"It's almost dark," Iris announces as she rises from her seat with fluid grace, using her staff to lift her. "We need to make a move before then. Vianney, take her home."

A new instinct, one of newfound resolve, flares, and I interject with haste, "No, wait! I'm going with you."

"You've made a decision?" Iris asks, her eyebrow in a quizzical arch. Her tone has changed, taking on a hoarse yet authoritative quality.

"Well, I'm part of The Order, aren't I?"

She nods in tacit approval and adds, "Tie your hair up then. You are with me."

With nimble fingers, I fasten my locks into a makeshift knot above my head. Suddenly, I feel very exposed, but my mind is racing with dozens of questions, it's the least of my worries yet. "I—I don't understand. What's the plan?"

"Medea, as discussed. Keep up, Mortal," Emfri replies curtly.

"Access, I get it. But what does it mean?"

"She has too many questions. Leave her behind," Alonov suggests, his disregard evident in his words.

I look at Vianney, silently pleading with my eyes. "I'll tug along. Fill you in."

"Fine by me," Emfri says as he gets up. "Echo, let's go."

The brothers walk out behind Emfri and Echo. Vianney holds the door open, granting passage for Iris and me before following us out. We then go around back, passing through a squeezed, dark alley with the fragrance of burnt meat assaulting our senses, and that can hold only one person at a time. Iris leads, quick on her brisk, purposeful steps, her anklets providing a subtle rhythm in every tinkle. On this path, not many people are around.

"Do we even know where we are going?" I ask.

"Not exactly! That's why we split up. Medea has not been seen for a while. She knows she has a key," Vianney grunts solemnly.

"A key to what?"

"You burnt a leaf," Iris interrupts Vianney.

We move out of the alley into a wider road, cloaked in a gentle hush. The roadway is painted in the serenity of anticipation, where only women dressed in Dolman dresses move with their own purpose and not paying any heed to the intruders.

Vianney's hushed words tickle my ear as he leans in closer. "Harpies," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. "They let you pass their section of the land only if you keep the peace they've set. Any unpeaceful nature and you unleash the beast within."

I respond with an absentminded nod before quickly replying to Iris, "It just burned."

"I'm glad it did. I knew if you'd find the crown, it would leave a message. Your reaction when we mentioned Medea proved we were on the right track."

"You used me?" I choke out the words, attempting to maintain my composure as we cross this perilous land.

"You're human, so of course you might feel that way, but I just played a strategic hand. Humans are curious, naturally, so having you eavesdrop helped me know what I needed to do."

"So, should I give back the crown, then?"

"Keep it, Kendi. It would be of much use to you there. We can eyeball our way through this as fate seems to prove." She brushes a sly look over her shoulder.

"Why do we need Medea, again?"

"She angered a lot of people: gods, goddesses, fraternities, mercenaries and they have placed a substantial bounty on her," Iris replies, returning her attention ahead. "When she went into hiding, she retaliated by cloaking the underworld as her last public crime. The last individual who sought her out for passage returned with his four fingers fused in pairs and the other hand fully paralysed right after another who never returned," she narrates.

"She has since changed location both times she's been tracked down, that's why the last guy was sent back with a message in tow. 'Abandon your search for the sorceress of Colchis, ye who wishes to die in peace,'" Vianney adds dramatically.

"And you still want him back?" I ask, though tinged with impartiality, my words inadvertently betray my lack of empathy.

Iris angrily halts and turns to me abruptly, her patience thinning. She draws herself close enough that our breaths are mingling in the charged air. "Don't make me regret this, child. I gave your father this task because I believed fate brought me to him for a reason. But he's not here, you are. My trust in your capabilities is not without foundation anyway, and you are as much part of The Order as this pander over here. Valentine and I deserve a second chance with fate. And you will not rob me of that."

I nod understandably, feeling subdued by Iris' ruthless side that I just unleashed by my carelessness with words, something I did not anticipate. Her unbending resolve surprises me and makes me question why and how I agreed to this. The harpies finally notice us, just in the middle of their land when I decide it is the best time to start chaos.

Vianney raises his hands like a surrender and diffuses the situation by explaining it was just a mere teeth-gritted, fly-on-the-wall type of situation. The harpies ignore this time and I choose to stop asking any more questions. At least not now in harpy land.

As the night embrace deepens, we finally cross the harpy land and into a city. It takes on a spectral quality, shadows intertwining with fragments of lamplight to cast an ethereal glow upon the cobbled paths. A green, rusted, faded and poked metallic directional sign that reads 'Dry Bones, Corinth' sits an edge buried in the ground on the side of the road.

Iris leads us with an air of authority, her staff tapping rhythmically against the ground, a steady cadence that seems to synchronise with the rhythm of our collective heartbeat. Vianney's watchful gaze is unrelenting, scanning the surroundings for any hint of danger or intrigue. I'm, on the other hand, caught in a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, my mind racing to comprehend the gravity of the situation I've found myself in.

