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Meeting The Flock.

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    Aura observed in silence as Markus lifted the oppressive magic that had been weighing heavily on the young man’s chest. The young man’s labored breaths gradually steadied as the malevolent force dissipated, leaving behind a fragile sense of relief. Markus turned away, his back disappearing down the stairs with purposeful strides, leaving Aura alone with her thoughts. Her expression remained neutral, a cold mask that betrayed no hint of the turmoil beneath. With a quick movement, almost mechanical, she moved to the table where the young man had been restrained. She carefully untangled him from the restraints and pulled him off the table with a firmness that suggested both urgency and detachment. Aura then turned to the nearby shelves, her movements quick and deliberate. She grabbed a sturdy bag and began to stuff it with essential books and items, each object carefully chosen for its value and importance. Her actions were efficient, driven by a clear sense of purpose despite the rush of her mind surrounding her.

Before leaving, Aura paused at the counter beside the teapot. She reached for her wedding ring, slipping it from her finger with a deliberate motion. The ring, a symbol of a past that she was now distancing herself from, was placed gently on the counter, its gleam contrasting with the otherwise cluttered surface. With the bag now filled and the ring set aside, Aura grabbed the young man by the arm, her grip firm but not unkind. She pushed him towards the door, her frustration evident as she hissed through gritted teeth. “Stop your endless chattering and keep up.” Her voice was sharp, laced with an edge of impatience that belied her stoic exterior.

The young man, his eyes wide and uncertain, stumbled forward as they exited. Aura’s expression remained resolute, her mind clearly focused on the path ahead as she guided him out, the weight of their next steps looming large in her thoughts.

The ring was not the only thing left behind, under the bed was a small box in which she kept a set of old desert clothes, her gems and a pair of golden scissors. There was a letter attached to them which seemed as if it was an empty threat. ‘Return these to my shop in (town name) or so help me Aura, Love Violet.’ The lettering was perfect as if the writer of the note had taken extra time to make the letters curved and playful.

     The tailor’s shop stands at the corner of a busy street, its stone walls darkened by years of exposure to the elements. Rain cascades relentlessly from the thatched roof, drumming against the cobblestones below and creating a glistening sheen on the pavement. The street is alive with the sounds of the storm—rain tapping against window panes, the occasional roll of distant thunder, and the hurried footsteps of passersby seeking refuge from the downpour.

The shop's facade is dominated by large glass windows set in weathered wooden frames. Despite the heavy rain, the glass panes provide a view into the shop’s interior, but the sight is obscured by the darkness within. The only hint of activity inside is the soft, warm glow of a few oil lamps placed strategically around the room, their light barely piercing the gloom.

The wooden door of the shop is sturdy and unadorned, with an old brass handle that gleams faintly in the dim light. A small, hand-carved sign hangs above it, bearing the name of the tailor’s establishment in elegant, if slightly faded, script.”Vibrant Violet’s.” The sign sways slightly in the wind, adding a subtle movement to the otherwise static scene.

Upon entering, one is greeted by a hushed, cool atmosphere, heavy with the scents of damp wool and cedar. The interior is dimly lit, with shadows playing across the room as the oil lamps flicker. The walls are lined with wooden shelves and racks, but the garments and fabrics are mostly hidden by the encroaching darkness. The air is thick with the faint smell of leather and old fabric, a reminder of the countless pieces that have passed through the tailor's hands. However, the more one stepped in, the scent of sage would violate your nose, the smell creeping from the back.

The wooden counter along the back wall is cluttered with sewing tools—spools of thread, brass pins, and a variety of needles—alongside fabric swatches and half-finished garments. Behind the counter, a large wooden wardrobe stands slightly ajar, revealing glimpses of richly colored fabrics and intricate garments. The wardrobe's doors creak softly, adding to the ambiance of quiet contemplation.

In one corner of the shop, a wooden mannequin draped with a partially completed cloak stands like a sentinel. Its dark silhouette casts long, eerie shadows against the walls, the dim light highlighting the delicate embroidery that hints at the tailor's skill and artistry.

The floor is covered with a patchwork of worn rugs and faded carpets, their colors muted by years of use and the dampness from the storm outside. The rugs lie heavily with moisture, their edges curling slightly in the oppressive dampness of the air.

