The visage of Ethirius drifted away like paint in a river. Yet Syril continued to stare at the dark spot where Rivira Oloran had been standing, his mind spinning and turning, unsure how to process what he'd just seen.

"It is not a trick Syril," The voice said firmly, answering his unsung question, "your lineage does tie with Ethirius itself."

He watched in stunned silence as the two orbs dimly shimmered in the distance, their colour still an unwavering dull orange.

"How did you know?" Syril asked in bewilderment, "What does that make me? Part Ethirian?"

The voice paused, and not for the first time, Syril wished he could see its face.

"You are that and more, Syril."

"More?"

"Ethirius was a corrupted visage of what the old gods had intended, full of infighting, deceit, and futile attempts at regaining their once immense glory. And it was too late when the Ethirians had realised their growing insignificance in the universe's cosmic plan."

"Are you saying…"

"They destroyed themselves," the voice said gravely, "not long after the first oath, Ethirius and its inhabitants vanished. Not even the Oath Keepers are truly aware of how it transpired."

The voice hesitated as if on the crux of a decision, "and I fear we do not have long to discuss. I can feel our time approaching its conclusion."

"What do you mean?"

"Syril, you are not just of Ethirian descent. You are one of the very few descendants remaining from a species that has since disappeared."

The voice paused, a dull hum reverberated in the distance, and the orbs began to fade away into darkness.

"Our time is at a conclusion Syril. I hope to speak again; the company has been scarce the last century."

"But what do I have to do!?"

"Find the Oath Keepers; they will help you on your journey."

"What Journey!?" Syril was frantic. What was happening? How did he find the Oath Keepers?

The voice had now faded to a distant whisper, its words almost incomprehensible. Syril felt the wind rushing around him, and his stomach turn inside out. Through the now roaring gale, Syril could faintly hear the voice's scattered words.

"Syril, you can save your brother…."

But before the voice finished the sentence, Syril had fallen back into his body; the same crunched position in the closet; the same goon's hand gripped tightly around his arm; and unfortunately, the same feeling of dread.

But this time, a feeling of unwavering determination had sparked within Syril. He grabbed the goon's arm and launched himself out of the closet, throwing his entire body weight into the man. Syril felt the world tilt again as the goon fell backwards onto the floor, and Syril promptly punched him in the nose.

Blood pooled, and the goon's eyes widened in shock and pain. Syril wrestled his arm away and picked himself up, slamming his foot into the face of the bleeding man whose eyes now rolled into the back of his head.

"Don't try anything. I'm not above killing a kid or an old lady."

Syril looked around as the second goon wandered out from the kitchen, his arm wrapped firmly around Ova's neck.

"Now here is what we are going to do," he slowly walked toward Syril, "You're going to pick up my partner's handcuffs, put them on, and then you, the sweet old lady and I are going to all get into the car and go for a drive."

Syril glared at him, his non-existent plan now an abysmal failure.

"I'll go with you if you leave her behind."

"And lose my insurance? Absolutely not."

"What about your partner?" He looked at the man, still unconscious on the ground.

"Greg knew what the business was."

Baffled, Syril tilted his head, "His name was Greg?"

"Yeah? Why?"

"I don't know why but I expected something a bit more 'goon-like'." Syril made air quotes with his hands.

The man did not respond; instead, he moved closer to the stubbornly stationary Syril. Ova shuffled with him as she frantically looked at Syril, her eyes brimming with tears and her lips quivering. She was mouthing something.

"My Granddaughter."

Crap.