Master of Steel

Birds’ chirpings meet my ears along with winds whispering through the light, flowery curtains, a figure standing tall beside the king-sized bed.

I turn to my side to behold the redhead who has a facial appearance that is quite far from normal. I do not know how he knows that I am awake and thinking of the old man all these while.

He may have missed the part where the only detail I know about Xaulfur is his half-Asian, half-Australian insane nature, and this person by my side does not look Asian at all.

“You are Xaulfur?” I ask while sitting up, my head tilting to check if I can see the rest of the man speaking to me, albeit he moves back to give me a better view; strong hands dipped into the pockets of his dark pair of pants, broad chests snatching a white top and legs lost in matching boots.

He looks like a great catch amongst women, especially with the fact that the sides of his shoulder-length hair has a number of tiny zig zag braids that complements the look of his dreamy eyes.

They appear sharp—his eyes— forget what I last said about them, it could probably be their sky blue colour that makes them look like they are not dug into hollow sockets and fitting his jaws’ strong edges.

“This is not Britannica, Lady, which means you follow every rule that guides a Japanese home, one of which is to salute the master on the next day of arrival,” he says with vivid fluidness, his low-pitched voice contrasting with his defined looks.

“So you are not Xaulfur?” I ask instead; while the new man leans down to roll the sheets off my legs. I catch the sight of blood on his arm before he could reply, and he huffs when he sees me watching it.

“I couldn’t have accessed your mind without your blood.”

I glare up at him before grasping the gratified look that glints in his eyes. “My blood? How is it that it does not burn your skin?”

“It can’t scald supernatural beings.” The new man smirks, more like a proud smirk for whatever he has just said. He begins to look like he needs to explain more about supernaturalism. Yet, my blood is still on him—he can feel my knowledge of the latter.

I am born of a supernatural Father after all, so I have lived two and twenty years aware that beings like angels, demons and witches exist.

“Which of them are you, by the way?” I ask, knowing there could be a lot more Paranormal beings that I may not have known—the likes of werewolves.

“Go into the bathroom and freshen up.”

I sit still and watch the new man stroll over to the wardrobe as if he did not just ignore my question.

He riffles through a dozen English clothes that I did not know the old man had arranged for me. He had paused for a while and just stared at the dresses with tilted head before shoving one out and holding it up for me.

“You should not be doing that, you know?” I ask with contempt clear in my voice, which he may have noticed because his once witty expression falls.

“There are not so many people residing in this villa. Do not mind the size.” He comments as he tosses the green dress onto my shoulder. “Master Xaulfur spent most of his lifetime alone, so he prefers fewer people around him. I can only do this for you.”

“How about the corsets? I cannot knot those piled lots on my own.”

“If that’s what you’re concerned about, you could ask for my help when your old man isn’t around.” The new man winks at me before heading for the entrance almost immediately. “I’ll wait by the door!”

The Villa was built by the countryside; away from the bustling town, suspended on a hill, and surrounded by bushes, so said the new man after he precisely told me to call him Sir Brak.

“What about the man who brought me here?” I ask just before we make a sharp turn to a wide hallway.

“Alpha Daymion has to settle a few things; seal the hole that has gaped since his departure.”

“Hmm,” I nod, immediately pushing thoughts about the old man out of my head. “How did we really manage to get here? Last I remembered we were in a cart.”

Sir Brak looks at me with one eye closed, the open eye’s brow perked. It is more of a ‘Please do not tell me you don’t know’ kind of look. “The thing about Supernaturalism is that it deals with uncanny stuff like Portals.”

My own brows fall, a frown shading my face. Sir Brak seems to realise now that I have heard neither of Portals nor how they concern an unconscious jump between the English and the Asian worlds.

He smiles as he speaks, “Portals are like supernatural gateways. They travel a long distance within a short while.” I simply nod as we leave the building.

We soon arrive at another that is quite far… and smaller too. Sir Brak is telling me how Master Xaulfur decided to live there since his bloodthirsty, possessed nature will not let him mingle with other humans.

“And does it help; the seclusion?” I ask as Sir Brak opens the front door to usher me.

Katelyn once made me picture Japanese buildings to be low and thatched, but with my eyes, I could see that the demon lunatic adopted Australian-styled buildings—not what I expected to see.

“Seclusion does little or nothing; once in a while Xaulfur bursts out of his den and attacks. Thankfully, we have the witch, Marretje, to keep him in check.”