Overall, the tailor’s shop exudes an air of quiet, introspective solitude. The contrast between the bustling street outside and the somber, still atmosphere within reflects a place caught between the storm's fury and the craft's gentle artistry. The space is a retreat from the chaotic world outside, a sanctuary of creativity and tradition sheltered from the elements.

A woman emerged from the shadows of the tailor’s shop, her presence striking against the backdrop of the stormy night. Her sun-kissed skin glowed warmly, a stark contrast to the cold outside. Her long, vibrant red hair cascaded down her back in fiery waves. The flames melted into soft pink, not from more hair but from feathers as she extended her large top wings out as if stretching them open from being too cramped and confined. Under her arm, she carried a spool of thread, its rich, dark color hinting at the intricate work of her craft.

She was tall, her stature nearly matching that of the masked man who stood soaking from the rain. Her movements were deliberate and graceful, each step resonating with a quiet confidence. As she stepped fully into view, her piercing orange eyes—sharp and penetrating—locked onto the masked man’s. There was an intensity in her gaze, her eyes, bright and unwavering, seemed to penetrate the depths of his dark  pupils without any hint of struggle or hesitation. It was as though she could see through the very essence of his being, understanding him with effortlessness. 

With a slow, deliberate smile, she broke the silence. “Well, hello there mysterious,” she said, her voice smooth, melodious. Her greeting carried an air of both familiarity and intrigue, as if their meeting had been anticipated long before the storm began. Confidant was the only real word to describe her at that moment. She seemed bothered as she carried on with her work, walking towards the counter to place the spool down. Her back to him as she grabbed her measuring tape and hung it loosely around her neck. “Are you in need of a fitting? New weapon pocket?” She asked.

The woman’s gaze returned on the masked man as she awaited a response. When none came, her attention shifted, a flicker of surprise crossing her features. Her eyes widened, taking in the sight of his gloved hand, which was now extended towards her. In his open palm rested a pair of gleaming golden scissors, their ornate design catching the dim light and reflecting it in intricate patterns.

The scissors, with their elaborate handles and sharp, polished blades, seemed almost to shimmer with a life of their own. The woman’s eyes followed the path from his inscrutable gaze down to the glimmering offering, her expression shifting from curiosity to astonishment. The sudden contrast between the elegant, delicate tool and the stern, impassive figure of the masked man created a thick tension within the air.

“Where—where did you get these?!” Violet’s voice cracked with a mixture of disbelief and fury. Her usually poised and graceful demeanor shattered as she confronted the masked man. Her eyes, wide with panic, darted between the golden scissors in his hand and his hidden face. “Aura! Where is Aura? Did you hurt her?!” Her elegant composure gave way to a raw, unrestrained rage.

In a swift, practiced motion, Violet’s hand flew to the hilt of a blade concealed behind her back, her fingers closing around the cold steel with a tremor of anger. The weapon emerged with a sharp, metallic whisper, its blade catching what little light filtered through the darkened shop.

“Where is she?!” Violet demanded, her voice now a fierce, trembling roar. “What did you do to her?!”

The masked man stood unwavering, his posture calm and unyielding in the face of her fury. His gaze remained fixed on her, unflinching and detached.

“I am her husband,” he said, his voice a deep, steady monotone that cut through the tempest of her emotions. The simplicity of his words, spoken with a dispassionate clarity, seemed almost at odds with the chaos of the moment.

The man’s revelation hit Violet like a sudden jolt, the force of his words momentarily halting her movements. Her anger and fear, once so palpable, faltered and gave way to a deep, perplexing confusion. The truth of his claim hung in the air, mingling with the tense silence that followed. Violet’s mind raced, struggling to reconcile the man’s assertion with the unsettling presence of the golden scissors.

“Aura’s… husband?” Violet’s voice emerged as a hushed  whisper, barely audible over the steady patter of the rain against the shop’s windows. Her resolve wavered, replaced by a determined curiosity. If this was indeed the truth—or if it was a well-crafted deception—she was intent on uncovering it.

“Follow me,” she said, her voice regaining a measure of authority as she turned on her heel and strode purposefully towards the back of the shop. “I would like to talk.” Her tone, though firm, carried an edge of vulnerability as she led the way.

