He didn't thank him. The nightingale recoiled after hearing the predator speak, as afraid as he was relieved. The wait was long before his knees finally gave out and he slid into the shadows of the bridge, seated on the flagged stone floor. He held his legs close to his chest, quiet in the night.

Slayne was taken aback. The gaps between every stone was caked with dirt and covered in dust; there was no reason for Jiro to rest here or be seated in a manner so different from his usual position—orderly and disciplined. His pet sniffed.

He was crying, again.

Was there anything he should say, now that they'd already met?

The sight before his eyes was foreign; strange. Yet, oddly comforting. The owl's mind could not comprehend the reason for this, and neither did it attempt to do so. It was never a dweller and Slayne preferred it to remain that way. After all, what was the use—the purpose of making everything unnecessarily complicated and uncertain when there existed a path so simple and easy?

"Don't sit here."

His pet raised his gaze, startled. "I-I'm sorry?"

"Don't sit here. Don't sit like that. Go back to your room."

Slayne was not aware of how he sounded to the nightingale. In fact, he wasn't aware of how he sounded to the rest of the world that existed beyond his windows—it didn't matter. He tried to get the message across and it was conveyed, albeit at the cost of discomfort and fear.

"Yes, of course, I, yes I should do that. I'll um, I'll go now," his pet scrambled upright, pushing himself off the ground only to fall once more. Embarrassed at his inability to carry out a task as simple as standing, he tried again but still, the strength of his legs failed him.

The nightingale raised the back of his hand to his eyes to clear his vision. "I...sorry, that was...I don't know what's..."

He couldn't seem to move, all of a sudden. It was as though he had shackles bound to his ankles and a weight attached to the end of them, preventing any form of escape. Slayne didn't quite understand what went through his mind when he decided to take a seat beside his pet, on the floor of the bridge. He sent his Avian to guard the other end—just in case some Nocturnes decided to come along and interrupt their private moment.

They waited in silence.

The night was empty, however, only because Slayne was so used to hearing his song in the heart of the night. He felt the onset of something heavy and blank in the absence of the nightingale's voice. What was his name? Was it alright to ask? Would he think it inappropriate?

Slayne had not a clue what went on in the minds of prey. He didn't ask.

Instead, he started by humming. Humming the tune of what he'd hear night after night. By now, the creature within had breathed the very song it heard—and so repeating it to himself like he'd do so even during the day was now a second instinct of his.

The owl started slow; finding the key a lot lower than he first imagined it to be, now that the original source was right beside him. He didn't do it justice at all.

It was on the third note—barely seconds into the melody—that his pet began to see a light in the darkness of the night. His eyes widened as he peered up. Stunned.

"That song."

He doesn't stop.

It was difficult once he began, after all, it being locked in his cage together with the creature that adored it so. His pet remained fairly bewildered by the scene that was unfolding before his eyes; the tune his ears were hearing.

"That song," was all he managed, once more. He was afraid to continue. The owl was a predator and it was basic courtesy not to interrupt a predator as they spoke (or in this case, hummed). Meeting their gaze was also something they should not do even if they could. The nightingale wasn't so brave as to cross the line of order that lay between them both.

"Thank you," he whispered, instead. The familiar tune calmed the waves of sorrow that was close to sweeping him away, rendering his Self lost in an ocean so vast and frightening.

"Thank you."

*

Iolani Tori had been, in many senses, escorted by a group of cold and unfriendly strangers (except Reux, who'd been, unfortunately, too warm with his non-existent concept of personal space) for the past couple of hours. The walking was one thing, sure—but would the creature in his cage been so anxious and afraid, skittering about all day in bouts of speed, had he been walking with strangers otherwise?

He scrutinized the discomfort creeping within, ushering it inside and examining its features, cause, purpose. The entity was hot and charred, leaving a mark on the places it touched for he couldn't contain it in his hands more than a second to identify its origins.

Had Luka been a stranger to him, the moment they met? Of course, by the very definition of strangers, they were to each other then. But how was he to explain the familiarity that came along with their meeting? If Luka was familiar to him, then would he be considered a stranger? Is the stranger someone foreign to the self, assuming they'd never met, or could someone familiar still be a stranger? Was the meaning in the word or the word in the meaning?

He looked up.

