Chapter 23: Crossroads
The word hung in the air, a perfect testament to his mental paralysis. Huh? Of all the possible responses, his mind had chosen the most useless one. He watched a flicker of analytical assessment in Tiffany's eyes before her customary indifference reasserted itself.
He had mere seconds to formulate a response. The question itself wasn't difficult---a simple hypothetical requiring him to pick a side. It didn't need to be true, only plausible. Yet his mind raced, his pulse quickening with the uncomfortable realization that her question, framed by that simple "if," brushed dangerously close to the truth he carried. He was abnormal. The memories of the ruined city, the Colossal Soul Tree, the star-crowned hand, his heightened senses--they were not just memories; they were the fabric of his new existence. The answer was not something he held; it was what he had become.
Hide. That was the only logical path. Stay concealed from the Order and its terrifying knights. It was his sole guarantee of a semblance of freedom, his only chance at anything resembling a normal life. Wasn't it?
So why, when confronted with the direct question, did he hesitate? Why did the notion of defiance suddenly whisper to him? He inwardly deflated. Time was slipping away. Every moment of hesitation fed suspicion. With her discerning gaze, he knew this was a question meant to be answered quickly, without complication. He had to project normalcy--unaffected, unburdened.
He released a soft, controlled breath. "I'd hide," he stated. The words felt instinctual, a product of pure survival logic. He was no hero to challenge empowered Orders and Churches. That path promised no freedom, only a swift and foolish end. His choice wasn't cowardice; it was pragmatism. "It's the only way to guarantee safety, survival, and a measure of peace and freedom. That's if I was a vessel," he emphasized, clinging to that fragile conditional.
"I see," she replied, her tone flat. Yet, he detected a faint undercurrent of disappointment as she turned her gaze forward. Twilight deepened around them, the sky bleeding into night. The sounds signaled their approach to the Trading District--the rhythmic thud of shutters being closed, the final, weary calls of merchants, the clatter of a cart laden with unsold wares. The air grew thick with the scent of street food--roasting nuts, spiced meats, warm pies--making his empty stomach clench and growl in protest. He stiffened, his cheeks warming with embarrassment, but her profile remained impassive. He allowed himself a moment of relief.
The donkey gave a soft snort. For a time, the only sounds were the animal's plodding steps and the steady grind of wheels on stone.
Just as he assumed the conversation had ended, she spoke. The evening breeze played with strands of her auburn hair, and for a fleeting moment, she looked almost ethereal. The illusion was broken only by the practiced apathy on her face.
"Your choice... was not incorrect," she began, her voice clear in the quiet dusk. "It is the right choice within the flawed perspective that the Knights and Orders hold greater power than the vessels. A thought perfectly confined to the box constructed by the Divine Proclamation's influence. Your words, not mine." She tilted her head, her sidelong glance piercing.
He struggled to parse her meaning. Flawed, yet right? What, then, constituted a correct choice? To rebel against the Order on the assumption that vessels were stronger? The idea was so delusional he nearly laughed aloud. He bit the impulse back, desperate to maintain the fragile footing he'd gained. Still, the absurdity of it rankled. He tried to keep his disbelief from his expression, but he feared he'd failed. Her observational skills were unnervingly acute.
"It seems you find the theory absurd," she stated, her tone cool and detached. "You are the ideal pawn, manipulated by the 'knight-hunts-vessel' system. You and everyone else, Xiall. You must learn to think outside the box."
He wanted to object, but before he could form a counter-argument, she delivered the blow. "Then I shall provide illumination, Xiall. It seems you are less intelligent than I initially presumed."
Less intelligent than she presumed. Her talent for backhanded commentary was truly masterful. What an infuriating skill. And what was the source of her deep interest in this? Why would a girl of her apparent station-and undeniable beauty-preoccupy herself with the grim mechanics of the Vessel-Knight conflict? Was it mere intellectual hobbyism, or was there a personal connection? The latter felt more probable. He wrenched his focus back to the present just as she continued.
"The Vessels possess power capable of this world's ruination, as the Divine Proclamation itself states," she said, her voice low and even. "Why, then, do you default to the assumption that the Knights are more powerful? The Vessels wield might that stretches beyond mortal horizons, power akin to the divine."
He had no rebuttal. She was right. Why had that logic never occurred to him? Was her analysis of the "system" accurate? It appeared Tiffany was no simple shop girl, but a thinker of formidable, almost dangerous, intellect. He would need to craft his deceptions with far greater care from now on.