The back of the tailor’s shop was a stark contrast to the orderly front. This space was Violet’s personal domain, and it bore the marks of a life lived amidst both creativity and chaos. The small kitchen, situated against the back wall, was cluttered with half-used ingredients and pots that seemed to have been abandoned mid-meal. The area was dimly lit by a single flickering oil lamp that cast long shadows over the room.

Beyond the kitchen, a large wooden dining table dominated the space. It was strewn with an array of fabric swatches, sketches, and sewing tools, each item in its own state of disarray. The table, which doubled as both a dining and work area, was surrounded by three chairs. Each chair showed signs of wear, their surfaces scuffed and dented from years of use.

The room was a chaotic tapestry of unfinished projects. Mannequins stood in various stages of dress, their forms draped with partially completed garments. Some were adorned with elaborate patterns and rich fabrics, while others were left bare or shrouded in hastily pinned cloth.


“Well.” Violet’s voice sliced through the silence once more, its tone a blend of tentative calm and lingering tension. She moved with a graceful ease toward the back of the room, her hips swaying rhythmically with each step. Her wings, partly open, added to each of her movements, as if they were guiding her through the cluttered space.

As she approached the kitchen area, Violet’s gaze briefly swept over the disarray, and she made a swift decision. With a fluid motion, she lifted a stack of pots that had long since seen better days, their contents now a mysterious, likely molding mixture. The pots clattered together, stacked high as she tossed them into the trash can with a flick of her wrist, a faint odor of spoiled food briefly punctuating the air, though the smell seemed to quickly disappear against the overwhelming amount of sage.

With the offending pots out of sight, Violet turned her attention to the stove. She placed a polished teapot on its burner.  The act of setting the teapot down was both deliberate and soothing, a small ritual of normalcy amidst the chaos. She then retrieved two mismatched cups from a cluttered shelf, their designs faded but still charming in their own way.

Violet’s movements were smooth and practiced, each action carrying a sense of calm efficiency. As the teapot began to heat, she prepared to make tea, her wings gently folding against her back in a gesture of relaxation and focus.

The steam that began to rise from the teapot mingled with the faint aroma of old spices. It was a moment of quiet reprieve, a small act of hospitality in the midst of an otherwise tumultuous encounter. “How did you two meet?” She asked, turning her head slightly to the side so she could once again steal his gaze, nodding her head for him to sit down. 

“Saved her,” Markus said, his words clipped and direct. He moved to take a seat at the cluttered dining table, the weight of his presence a stark contrast to the disarray of Violet’s workspace. As he settled into one of the worn chairs, the mingling aromas of spices and brewing tea seemed to momentarily push his thoughts away. His mind wandered to the lavender garden that once flourished just outside a small cabin, where he had spent countless hours studying magic and helping Aura master the seals and incantations.

“I see.” Violet’s voice was laced with a hint of resignation as she took in his short response. She placed a steaming cup of tea in front of him, the rich aroma wafting between them as she settled into the chair across the table. She tapped her long nail against the rim of her own clay cup, her gaze fixed on him as if trying to read between the lines of his short words.

After a moment’s hesitation, she gave a small shake of her head, the gesture reflecting her struggle to process the situation. “So…” Violet began, her voice wavering slightly as she gathered her thoughts. “Where is she now… I mean— is she even alive?”

Markus responded with a single, confirming nod. “Yes.” His voice was steady, though it carried an underlying note of weariness. He lifted his mask slightly, just enough to take a sip of the scalding tea. The heat of the beverage was a sharp contrast to the cool air of the room, and while his taste buds had long since dulled, he could still discern the familiar flavor. This was Aura’s tea—prepared with the same care and subtlety she used each evening, a ritual he had come to cherish as she settled into her favorite spot to read.

As he drank, the muted flavors of the tea, though faint, brought with them a rush of nostalgia, mingling with the spices and stirring memories of quieter, more serene times.

“Then where is she?” Violet asked, her concern now shifting to a more pressing worry as she finally took a sip of her tea, her mind momentarily freed from the anxiety over her flock mate’s fate.

