Chapter 33: Ch33 Hell No!
The town square bustled with noise and life. Bright banners of blue and gold rippled in the late afternoon sun, half-secured to poles that jutted awkwardly from the rooftops. Men shouted instructions back and forth while hauling wooden beams into place. Children wove through the crowd, their laughter blending with the clanging of hammers and the scent of sawdust.
"Lower it! No, no—lower, you half-brained mule! Do you want Asmethan Himself to think our town leans sideways?"
Betty’s voice boomed over the square. She stood in the middle like a war commander, brandishing a kitchen spoon as though it were a spear. Her husband balanced precariously on a ladder, trying his best to tie a banner straight while his wife threatened to "feed him to the pigs" if it so much as tilted.
Jobin, ever the dependable ox of a man, hoisted one end of a heavy board onto his broad shoulder. Two other men clutched the opposite side, sweat dripping down their faces as Jobin carried most of the weight without effort. His grin was wide, his steps steady.
Meanwhile, Mari sat on a stool with a book propped on her lap, her quill scratching rapidly as she cross-checked a list of supplies. She didn’t even look up when Jobin crept behind her, crouched low like a mischievous wolf about to pounce.
"Boo!"
The quill snapped in her hand. Mari’s book snapped shut as she whipped around and smacked Jobin on the head with it.
"Ow!" he yelped, rubbing the spot.
"Are you not too big for these childish games?" Mari huffed, cheeks flushing with embarrassment at the nearby chuckles.
Jobin only shrugged, his grin boyish. "Too big? Never. You know I like getting under your skin."
Mari rolled her eyes, muttering a prayer that there would be no more weirdness today. But as if the gods themselves laughed at her wish, a shout rang out across the square.
"Smoke!" someone cried.
People turned, confusion spreading, before the sound of a rushing wind roared through the streets. Dust and debris spiraled upward, skirts and gowns flew dangerously high as women shrieked and clutched at them, men shielded their eyes.
Out of the haze, a hulking shadow barreled forward, riding the whirlwind like a storm.
The figure screeched to a halt right in front of Mari. Her jaw dropped, her face paling—then twisting into sheer fury.
Sitting proudly astride the spiked, porcupine-like monster, with a dead boar dangling from a makeshift fishing rod in his hand, was none other than Luther. His grin was wide, smiling like a goldfish.
"Ta-da! Did you miss me?" Luther chirped, giving the rod a tug just as the monster tried to snap at the hanging boar. "Bad monster! This isn’t a buffet!"
The porcupine beast snorted, its spikes rattling, while Mari stood frozen in place, her knuckles white.
"Luther..." she said, her voice low and deadly. "Why do you smell like death itself?"
""Eh? Do I?" Luther sniffed his sleeve, gagged a little. "Oh. That’s... probably the boar guts. Or maybe the slug monster. Hard to tell."
"Slug—" Mari pinched the bridge of her nose. "Get off. Now. And wash."
"Aw, but I was just bonding with Spike here." Luther patted the monster’s head. It growled. He quickly handed the boar to a stunned villager. "Fine, fine. Geez, no appreciation for good hunting."
He pouted but hopped off the beast, handing the boar to some awestruck men in the crowd. Only then did his eyes catch the colorful banners draped across the square.
"What’s with the party prep?" Luther asked, pointing lazily. "Did I miss someone’s wedding?"
Mari stared at him like he’d grown two heads. "Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten what tomorrow is."
Luther blinked, his mind fumbling like a drunk man searching for a dropped coin in the mud. He dug through his memories, flipping through mental pages.
Luther scratched his head. "Uh... laundry day?"
"No."
"...Goat shearing festival?"
Mari slammed her notebook shut. "No!"
"Betty’s husband finally learning to tie knots properly?"
At that exact moment, Betty marched over, spoon raised high like the wrath of heaven. "Tomorrow is Prayer Day, you fool!"
"Prayer Day?" Luther repeated, tilting his head.
Inside his mind, fragments of the book stirred. Prayer Day. Every three years, those blessed—or cursed—with magic crystals gathered at temples to worship Asmethan, their god of balance and order. For young ones, small church services sufficed, and Luther dimly remembered being dragged to one as a child. Boring enough that he’d slipped away into the forest halfway through.
But for those turning eighteen...
His memory sharpened. Those of age were taken to the grand temple in the capital. There, beneath banners of light and stone pillars etched with prayers, they were judged. Candidates with talent were selected as apprentices for noble houses, or worse—drawn into the Emperor’s games. It wasn’t so much prayer as it was selection.
Just a stupid fancy name.
"Oh," Luther said slowly, realization dawning. Then he brightened, shrugging. "Well, not my problem. Doesn’t concern me!" He turned on his heel to walk away.
A hand clamped his shoulder.
Betty leaned in, her smile sweet as poisoned honey. "Luther dear... you do realize you’re turning eighteen tomorrow, yes?"
Luther froze, the blood draining from his face.
"...What."
"You heard her," Mari said flatly. "Tomorrow, you go to the capital."
"Wha—no! That’s impossible! I’d know if I was turning eighteen!" Luther argued, waving his arms wildly. "Look at me—I don’t look a day over sixteen. Seventeen at most! Someone check the records again!"
Jobin appeared from behind, arms crossed, smirk carved across his face. "Don’t waste your breath. We all checked. You’re eighteen tomorrow."
Luther’s jaw dropped. He spun, ready to bolt, but Jobin’s massive arm barred the way like a wall of stone.
"I’m not going!" Luther snapped, defiant as a cornered cat. "I refuse to be paraded around like some candidate for the gods’ entertainment! You can’t make me!"
Betty tapped her spoon against her palm. "We can. And we will."
"I refuse! Denied! Rejected!" Luther flailed. "I won’t be dragged to some boring temple ceremony!"
"Dragged?" Betty tapped her spoon. "Oh, you’ll walk there yourself. With a smile."
Luther’s jaw dropped. "Walk? Smile?! Are you trying to kill me?!"
Jobin smirked. "You’ll survive. Maybe."
"I’m not going!" Luther said, backing up. "Nope. You can’t make me. I’ll run, I’ll hide, I’ll—"
Jobin blocked him with one massive arm, grinning. "Try it. I dare you."
Luther stared up at him, defiance trembling at the edges. "...This is abuse."
Mari sighed. "This is responsibility."
"Same thing!"
He was ready to launch into another rant when he froze. He swallowed hard, sweat dripping down his neck. His thoughts raced in circles until one brutal realization struck him like lightning.
The capital. The temple. Prayer Day.
If he went... he’d see them again.
Liliana. Aithur.
His stomach sank like a stone in water.
"...Wait," Luther whispered, horrified. "If I go to the capital... doesn’t that mean... I’ll be right in the demons’ lair?"
Everyone blinked at him.
Luther’s face drained of color. He swayed on his feet, his voice cracking as he whispered the names.
"Liliana... and Aithur."
"....."
"....."
"WHY THE HELL AM I GOING BACK!"