As we venture further into the city, it transitions from modest abodes to structures of greater significance, although weathered and worn. Quaint dwellings give way to structures with a peculiar grandeur, their façades adorned with withered sculptures and ancient symbols.

The city holds a sombre beauty that dances on the edge of reality and fantasy. The very air resonates with a sense of antiquity as if every cobblestone has absorbed the stories of countless generations. We enter a dark alley, away from bustling sidewalks, horse-drawn chariots, and carriages that these immortals use for transportation, inching closer to the very heart of the city.

"You're quiet," Vianney states, brushing his arm against mine. "Don't mind her. She's desperate."

"No! I just—I have a lot of questions and I don't want to press the wrong buttons," I confess, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

"Then ask me." He offers a reassuring smile, his face catching the faint glimmers of light emanating from nearby building windows.

"How many?"

"Oh, right on it?" He nods his head in a mild impression. "As many as you can, until we reach our destination."

"Okay. Here's one. Why should Iris get to control The Order when she appointed someone for that?"

"Unreliable orchestrator."

"She waited for over twenty years!"

"That's not a question, Kendi."

I give him a pointed look that silently says 'just answer.'

He relents. "Alright, alright. As she said, you are as part of The Order as I am. Everyone has a role to play, roles," he adds quickly before I could ask, "that will be unveiled in due time. Another question, please."

"Not fair, but okay. Where are we going?"

"Aphrodite's temple. And no, we don't know if Medea is there but there's someone there who might. Who, you're going to ask? I—don't—know. Not yet anyway." A grin mirrors his own on my face and I'm thankful for the dim lighting that shrouds my blush. 

We emerge from the alley and back into the main street. A temple, possibly Aphrodite's, looms in the distance, its grandeur and mystique growing as we draw closer.

The night air is crisp and cool, carrying a palpable sense of anticipation as we move forward. The scent of distant bonfires and exotic spices intermingle, creating a sensory symphony that envelops us beyond the city's nocturnal embrace. My senses are heightened, every sound and scent contributing to an atmosphere that crackles with energy and uncertainty.

Iris finally halts in front of a massive, ornate door, the surface adorned with intricate patterns and symbols that seem to shimmer in the moonlight. The temple exudes an air of timeless allure, its façade adorned with marble columns, each intricately carved with delicate motifs depicting scenes of love, beauty and nature; marble that is weathered, but its patina only adds to the temple's charm.

My heart quickens, as the door creaks open, revealing a bald man shrouded in darkness. I take a deep breath as if I'm the one making the bargain or whatever it is Iris has planned here, and listen. Vianney takes a step back, creating distance, and scouts the premises. Iris moves closer to the door but doesn't care for discretion.

Sudden screams pierce the air from within, passing through the open door. They are followed by victorious cries and mocking jeers. Chills race down my spine as the unsettling sounds fill my ears.

"What?" the bald man asks, evidently bothered.

"I'm here to see the Eunuch," Iris replies, her voice firm.

"Speaking," he yawns. "Make it quick, I have better things to do." His voice is sharp and raspy.

"Not for the walls, my friend."

He sighs annoyed. "Look around. Send your boy back. Speak!"

"Fine," Iris speaks through her teeth. "Medea. I need to find her."

"I don't have that information." He proceeds to close the door but Iris puts her staff through to keep it open.

"You have what I need," Iris angrily asserts, her impressive resolve never wavering.

His lethargic eyes fall on me, trailing me in a manner that could be misconstrued as lascivious. "Her for information."

Iris turns in reluctance and exasperation to look at me and then back at the Eunuch. "She's not ready for the conclave."

"Yet she's here, groomed for it. Perfect for it."

I shiver. "What's he talking about?"

"Information, then conclave," Iris bargains.

"No!" He opens the door wider. "You sit for the conclave, then I give you the information you so desperately want."

Iris yields, passing by him. My feet refuse to move but Vianney nudges me from the back and whispers in my ear. "Welcome to Dry Bones."

Stepping through the temple's entrance, my breath comes in shallow gasps. A courtyard comes into view, adorned with lush gardens where fragrant roses and vibrant flowers bloom in harmonious contrast against the ancient stone. A serene reflecting pool mirrors the temple's splendour, capturing the moonlight that filters through the leaves of swaying trees.

The atmosphere takes on a hushed reverence once we are fully inside. Intricately woven textiles depict tales of love and desire, hanging from the walls like windows to another realm. The air now is scented with incense, the delicate fragrance an offering to the goddess herself.

"Is this my role, Vianney? A mere pawn for information?" I murmur.

"Quiet. Just play along, Mortal."

