Reaching far into my mind, I try to find a plane of balance. A place where I can breathe in sync with the rhythm of my heartbeat and not spare a second thought to anything else. Soon, I find that place. Here I am fully rooted to the ground. Here I need not worry about floating away. Here, I am safe. 

At some point in time I force myself to open my eyes. Creamy browns and faded blues fill my vision. The cozy interior makes it tempting to stay. Four tan walls enclose the small prayer room. A patterned rug serves as the floor; the blues, greens and golds forming a tessellation of various symbols. Behind me is a series of arched windows. And facing me is a low table, where a propped-up mosaic is glimmering in the soft candlelight.

A "prayer" room is a little deceiving, I think. Most claim it is a place to practice their faith. Where on a regular basis, one pays his respects to whatever deities they believe are watching over them. But praying does nothing to reinforce one's beliefs, nor does it ensure the gods would hear your sufferings. I learned that a long time ago. 

A prayer room serves as a quiet space, where you are entitled to your own privacy and thoughts. Where time and space themselves have slowed down at your command. Where even if the world is ending, no one would feel they have the right to intrude in your activities. 

Here, peace can be made with your inner demons without them escaping your control. Here, even the burning fires of hatred can be quenched within moments, without the help of anyone else--not even the gods. 

Especially the gods.

I take my time walking down the grand hall. Pillar after pillar passes by on either side of me. The torchlight emits a steady glow to the space, though the lighting remains somewhat dim. Have this been any other place, the melancholy gloom would have driven me away. But more often than not I spend my time here, reflecting on the past.

I pause at one of the giant tapestries, which depicts a stack of books along with cursive script floating off the fluttering pages of an open book. This one is more recent; the threads still hold their vibrancy. Others have lost their colour and become permanently stationary pictures. I try to keep these stories alive, but there is only so much I can do before they are forgotten. Forgetting the past has become a norm, so it seems. I am determined not to resign my pupils' legacies to the same fate.

I lightly run my fingers across the tapestry. The threads shimmer before melting into moving blurs of colour. Soon it focuses into a memory I have not thought about for a while—the last time I read a book outloud.

I smile as I continue to read. The older ones act out the story to the youngsters, and although there's no sound, the air ripples with laughter. I say something to them, and this makes them all laugh harder. Their faces redden with joy. I shake my head as I try to find where I left off. We will never finish the book like this, I think. A shame—even I want to know what happens! But that's all right. Sometimes stories are not meant to be finished. Sometimes, stories can be enjoyed without knowing where it will take us in the end.

I open my eyes and realize my nose is a horsehair's distance from the tapestry. I back away. It has become increasingly difficult to tell the past from present, memories from actuality. Tearing my gaze from the once-again passive memory, I resume my walking at a slower pace. 

I miss them, I think. The emptiness gnaws at my insides. I miss the past, back when we have not left each other. And now...

I wince and grab my side. It feels as though it is on fire. I hurriedly grab the Eye from my pocket and sure enough, the stone has heated up. But it cools down just as quickly. 

What does this mean? In the two weeks since that day, the Eye has not shown any reaction to my thoughts—until now. Does that mean I am on the right track? Of what? Books?

For some inexplicable reason, the thought numbs my body with dread. 

I shake my head. I am thinking too deeply about this; the Eye did not specify anything. If books are part of the answer to what I can do to honour my fallen pupils, then my next step should be going to the Home's library. I go there regularly to dust the shelves and maintain the books, anyway. It should not be a problem.

Hobbling swiftly, I pass by a blur of tapestries, many which have faded into grey snapshots. But before turning the corner, I am sure to take a moment to acknowledge the Fall of Abandryaph, one of the tapestries that struggle to even flicker. It was only forty years ago, yet it saddens me that there are very few people left to remember it. I watch as crumbling pillars fall apart in slow motion. 

All of a sudden, a skeletal snake flashes through my mind. It withers through the sea of blood, seeking for its next-

I blink away the apparition and make my way to the staircase around the corner.

Climbing the stairs, I grip the stone handrail out of suspicion I will stumble onto an unstable step. This fortress has been standing ever since the first Swift Master of Assassins ordered for it to be built ten thousand years ago. Not much of a feat, really—considering what the world was before.

I reach the landing and steer towards the west wing. Most of the Home's architectural design is rather simple, made from agglomerated concrete. Such a structure, however, would not have been possible without the thriving magic that was still around. Magic still breathes through the fortress' walls, I believe. From time to time I can sense a foreign aura lingering here or there. I have speculated that the mysterious glyphs have something to do with it. 

