Matthew flicks between the pages of his notebook, comparing the notes made what seems like a lifetime ago to the ones he just wrote down. His heart thuds against his ribcage as he scrutinizes the symbols a third time, making sure he’s not mistaken. He’s not. The words written on the manhole cover are the same as the ones on Kayla’s spell seal. He knows the meaning of the symbols; a litany meant to lock something up, to cage it. But, more importantly, he knows how to work on countering it, what words to pick to render the ones on the seal useless, what orders to give to override the ones engraved by the magic. All he needs to do is compose them into a spell.

The black lacquered wood wheels clank against the cobblestones, sending vibrations through his whole body and rattling his bones. Matthew carefully closes his notebook, puts it and the pen back into their pocket and leans back against the seat. A beatific smile forms on his lips as he rests his head against the violet cushion. Suddenly, the locked door of the carriage doesn’t matter, the fact that he's being taken back to the abbey is of little importance, too. He has half the answer. And Sarah must surely have the other half, given the way she called his attention to the rusty old cover. All he needs to do is to work on his half of the solution and wait.

The carriage slows down and comes to a halt, the frightful buzzing sound it makes dying down a moment later. Matthew stays in his seat, waits until the soldier unbolts the door and opens it, steps back to allow him out. Only then does Matthew rise, his steps slow and measured as he comes outside and stops again to wait for his escort. The very picture of obedience and submissiveness. But it’s not the giants standing at attention behind him that cow him.

To his left, lies the abbey’s cemetery. It stands too far for Matthew to be able to discern the individual tombstones, yet the image of the group of seven standing at the forefront, unassuming in their size and material, hidden in the half gloom of the lamps, is crystal clear in his mind. 

The names on the first six crossed out, then sanded down to almost nothing after the ones buried there crawled up from their coffins, not even bothering to ring the small bell that would let the caretaker know they were alive. And the seventh one, still intact, still the same as the day it was placed, the casket resting underneath it undisturbed. 

A rarity, an oddity in the days after the Blessing, when all that died would rise back, whether they brought back the powers of the Archons with them or not. People weren’t even buried anymore, and Matthew and his friends had been solely because no one expected them to steal the place of the heroes chosen and prepared to contract with Hell’s own gods, to defy these fragments of the Godhead and escape unscathed. But they had. All, except one.

Matthew knows he can’t see the words etched into the tombstone at this distance, knows he always tries and fails, but his gaze is drawn to it, regardless. He strains, tries to catch even one of the letters, a clue to what the name of the person he has lost and forgotten was. Anything to help him remember who they were, to hold their memory more tightly against his heart.

But today is no different. The tombstone remains too far for him to be able to see the name written on it. And whoever the seventh member of their group was, they remain a vague hint of a musical voice and the smell of lemon, warm hands and a sense of kindness laden with mischief that leaves only one certainty in Matthew’s mind. Whoever they were, he loved them deeply.

As guilt and sorrow begin gnawing at him, two soldiers and two maids appear to escort him, the crest of the House of Wings embroidered in gold against the violet of their aprons and tabards. Matthew falls in line with them silently, follows the procession back to his quarters as he always has. At the door of the tower, one of the soldiers and one of the maids stay behind, while the others enter with him.

The climb up is always much different than the euphoric one down. It’s grimmer, more somber, every step seeming to drain the energy out of him, while the opposite way always invigorates him. He keeps his hands at his sides, doesn’t dare reach out to his notebook for comfort, not while half of his escort is still with him. But, in his heart and in his mind, he holds on to it. 

When the door to his chambers, his prison, opens, Matthew almost gags. He’s so used to the smell, of locked places and sweet flowers, of burnt firewood and stale water, that he only notices it when he comes back from the outside. 

The soldier’s hidden eyes are burning on the back of his skull and Matthew steels himself and takes a step inside, dooming himself to captivity once again. 

The sound of the door closing, the lock and bolt sliding into place at his back.

Matthew allows himself a small sigh, shoulders sagging and head dropping for a moment. Then, he straightens himself again, his mind is feverishly racing with what he needs to do, individual symbols and the rules for binding them into phrases dancing through his brain. 