Reux met his gaze and reached out to pinch his nose. Io didn't know what the action entailed and what it meant or whether it meant what the shrike had meant it to be, if he'd meant anything at all or perhaps he'd meant it to mean something to the sparrow and didn't bother what the latter was as long as it sparked some form of discomfort and inferiority.

Reux smirked to himself, a cross between an amused snicker and ill laughter.

Io frowned.

He despised it. He knew he did; he admitted that there were things that existed in the independent world which he did not like. The sparrow increased the distance between them both by taking a step towards his left. Reux followed suit.

Frustrated, Io retreated back into his mind for the 47th time of the day—barely hours in—repeating what he'd been doing since the start of the games. Each time he stepped out, he noticed that someone in the group had left on Reux's orders, he assumed, to scout the area for Marks of Prey.

Each time they returned, the number of charms doubled and yet not a single prey was added to the party of approximately fifteen predators. These Hearts, unlike those from his previous game, did not bother striking a deal with the prey whose charm they'd obtained. It was customary (or so Luka had said) for the predators to help the prey in finding the exit before their rations ran out. Safety in exchange for their identity.

At present, the purpose of prey had boiled down to a single object; a mere accessory. Io didn't need to think to know what he felt about that. He could only hope that among the Marks that they'd collected thus far, Pipa's was not one of them.

It was at this moment that Vaughn, who had lingered at the back of the flock all this time, stepped forth to catch the attention of the shrike. Io turned to him, filled, strangely, with an anticipation of the vulture's instructions.

Was he leading them now? Vaughn had the potential of a good leader, but that was only if he was willing to bear the pain of being himself. Io waited in pause, conveniently dropping the shell of a sunflower seed as he did so.

All eyes had turned to Vaughn in an instance, as though he'd said something completely unprecedented. Reux on the other hand, appeared unfazed. How unfair, thought Io. He was anticipating the shrike to be absolutely floored by the capabilities of his vulture friend. Vaughn was very good at what he did, even if it meant being the villain. He was good at it.

The Hearts conversed quietly, among themselves through an established Link, leaving Io quite out of the picture and stuck in the dark. He observed the expression on Vaughn's face, briefly noting the softness of his eyes in the absence of a bitter scowl. The vulture wasn't exactly handsome, per se—Io thought the word applied more to his eagle friend, Luka—not when his lips were naturally thin and small and his lower lashes unusually long. Up close, Vaughn did not appear the least bit frightening.

He snapped out of it, startled when his arm was grabbed and his body was being pulled backwards almost into a fall.

Reux caught the sparrow before he hit the ground and Io found himself wishing he'd done the latter instead. When he straightened up and returned his gaze to Vaughn, the vulture had called for his Avian and was preparing to shift.

Was he leaving? Io waved, a little anxious now that Vaughn was going to be alone. Sometimes, he couldn't help but think it necessary for him to have Vaughn within his field of vision, just so he could know for sure that there was someone in the world who perceived Vaughn for who he was.

Oddly enough, the vulture caught his eye and seemed to flash a toothy-something in his direction. Unfortunately for Io, he did not have the luxury of time to decipher what it was, exactly, because Vaughn had shifted and taken off in a matter of seconds.

He attempted to wave after him, but Reux was blocking the sky.

__________________________

The very first time they met under the tree, hidden by the cloak of the night, Slayne and his nightingale watched the swaying of the grass. A blade or two as it cut through the air; sometimes bending, gracefully, towards another and looking as though it was about to be swept away only to return, the same.

It made the owl observe an unusual power of the nightingale's voice—it's ability to bend his will and make him do as he so wished. Slayne found its form truly frightening, now that he was beginning to understand what the song was doing to him and why it had enchanted the creature in his cage.

Magic.

The nightingale possessed the most forbidden sorcery that could make even the most restless stay and watch the movement of grass. He was a magician whose source of power came primarily from his voice! That was it. That must be it.

The turn of his head was abrupt and at an uncanny angle.

"Y-yes?" His pet froze, startled. His hands were hidden behind his back, as though he had something behind his back, hidden from the owl's view.

Slayne observed it at once, unable to steer his mind away from the magic and prevent it from conjuring a wand of magic in the hands of his pet. To confirm his suspicions, he asked for the prey to hold out his hands.

The latter appeared hesitant at first. There was a vague expression of guilt upon his features—a small furrowing of his brows and soft chewing on his lower lip before he sheepishly presented a red paper crane.