As I walk into a large room that Sir Brak leads me into, I realise that I may have made one of the worst mistakes of my life by coming there.

The room reeks of an unwanted chillness that sends Goosebumps down my spine, my eyes taking a bigger shape as they zoom in on the figure of the man sitting farther across us.

He is seated in front of a huge table, eating in silence, his stare focused on the Mockingbird tapping its beak against the windowpane. When he turns to my direction, I suddenly swallow my throat.

His gaze gives me the feeling of diving into an icy sea, and I feel myself choking on my own breath, the massive air not even enough to go through my sour lungs.

I do not know if it is because of the way his cold stare still holds mine or if it is how his white and long wavy hair flows coordinately with the breeze.

“How are his eyes so grey?” I grit, realising how all the persons I have met in this mansion look like they were retched from the guts of some English county.

“He can hear you better than you hear yourself,” Sir Jack mutters back. If only he knows how beautiful his master’s eyes are. They look like a disease—in a good way.

“You are late, Sir!” a woman’s imposing voice resounds across the room, making me realise that there is literally someone stooped in front of Master Xaulfur.

She appears to drive a feeling of terror in Sir Jack, though it does not seem to be because of who she is. It feels to me like he is more scared of what Master Xaulfur will do to him if he does not bow at the woman’s words.

“You do not look the Master in the eye, girl. Do you have a death wish?” She barks at me, and I automatically find myself bowing with Sir Jack as she rises to her feet.

When she paces her way toward us, I see just how graceful she looks in her lengthy, shimmering white dress, her dark dreadlocks held neatly behind her head. She has a skin like mine, which tells me she is of Mother Africa’s blood.

“Is she the reaper?” she asks Sir Jack, though her eyes never leave mine. She stands less than a foot below me… very close to me, forcing my eyes down even as my forehead knocks against her hair.

“I do not like you,” is the only thing she adds before she briskly walks past me to leave the room.

͞

She is the only remaining Ivle witch of Ivlough, descendant of the legendary Sorceress, Marina, who is said to have ruled beside Kings and Emperors.

A mass of white blossom tinged with pink across the sky, creating a remarkable sense of good and peace, except that may not apply in the situation, seeing that Marretje has promptly called for me.

Her minions escort me to a hall in Xaulfur’s building. Then they leave me at the half open door to find my way in.

Within the tiny space left of the door to close gazes the crude eyes of the witch. Seeing them now, they are dark; not any dark colour, but purely black, which makes me wonder if they took the colour of her heart.

Across her is Master Xaulfur, who is reclined against a chair, his right hand holding his chin and the other placed on the table creating the division between him and the witch.

The latter looks away from me, her obsidian gaze descending on a large spread of thick paper on the table.

“When Jimme returns with the Tantic girl, we would be one step away from the ritual,” she says before she slams her palms on the table, tilting forward on her hands. “However, the question still is ‘where lies the forbidden castle?’” Her eyes slowly come toward my direction, and mine to hers.

She makes it look like she points the question to me, or she could find the answer on my face. Either way, I am not going to hold her gaze. It makes me uneasy.

“Come in, reaper, do not lurk.”

I walk in at her heavily accented words, pacing my steps with my hands wriggling in front of my belly. Master Xaulfur does not look like he is listening to the witch at all. He still has his chin on his hand, his eyes tightly closed and his jaws clenched.

My eyes zoom in on the spread paper only to find symbols, irregular marks and crosses; things that I recognize to be part of a map. I had watched father read them a few times, so no doubt I know them so well.

The witch seems to follow my line of sight, as she quickly reaches beneath the map and pulls out another paper, except this one is small and light, and contains a rough sketch of what looks like some ancient, forsaken building.

“It is the forbidden Castle,” she says, rolling the sheet and placing it beside a pile of heavy, dusty books at the edge of the table. “These tell tales of a once flourishing Castle spelled a long time ago by one of my irate ancestors, Marina,” Marretje adds when she sees me stare longer than necessary at the books; little does she know that I have less interest in reading.

I have my hands on the drawing in no time, my fingers neatly trailing the stained, softened edges of the paper. Something about the rough sketch etches a feeling of familiarity with it, but I am not certain if Katelyn once showed it to me.

Without warning, my head pulls back and my hands freeze, a bright white light flashing in front of my eyes before I could blink twice. My neck seems to snap from the force that is.

I am lost—somewhere in a cold acre full of ice and snow, so much snow that I struggle to keep my legs steady.