I arrive at the double bronze doors of the library. Twisting the handle, I push and tentatively step inside.

An oriental jade carpet muffles my footsteps as I walk towards the center of the small space. On the left is a former reading area, now reduced to a careful arrangement of pillows and chairs. The right wall is filled with leather-bound history texts and scrolls, as well as several maps. Rows of smaller shelves of books take up the middle section. Moonbeams filter through the upper left windows, giving a tranquil quality to the setting.

I light some candles, then start by giving the history wall a look. The safest assumption is that I should look for a scroll on the Eye's origins. I take out a scroll I already read before, which details all that mankind has claimed about the Eye thus far.

I check the Eye but it has no reaction. I return it to its cubbyhole, disappointed. Pursuing the other texts would be just as pointless.

Sinking into a chair, I ponder what the Eye is trying to tell me. Books...there must be a reason. My eyes travel throughout the library. I pick up one of the books that are scattered on the reading area's carpet, and stare at the children's smiling faces on the cover.

My fingers fumble and it drops with a thud. I close my eyes and silently curse myself.

I am better than that. Gingerly, I pick it up again, this time with the knowledge that it is no ordinary book, but the Swift Assassins' album. I rub the bounded album, trying to smoothen out the wrinkles and preserve the cover's cherry hue.

Turning to the first picture is usually where I would stop. All the others are drawings and doodles I refrain from looking at too often. However, the ink portrait of the Swift Assassins is the one that I constantly come back to. I remove the waxed protector. The tanned sheet of papyrus gives the portrait its warm tone. Delicate strokes of ink craft the outlines of their figures, and touches of powder bring out the colour in their cheeks and the life in their eyes. Back then I could not afford much back, so I settled with an ink rendering and a well-respected painter.

A tear drips onto the portrait and misses the ink. The Eye warms in my hand. It takes me a moment to register the change, and I stand up in disbelief, the album in one hand, the stone in the other. Lavender light is pulsing from the Eye like heartbeats, piercing the gloom and creating a small field of energy. 

So the flower memorial, setting up the mess hall every day as if they had never left, and reciting my sins to the gods were not enough to honour my pupils. But weeping for them is? I press my lips into a thin line. All I want is to have a purpose here, to not let my actions be in vain. And the Eye laughed at that.

A searing pain flashes through my right arm. I grimace and examine the wound, which still holds its sickly green shade. After two weeks of the incident, the wound has not shown a single sign of progression—until now. I touch it gingerly, expecting it to hurt more, but the pain has disappeared once again. Odd.

There must be a reason for this. I sit down again. Returning to the ink portrait, I try to conjure up other memories it reminds me of. My eyes travel to the image of my younger—no, my former—self. What I lacked in youth, I made up for with my smiles. My pupils said I smiled so much, I could have lit up the world if I tried. I look fondly at them. There we are, crowded into the portrait as one big huddle despite the seating arrangement I had in mind. It was chaotic that day, I think. All of them squabbling, complaining, and overall generating an unbelievable amount of chatter during the two-hour span. Actually it was like that all the time. But I preferred the noise over silence. I would give anything to be with my family again. 

I bite my tongue, even though I never said it outloud. It feels like a betrayal. That is not a hundred percent true; I do not want to be with my family—not yet. Honouring them—my pupils, I mean—and making sure they would never be forgotten is my number one priority. I need to remember that. Family is important.

Suddenly, I jump up from my seat. Could it be? But...But it has been decades since I last heard from him. There is no way...

I look at the portrait again, remembering the closeness of brothers and sisters that held us together. Remembering the warmth of love I found comfort in during the weeks and years that passed by. I miss that so much. Before, I thought my families were gone after the massacres. 

Now, it seems they is one person left. One person that could be my answer, or my end.

I slowly turn to a nearby looking-glass and pull down the shoulder sleeve of my tunic. I stare forlornly at the tattoo, and then at myself. Even through the wrinkled skin, I see a lost child of Abandryaph who never had the chance to say goodbye to both of his families. With a youthful face, brown hair, and chocolate skin, he smiles sadly at me. I concentrate harder. The teen morphs into a child no older than five years. He has slightly darker hair, a fairer complexion, and a mischievous grin. A small portion of me knows the Eye is glowing brighter, but I already know what I must do.

I have to find my brother.