“I do not know,” Markus responded, taking a deeper, more contemplative sip of the tea. The warmth of the liquid was beginning to seep into him, a welcome relief as he continued to dry from the rain, though his clothes remain damp and heavy.

Violet’s anxiety gradually gave way to a stream of words as she settled into a more relaxed posture. “You know,” she began, her tone turning conversational as she stirred her cup absentmindedly. “Aura was a real pain growing up. I’m sure you know that, seeing as you live with her. I mean, I guess it’s not completely surprising that she got married. I mean, myself, sure—if I ever wanted to be tied down, maybe Harley could have found a partner at some point, but he’s really more of a pushover.” Violet waved her hand dismissively, as if casting aside the thought with a casual flick. “But Aura?” She continued, shaking her head with a mix of disbelief and reluctant admiration. “I have to admit, it’s a bit surprising. Maybe you two are a good match after all.” She rolled her eyes dramatically, then threw her hands up in a gesture of exasperation. “I mean, if she’s still alive and hasn’t been running off every five minutes, that’s something. I’m genuinely surprised.” Violet took another sip of her tea, her expression a mixture of resignation and fond annoyance. “Like I said, she was a real pain in my backside. Crass, with a dirty mouth, and showed me no respect whatsoever. You know? She never seemed to take anything seriously, and while she couldn’t outrun me or hit a target to save her life, here she is, acting like she’s some kind of all-seeing- Lori- or Vendeva’s pet..” Violet scoffed, the sound carrying a blend of grudging respect and lingering frustration. “You know, You must know, she was the reason for our punishments. She was the reason we had to work harder, she loved, just adored pissing off our doctor!”

Violet pushed her cup of tea aside with an abrupt gesture, her frustration bubbling to the surface. “Here I was,” she began, her voice tinged with exasperation, “trying to be better than everyone else—striving for something more, and—surprise, surprise—actually succeeding. And then Aura comes in and just wrecks it all, every single time!”

She stood abruptly, as if the need to move around and animate her words was a physical necessity. Her hands gestured animatedly, punctuating her growing irritation.

“You know,” Violet continued, her voice rising with a mix of agitation and disbelief, “she’s a real piece of work. Always clashing with me, always challenging our doctor, too. It’s like she can’t help but stir up trouble wherever she goes.” Her pacing grew more animated, as if the act of moving could somehow help her make sense of the tangled web of emotions she was unraveling.

Her fixation on Aura was palpable, and it was clear that the young woman’s impact on Violet’s life had left a significant mark. The conversation, now dominated by her exasperation, painted a vivid picture of a tumultuous relationship filled with conflict, stubbornness, and a begrudging acknowledgment of Aura's enduring influence.

“She would get me into so much trouble,” Violet continued, her frustration spilling over. “She’d drag Harley into it, too! Missed meals, skipped baths— we would all have to stay up for hours, enduring grueling study sessions or being forced to handle a poison or die. All because of her reckless actions.”

Violet abruptly halted her pacing, her frustration momentarily giving way to a softer tone. A sigh escaped her as she shifted gears, her expression softening with a mix of reluctant admiration and deep reflection. “But, you know…” Her voice took on a more contemplative quality. “She’s a good person, too. Smart, when she actually applies herself. And she took on a lot of the punishments that weren’t meant for her.”

She stepped back to the table, placing her hands on its worn surface and leaning on it slightly, her gaze distant as she remembered the past. “Growing up with her wasn’t easy. But being her-oh, I couldn’t handle that, no, no, no.” Her voice carried a note of disgust mixed with genuine concern.

“The girl had it rough,” Violet continued, her voice tinged with a mixture of empathy and lingering disbelief. “She never seemed to learn. Being muzzled, starved almost to death five times a week…” Her eyes clouded with the memory. “She would come back to our room battered—black eyes, a bloody face. I remember one time, she came in with her leg bent backward. Vendeva, I still see it so clearly. Harley had to snap it back into place while I wrapped it.” 

Violet opened her mouth, ready to unleash another wave of words, but she was interrupted by the deep, quiet voice. “Muzzled? Starved?” The man’s tone was steady, his inquiry a claim of few words with an undertone of concern. He had lowered his mask, back to fully cover his face. Violet began to grasp the gravity of his visit.