A more disturbing thought followed. If her premise was true, why did the vessels hide? Why submit to persecution, hunting, and execution--to being burned by their inferiors? How did the predator willingly become the prey?
The answer struck him with the force of a physical blow.
That was the flaw. That was the very perspective the system engineered--a perspective he had internalized completely. The instinct to hide, rather than fight, was the system's intended outcome. It used fear to extinguish the very ember of resistance. It was a grand illusion of choice. The public executions were not merely punishments; they were theater. A performance designed to be witnessed, to seed terror, to carry news to every hidden vessel. They weren't just killing individuals; they were systemically breaking the collective will, reinforcing the illusion of the knights' supremacy and the vessels' weakness.
It was a deeply layered, psychological manipulation. The Orders were master strategists, using fear to turn their most potent adversaries into compliant prey. And for Tiffany to deduce this architecture... the mind behind those calm eyes was formidable. A wave of respect, tinged with wariness, washed over him. He would need to be meticulous around her; she could undoubtedly sense the inconsistencies in his carefully woven lies.
"I see you've grasped it," she said, pulling him from his thoughts. "Though it took considerable time. Now you perceive the true state of this world. The vessels are trapped in a cycle of concealment, striving for a normal life. Yet that striving is precisely the Order's objective. They know they cannot eradicate every vessel. So they wield fear as a weapon to keep them terrified and subdued, to smother any will to fight. In this way, the vessels themselves become the instruments preventing the prophesied Ruination." She let the concept settle in the silence between them. "Do not make the error of underestimating fear's power," she stated bluntly, her gaze hardening momentarily before softening again after a quiet breath.
Her words cut deeply because he was its living embodiment--a product of the very system she described.
They were now deep within the Merchant District. Even in the fading light, the evidence of commerce was everywhere: crates stacked beside shuttered stalls, the lingering aroma of spices and tanned leather, a lone merchant hunched over his day's earnings under a solitary lantern. She drew the reins, bringing the cart to a halt. The donkey sighed, its head drooping.
"The delusion begins with the belief that the abnormal can live as the normal," she said, her voice firm in the quiet street. "It is a futile endeavor. The peace and freedom found in hiding are transient illusions, constructed from lies and sustained by fear." She turned her head, her gaze meeting his directly, its customary indifference now charged with the ferocity he had glimpsed before. "Embracing the truth of one's nature is the only path to the freedom born of the power that follows."
The words landed with the precision of a blade. In that instant, he felt them not as a general statement, but as a personal indictment. His chest constricted. Was hiding the correct path? Was the fragile peace he sought nothing but a beautifully crafted lie? He forcibly pulled himself back from the brink of this internal spiral. He could not let this turmoil show.
He blinked, and her intense stare was still upon him. Her features, framed by the nascent glow of the rising moon, held an otherworldly quality. His heart gave a single, hard thump--he couldn't discern whether it was born of fear or awe.
"Well, that's if I was a vessel," she added, finally turning away, the familiar mask of indifference back in place. But he caught the subtle, almost imperceptible softening at the corners of her mouth. She seemed to be enjoying this dissection. He, on the other hand, was wrestling with a tempest internally, all while maintaining a facade of calm. It was exhausting. Not that the sight of that slight smile didn't stir something in him... she was, undeniably, getting under his skin. No, he corrected himself sharply. He had to tread carefully. Behind that compelling exterior was an intellect that could dismantle him.
"And also," she stated, her tone utterly matter-of-fact, "mention none of this to the old man. Or it's no dinner for you tonight, of course."
With that, she flicked the reins. The donkey grunted and leaned into its harness, setting the cart in motion once more, carrying them deeper into the lamplit streets of the Trading District.
Still utterly annoying, he thought. No dinner? A dire threat given the protests from his stomach. Couldn't she employ a little sympathy with her blackmail, instead of that clinical tone? Not that he had any intention of speaking to Old Matt, but the childishness of the threat was irksome. He suppressed a derisive shake of his head. The shift from intellectual philosopher to petty blackmailer--who was she, really?
But he recognized these irritable thoughts for what they were: a defense mechanism, a shield against the insidious doubt now coiling around his heart and the unsettling new resolve taking root. Were his choices thus far correct? To survive within the system, or to seek its destruction? A cheap illusion of freedom, or the real, costly thing? The questions expanded in his mind, vast and unanswerable.
"Guess I've reached the crossroads," he murmured to himself, a soft, weary sound lost to the night as he leaned back and gazed up at the sprawling tapestry of stars. "Power, or survival."
What, in the final accounting, was true freedom?