He half moves, is about to set towards his study to get to work when he hears soft, almost silent footsteps behind him. He freezes, watches as the maid walks around him to his coffin and starts straightening up the covers.

“Thank you.”

His response is automatic. He knows he won’t get any reply or reaction, but something compels him to utter these ritual phrases, regardless. A habit from his life before or some kind of empathy for the human looking dolls.

The maid continues on her task, silently, shows no intention to leave.

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Matthew says, his tone soft. “I’d like to rest for a bit and I’ll just undo…”

“That won’t be possible, Lord Knight.”

Matthew’s body goes stiff at the maid’s words and his fists clench involuntarily before he can catch himself. He opens his hands again, swallows hard.

“Why not?”

“You’re expected for the tests soon.”

Matthew’s world sways and tilts and he throws a hand to the side to steady himself. His head feels light, empty, floating as if disconnected from the rest of his body. 

“I’m sorry, I think I misheard…”

“You’re expected for the tests soon,” the maid repeats.

His teeth clench against the merciless reality. All his plans, all his ambitions, all his rebellion suddenly seem so small and petty when faced with his jailers’ absolute rule.

“Is there a reason why we’re being tested today?” he asks.

There might not be, necessarily. The tests are performed at random, as much as he can tell, but there is one thing that they can herald. 

The maid stops her chore, turns to look at him as if she doesn’t quite understand his question, as if it doesn’t make any sense. Her grey eyes, as dull and lifeless as the rock that makes up the tower, are trained on him. Matthew takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

“Will something be happening after the tests?”

Another moment of hesitation. Matthew expects a no, almost ascribes the maid’s confusion to the fact that he shouldn’t be expecting anything more out of the news that they will have to be tested.

“The Royals will be coming soon,” she says.

She doesn’t offer anything else, simply stands there waiting to get on with her duties. Matthew’s thoughts are a whirlwind, his breathing has quickened so much he’s surprised he’s not panting. He wishes she would just say everything all at once. But he knows he has to ask, to coax, and so he tries to remain calm.

“For a visit? Or…?”

He lets the sentence hang in the air, unable to say the words, as much as he wants to. His heart is beating against his ribcage so hard, he fears it might burst it open, kill him before he hears the answer.

“To send a group off on the Pilgrimage.”

Multicolored stars flourish in his vision and Matthew’s not entirely sure how his knees don’t buckle, how he doesn’t sink to the floor crying and begging for what he wants to hear next. 

“A group?”

His voice is barely more than a whisper, but the maid hears him, nonetheless.

“Yes, they will arrive with the Royals,” she says. 

Matthew feels all warmth draining from his body. 

It won’t be him, it won’t be them going on the Pilgrimage this time, either. How many times will they be forced to watch as other groups come into their abbey to be led through the First Gate? How many times will they stay behind, despite being the first to have tasted the Fruit of Hell, to have contracted with the Archons? 

Something ignites in his chest, a spark of anger that consumes the despair he could feel himself almost falling into. He can still make use of this. The others will have heard the news by now as well and, while all of their hearts will be bleeding, they won’t be giving up, either. None of them are of such weak mettle.

“How long until the tests?” he asks, and while there’s steel in his tone now, it’s still low and calm.

“You’ll have enough time to bathe and get dressed,” the maid answers.

The bare minimum, but not enough to get ready. As if any time in the world would be enough to get them ready for that.

He fixes the doll with his gaze, tries his utmost to direct his anger at her, standing prim and proper with not a hair straying from her tight bun. He can’t. All he feels for the creatures is a strange kind of pity he can’t quite justify.

“And the… Ceremonies?”

“The Royals and the Scions will arrive tomorrow.”

Matthew nods. One day. One day that will be half taken up by the tests. He’ll have no time for pitying himself for his fate afterwards, for the disgust and fear that always follow them. No matter how broken he feels, he’ll have to stand up and get to work on the solution for the seals. The ceremonies for seeing off the other group of Scions might be the only chance he’ll have at communicating with his own in a long time.