“Right,” Violet replied, taking a deep breath as she processed the gravity of the situation. “She isn’t much of a talker, is she?” Her tone was laden with a mix of tiredness and annoyance, “We’re not from this realm. Neither Harley, Aura, nor myself.” Violet leaned back slightly, her gaze steady as she prepared to offer more context. “Our origins are far from here, and that’s something Aura hasn’t shared much about. We’ve all had our share of struggles, and the customs and challenges of this realm—well, they’ve been difficult to navigate. Though I can assume we actually do better than most when thrusted into a realm not of our own. I mean, well- You know! Did you think she was a demon? Did you think she was just some winged human that came into your life?” Violet asked. “We come from a place called Alma Mater, the head of our institution in our realm, apparently we have bases all over the place, in this world included.” Violet started.
“We’re meant to be perfect,” Violet said, her voice taking on a fervent edge. “The best of the best when it comes to humans. It’s drilled into us from day one. You don’t really know what it’s like—so let me spell it out for you.” She took a deep breath, her eyes meeting him with intensity. “If you’re not cutthroat enough, you won’t survive. Do you understand? We’re pushed to the brink of madness—our pain tolerance, our bodies, our minds—they’re all tested beyond their limits.” Her hands gestured animatedly, as if trying to physically shape her words into something more comprehensible. “Are you starting to see the bigger picture?” Violet’s struggle to articulate the harsh realities of their upbringing was evident, her frustration mingling with a desperate need to be understood. The rawness of her words painted a stark image of a relentless system designed to forge perfection through immense suffering. “I really think you should go see Harely, he knows how to word all of this better than me, I do not like to think of that place much anymore.” With that said, Violet turned walking towards her cluttered desk to pull out a small package and handed it to him. “You could also deliver this for me.” Violet added with a large toothy smile, revealing now her sharpened pointed teeth.

  The sun was high in the sky, casting a warm glow over the landscape. It was one of those rare, perfect days where the sun shone brightly and plush, white clouds floated lazily across the endless blue. Harely, a seasoned slayer, was relishing his rare week off from guard duty—a break he hardly allowed himself. Driven by an unrelenting need to keep both his mind and body in constant motion.

Today, however, he had allowed himself a moment of respite, choosing instead to make the trek to the town’s local shop. The journey was a considerable hike, and he carried several bags filled with supplies, their weight pulling at his shoulders. As he made his way back to his modest home, he took in the tranquil beauty of the day, a fleeting pause in his otherwise relentless schedule. But as he approached a familiar corner, his progress was halted by an imposing figure standing squarely in his path. The man was tall and cloaked, his face concealed behind a mask that obscured his features. The mask was intricately designed, was it his eyes that were all blanked, or was it the mask?.

Harely came to a halt, his eyes shifting up from the bags he carried to the masked stranger before him. His dark red hair, kept short for convenience, caught the sunlight, adding a subtle sheen to his otherwise practical appearance. He studied the man with a cautious glance, noting the absence of any immediate threat or demonic aura.

After a moment’s study, Harely's gaze fell once more to the ground. His posture relaxed slightly, though his senses remained alert. “What?” he asked, his voice edged with a mixture of curiosity and mild irritation. The unexpected encounter had interrupted his otherwise peaceful day, and he was eager to get back to the simplicity of his break.

Without a word, Markus extended a package towards him, the contents wrapped neatly. He followed this gesture by pulling out a note and a pen, his actions deliberate and precise. “Aura? Violet? Are the girls together? No?” Harely, his curiosity now fully engaged, nodded towards Markus, signaling for him to follow.

 The two entered Harely’s home, a stark contrast to the more vibrant and chaotic surroundings of Violet’s place. Harely’s home was kept meticulously neat, its simplicity a reflection of his straightforward lifestyle. Unlike Violet’s walls, which were adorned with myriad decorations, Harely’s space was sparse, devoid of any unnecessary decorations. The subtle scent of lemongrass permeated the air, a notable difference from the strong fragrances of lavender and sage associated with Aura and Violet. Harely gestured to a small table where a teapot and cups awaited. Harely placed the bags down on the table pulling out several different species to begin a pot tea. “So, how’s Violet? Aura? The girls are not together?” Harely asked again. With every glance towards the man, Harely was clearly avoided eye contact.