"I'm sorry. I know I said that we could watch the grass but I couldn't help folding paper cranes," the nightingale explained with a lowered gaze. He didn't offer an excuse or any reason for his behaviour, as though he'd already accepted his wrongdoings and was reflecting upon them without attempting to defend himself first.

Slayne did not know if this was resultant of the school's treatment of prey but, curious, he took the crane in his hand and inspected it. The process had somehow involved him crushing the crane's neck.

"...I didn't mean to do that."

"Oh no that's okay, it can be fixed." His pet reached over to straighten the paper and re-fold the corner, returning the crane to the heart of his palm—fixed. Slayne couldn't help but wonder if his nightingale's hands were, as well, part of the magic.

He asked the question. "How do you do that?"

"Um, the crane?" His pet blinked, tilting his head to the side. Slayne found this particular habit of his strangely endearing. The tilting of his head. "I...well I fold it with paper."

Yes, of course he did. The fact was fairly obvious to Slayne and he could not help but attribute this to wanting to avoid the topic of magic. After all, prey would be punished if they were found to be practicing magic on predators. That, or he had not made it clear to his pet what, exactly, he was referring to.

"I was referring to the magic. How do you do it?"

The eyes that peered quietly into the windows of his soul—timid and reserved—did not, however, waver in its certainty. It was him, kneeling in the bitter wind with his back straight and composed all over again.

"Origami...?" The Japanese boy guessed, slightly taken aback that the art was regarded as magic here on the island. Indeed, it must have sounded foreign to the ears of some who'd come from afar, but he never really considered the prospect of it being magic. "W-well, it's an art, but."

Origami. The very name of the art enchanted the creature within.

That was it.

An art. The nightingale was more than a magician—he was an artist. The creator of something so peaceful and serene; a beauty so rarely witnessed amid chaos and the Wind. Slayne was bent on learning his secrets.

"What does it do?"

"Origami?" His pet lowered his gaze to the paper crane nestled in the heart of the owl's palm. "I don't know, but um, they say folding a thousand cranes will grant you a single wish? I-if that's what you mean."

A wish.

A miracle. Another form of magic that Slayne was inclined to believe had everything to do with the nightingale and his ability to bend the creature within according to his will.

"Teach me." Origami. Magic. Art. Whatever it was that he was doing. "I'd like to learn."

"Oh," was all his nightingale said in response, appearing rather startled by his sudden demand. After all, there was no obligation for him to do as the Nocturne said, since the prey was not officially owned by the latter in any form of registration. "But I'm not very good at it..."

"You are, pet."

The boy blinked. His stare was strange—as though he'd spotted a firefly for the very first time and didn't know what to feel about its light. It was then that the owl realized he'd let slip the name circling around in the space of his mind, so much so that he felt light-headed all of a sudden, and was inclined to say the word many more times than he had.

The creature in his chest fought against this urge, claiming the word mildly embarrassing and delusional; as though he'd already formed some kind of relationship with the nightingale even though they had barely known each other.

"I didn't mean to call you that."

"Oh." His pet snapped out of his bewilderment. "Oh no, it's okay. What does it mean?"

Slayne frowned. "You mean, pet?"

He received a nod.

"It means..." It was embarrassing to say. He wasn't going to say it. Slayne didn't want to appear vulnerable and weak to someone who practiced magic—let alone a prey.

"Nothing. It doesn't mean anything," he surrendered to the creature. "Don't worry. I will not call you that."

"I don't mind," said the nightingale. In the darkness, he smiled. "I don't mind if you call me that."

The owl could not conceive his words that were both unexpected and strange. He had long assumed that no one in the entire universe would like to be called something so simple. So seemingly demeaning. "Why?"

His pet peered into his windows, and he thought he heard a song.

"Because it sounded like you wanted me by your side."

__________________________

In the silence of the Box, Slayne thought he heard the ticking of a clock.

The sound was unnerving; unwelcome, and yet it was the only thing that kept him alert—eye open, searching. Exactly how many shells he'd followed and passed, he'd lost count some time ago. His mind drifted, lulled by the song that often filled his mind, then returned. Before drifting again.

He was back in his room, on the couch, by the window, open. Then, he was back again.

A shell was spotted on the edge of dry leaf half-hidden by shadows and earth, its stripes apparent. Slayne blinked and it was gone and when he blinked again, it was back. He followed the shell before it could disappear once more from his world that was beginning to fade. The eyes of a Nocturne were not made for morning activity, let alone searching for the shells of sunflower seeds on forest grounds.

