rigel as he chased after him. The three others watched the boys leave and pass the window before enjoying the silence for a moment; silence wasn’t a given in the household whenever Rigel and Hern were present, you see.

“Should be an amusing evening,” commented Florence before sipping her tea.

Next Chapter: Chapter 4: To Follow A Witch