“No,” came the terse reply, the single word delivered with a straightforwardness that matched the imposing presence of the masked figure. Unlike the vibrant and often unpredictable Aura, Harely remained relatively unruffled by the stranger’s curt response.

“I see,” Harely said, his tone laced with a touch of curiosity. “Well, could I ask who you are, then? To know the girls, I mean.” As he spoke, he began to unwrap the package, his fingers deftly working the twine while the tea steeped nearby.

“I am Aura’s husband,” the masked man declared with a simple, almost resigned air.

“Aura’s-HA!” Harely’s reaction was immediate and loud, his surprise evident as he paused mid-motion, the twine still caught between his fingers. “Husband? No, you’ve got to be joking. Did she make you with some kind of weird blood magic or something?” Harely asked, his tone playful within the moment. “I’m sorry, but that just seems impossible. So Aura’s husband, do you have a name?”

The masked man’s demeanor remained unchanged, “Markus.”

 which only made Harely’s amusement grow. Clearing his throat, Harely’s expression softened into one of genuine warmth. “Well, I’m happy for her, truly. But you’ve met the little troublemaker, haven’t you? She’s a handful, no doubt. And with Violet-oh, I’d much rather stand between two charging bulls than deal with those two on a bad day. Do you know how terrifying that was?”

As he spoke, Harely finally managed to pull the lid off the box, a broad grin spreading across his face. His dulled, unsharpened teeth were on full display, adding a touch of humor to his otherwise rugged appearance. The sight of the contents of the box seemed to lift his spirits even further, despite the earlier jest.

As Markus remained silent, contemplating his cup of tea, Harely stood up and placed the box carefully into a nearby drawer. His movements were deliberate and precise, a testament to the orderliness of his small, unadorned home. Returning to the table, he brought over the steaming teapot and began to pour tea into two cups, the familiar aroma of the blend filling the air once more. The tea was identical to the one Markus had enjoyed earlier, its comforting warmth a reminder of Aura's presence.

Markus took his cup, gripping it firmly in one hand. He stared ahead as Harely settled back into his seat. "No," Markus responded simply, lifting his mask just enough to sip the tea.

Harely chuckled, a knowing grin spreading across his face. “I can see why you two get along,” he remarked, his tone light and amused.

Markus’s next question, however, shifted the conversation. “What can you tell me about the Alma Mater?”

Harely’s expression changed instantly. The jovial smile faded, replaced by a more serious, contemplative demeanor. He set his own cup down and fixed his gaze on the table, avoiding direct eye contact with Markus. “Why would you want to know about it?” he asked, though his voice held a hint of understanding. “Oh, I guess that makes sense.” He nodded to himself, as if aligning his thoughts.

“What specifically do you want to know?” Harely continued, his tone neutral. “The system, how it’s run? The mechanics of its operation, or perhaps how we were raised within it?” His gaze remained fixed on the surface of the table, revealing little of his own thoughts or feelings as he awaited Markus's response.

“Everything,” Markus’ single word response seemed to ripple through Harely, sending a shiver of unease down his spine. His body tensed involuntarily, and his lips twitched as if to form a snarl, though it never quite materialized. Instead, he took a series of deep breaths, counting quietly to himself as he sought to regain his composure.

“It’s a cult, really,” Harely began, his voice heavy with a mix of disdain and resignation. “Violet would probably call it an institution. Aura? She always saw it as a prison.” He exhaled sharply, gathering his thoughts. “We were taken from our homes as young children and placed there. The first day was all about getting us in and examined. Day two marked the beginning of our training.”

Harely paused, casting a fleeting glance up to ensure Markus was paying attention. “We were tested and studied for years. Plants, history, calligraphy—those were the easy parts. It was grueling, cramming all that knowledge and being expected to retain it. But the physical training? That’s where it got rough. We were forced to carry three times our weight up flights of stairs, balance for hours over thorn bushes. Training in combat—both killing and sparring—was relentless. We had to stay underwater, holding our breath for extended periods. We were pushed to our limits in speed, strength, and magical prowess. As long as you followed orders, you could get by. Don’t get me wrong, it was brutal and you faced punishment for mistakes, but the real torment lay in the tests.”