The trail was likely made for someone with sharp eyes to follow and Slayne needn't think far to know, exactly, who Io had in mind when he planted those shells of his. Sifting through an ocean to find several pins—no one else but Luka Sullivan would do so for the sparrow. Why then, was he, the owl, doing exactly what he assumed only the eagle would do? Drifting, again.

He was under the stars, listening to a voice, slightly shaded by the tree.

This was where they liked to sit.

Back again. He brushed aside the memory and returned to the present, treading across the forest floor, past another shell and arriving at a clearing, spotted another. He made towards it, looking out for the next as soon as he did. Was he any closer to the sparrow? The owl could not help but wonder. Any rational being would have doubted the use of their actions by this point in time, and Slayne was not an exception to the norm. He stepped over a root and out into the clearing—

Castor?

His head turned all the way round; an eerie feature characteristic of Nocturnes. It had been on instinct—a prickling of his skin as though danger had emerged from the darkness surrounding his cage and knocked on his window with a smile. He visibly relaxed upon identifying the source of surprise.

You. Vaughn Alekseyev.

The look in his eyes told Slayne that the vulture wasn't all too pleased to see him either. In fact, he appeared to be equally surprised. I thought you were one of them. Slayne turned his body to face the vulture, aware that the uncanny angle of his head was gaining all the attention. Well you are, strictly speaking. I see that you decided to pick their side...tired of being alone?

You are mistaken, Vaughn was quick to snap but he caught himself from the fall. And I am not surprised that you are. I've never expected much from you, a Nocturne obsessed with his prey.

Slayne scoffed, turning away as he dismissed the vulture with a wave. Looks like you're wasting my time.

Again, you are mistaken. Vaughn stepped in his path and stood between him and the very next clue to finding Iolani Tori, clearly in his way. Heed my advice and return! Do not go any further than this—at least not alone, you should not. The way ahead is not to your favour.

His tone was oddly urgent. A difference so stark from the vulture's usual self that Slayne could not help but waver in his decision. He stared at Vaughn, facing him with a frown. This is one of your little tricks again. You are very good at lying yes, but I will not be bought by your lies.

You are insane, Vaughn could not believe what was about to unfold before his eyes. For once, he was doing good and his well intentions were about to be denied in his very face. I am not lying! Castor, you have my word. This is not where you should be going alone!

You're saying this because Iolani is up ahead and I'm getting close, aren't you? The owl almost laughed. I must remember the look on your face now. It looks like fear. It amused him thoroughly, to see Vaughn so desperate. I'll bring it to my grave.

He pushed past the vulture, resolve anew. Burning within. Iolani was foolish for placing his trust in a scavenger. In the end, you betrayed hi—

*

It all happened very quickly, so much so that the victim himself did not witness anything more than the glint of a blade under the light of the sun. His neck seared in pain and he was gasping for air, trying to scream but hearing, only, the muted sounds of what existed beyond his window, choking on the blood that was gargling in his mouth—listening to a song.

He collapsed to the forest floor, kneeling to the sight of red pouring from what seemed like his neck. He felt the sound of footsteps around him but mistook it for the harshness of the wind against his window, outside, forcing it to a close.

He pushed back, struggling to keep it open for this was the only way he could hear the song he lived for, only to catch a blurred glimpse of the shrike as he stood over him with a smile. Him.

The wind was strong.

It was howling; louder than the song which was starting to fade, he was desperate to keep it there. He needed the magic that the one, sole, individual beyond his window had cast upon him, and it was written in the song—that which he must hear.

This was not his close. It simply couldn't be.

A blow to his gut was enough to send him falling flat, face-down, his window merely consisting that of his own blood, seeped into the earth.

It was closing and yet, oddly enough, the song was getting louder now. He could hear it inside, within his cage, and all of a sudden—there was no longer a need for the window.

The song was inside;

where it had always been.

__________________________

It was at the close that Slayne Castor realized just what it was that made him do the things that he did for Jiro; watching grass in the cold; kneeling by the tree; listening to him for hours; opening his window, bracing the Wind.

It was not magic.

Neither was in an art, or a wish; or anything like that.

It was not magic.

It was—

______________________

_______________________

At last,

the window

was closed.