Harely’s expression darkened as he continued, the weight of his memories pressing heavily on him. “The first major test was to identify the poison in your system. Each of us had a different poison, and we had to figure out our own symptoms. Then, we had to find the plants to cure ourselves. Aura saved me from that test. She figured out what poison I had before I could even start searching for the first plant. She was quick, always ahead.”

He rolled his shoulders, attempting to shake off the lingering stress of recollection. “But that’s not even the half of it. There’s a reason behind all this madness, and there are others involved. Do you want to know how we get our wings? How the girls got their teeth?” Harely’s gaze met Markus’s, seeking confirmation. When Markus nodded, signaling his desire to hear more, Harely resumed his account.

“The process is as twisted as it sounds,” Harely began, his voice steady but tinged with a sense of grim inevitability. “We undergo a series of rituals and procedures to acquire our wings. They are not granted easily. It involves painful and dangerous rituals, testing our endurance and for our wings, have two means that you have master speed, one set means you did not fail.. The wings are pulled from your body, it hurts like hell, none of us is fully sure of how it happens, but at least you pass out before the process is fully done. As for the teeth… apparently you are not as lucky to be able to be asleep for most of it.”

Harely trailed off momentarily, his expression a mix of discomfort and resolve. “The teeth are filed down and reshaped, a symbol of our skill and mastery. It’s a mark of our progression and an indicator of our capabilities. But the process is excruciating, a necessary part of proving our worth. The Alma Mater is designed to break you down and rebuild you into something stronger, something more powerful. It’s relentless and unforgiving. Failed teeth means you failed your strength test, it means you failed at a fight you were never meant to win. Your teeth are your last resort and meant to be used when you’re cornered. Failing that test means they expect you to be cornered often.”

Harely's gaze grew distant as he spoke, his eyes drifting towards the table’s surface, lost in the weight of his memories. “The reason behind all this torment?” he asked, his tone tinged with incredulity. “It’s not simply cruelty for cruelty’s sake. They’ve been perpetuating this cycle for far longer than any of us can grasp. We were molded into spies, tasked with extracting and relaying information from distant kingdoms and the world beyond our confines. That’s why we find ourselves here, at least, that’s my belief.”

He shifted in his chair, a pained expression crossing his face. “The compulsion to record and observe—it's ingrained in us, a relentless drive to document everything around us. When we were forcibly pulled away from our books and studies, it was more than just a physical disruption. It was like a soul-binding pain, a gnawing void that tore at the very essence of our being. It was a pain so deep, it felt like it was ripping out a piece of our identity.”

Harely reclined in his chair, his posture sagging under the weight of his memories. He met Markus’ gaze for a fleeting moment before his eyes fell away, unable to maintain the connection. “Our doctor was the worst,” he began, his voice gravelly with both fatigue and bitterness. “To be blunt, we were subjected to more cruelty than any child should ever endure. Few of us made it through intact. I’m surprised Aura survived, given how fiercely she fought back.” He sighed heavily, the strain of his words evident. “The doctor had a particular grudge against her. He muzzled her frequently and even tried to drown her more than once. I can’t say I’m sorry he’s dead,” he added with a harsh edge to his voice. “If you were hoping to see him brought low, you should know I’ve done that job. He’s become a ghost of our past, though the girls are none the wiser. Maybe I should have told them, but honestly I didn’t want them to see them for the monster that I am. None of us know who we really are, where we came from. Though the place does have our files, they are impossible to really get to, so I hope our memories will be enough for you, and what the Alma mater is about.” “I appreciate you coming to learn about her,” Harely said, his voice softening as he looked at Markus. “Aura... she’s a quiet person who often needs a push to express herself. She’s not always easy to get along with, but she’s got a good heart, even if it’s buried beneath a dormant facade.”Harely reached into his pocket and carefully pulled out a feather, its texture smooth and delicate despite its apparent age. He held it out to Markus with a gesture of solemn sincerity. “When you see her, give her this. Markus, was it? She’s a good person, despite everything she’s been through. Keep her safe, yeah?”

Markus took the feather, feeling its lightness. Aura, where was she now? Markus stood waiting, his head turning slightly to look at the door. “Where would she have taken another Alma Mater child?”