I look at Vianney with evident surprise, searching for an explanation. How can he just brush me off?

"I see you conspired with The Panda. He will give you the best, if you ask nicely," The Eunuch's taunting voice interrupts but no one acknowledges his remark.

He leads us through a set of other ornate double doors, entering the heart of the temple—a vast chamber reserved for the conclave. The halls are resplendent with a sense of grandeur, with high ceilings adorned with gilded carvings that seem to touch the heavens. Crystal chandeliers dangle from above, casting a dazzling cascade of light that dances upon the assembled guests.

The Eunuch turns to me in a forced and acquired seduction, his body language failing his intentions. He smiles nefariously as he ogles me with greed, a desire for money and perhaps recognition throughout Corinth.

"Follow me," he commands.

Iris and Vianney fall back as my legs force me to the unknown. We advance further into the hall filled with casual banter from guests, a harmonious blend of ancient tongues. The path leads us down a ramp, while above, important guests occupy plush velvet chairs, arranged in a curve that encourages dialogue and camaraderie. The choicest seats in the house. The rest of the guests sit behind a half-concrete wall above the arena, some already placing their bets. The atmosphere hums with anticipation, and I feel my heart throbbing in my throat, ready for me to vomit it out.

There's an air of enchantment as well, as if the very walls of the temple are imbued with the goddess' presence. Candles flicker on intricately carved pedestals as we descend further down the ramp, casting shadows that seem to breathe life into the surroundings.

We step into another chamber, a sensory assault that combines the acrid tang of sweat with the intoxicating sweetness of roses and the lingering tendrils of incense. The room is alive with frenzied energy. Young women, draped in towels that barely cover them pass by me with a wet sheen on their skin, the scent of roses that dances playfully in the air clinging to them. They are joyfully heading to various corners of the room, some towards an inviting pool while others busy themselves with grooming rituals, but somehow none of this seems to ease up my tension.

Amidst the intoxicating bouquet, others adorn themselves with a display of opulence. Sequins glint like stars against the sumptuous satins, and fabrics of every colour create a kaleidoscope, a spectacle that celebrates beauty and extravagance, a contrast to the humble streets we traversed earlier.

A handful of women, their expressions smug and their demeanour self-assured, gravitate towards the Eunuch and me, a certain preparation that promises secrets, power and perhaps even revelry beyond these walls.

"You are the last group to go in and perhaps the first that will make me rich today. I get rich, you get rich," the Eunuch declares.

He half-turns to me and aggressively pats my back. "You have a new contestant. Someone spritz her with perfume before I give the unique instructions for today's last conclave. She smells like singed meat."

With an assertive shove, he propels me forward and I fall into the arms of the other girls. A tall blonde takes my arm, pulls me to the side of the room and sprays some water on my exposed skin before spraying a rose-scented mist in the air and ordering me to walk through the fragrant cloud.

"Good. Now, today I've come to some very interesting information," The Eunuch begins. "There are sixteen of you and only five men. The secret council are after certain information which rests solely in the hands of one of the men. Assemble within the arena, where each of you will be granted only five seconds with any of the men until one cracks. Do as you must, new girl." He watches me, making me feel naked in front of hundreds of girls.

"How do we know they have cracked? What's the information Eunuch," the blonde one asks.

"I'm not obliged to tell you that today. One of the members of the secret council will rise once the coveted piece of information is revealed."

"Is this a game?" I retort. "If they are so secret why are there other spectators on the seats?"

"You're green, so I'll be happy to inform you, fledgling. Yet, remember your place and never raise your voice at me, again."

"I do not intend to stay!"

"Good, then prove yourself out there. Fail to crack even one, you remain behind relegated to the status of a servant like your revered goddess once was."

He takes a dangerous, deliberate step forward. "The Dry Bones Conclave is a secret council comprised of five members. They are Weavers, meaning they never reveal their real identities. And they use the conclave to get information otherwise known to compromise their stand. The attendees present as an act of intimidation."

He sniffs and then sighs in exhaustion. "Now, if that's done, the arena awaits."

He steps aside and opens the door we came through. The ladies cheer as they depart with a triumphant grace, determined to play at this game they dub a conclave. I walk out last, feeling my heart so close to my mouth that I can almost spit it out.

Facing off against the five men standing opposite the main guests sitting above us, their stances disparate yet orchestrated, I find myself contemplating the intrigue that swells within this cryptic arena. Among them stands a threatener, a solitary figure with the weight of secrets flanked by four decoys, who carries leverage like a bag of feathers but is forced to drop the bag because perhaps, it isn't worth what he is asking for in return.

My eyes eventually spot Iris and Vianney in the back row seats. Iris looks restless but Vianney's agitation appears to eclipse even hers. The staff she tightly clutches betrays her unease, while her subtle nod goes unanswered as anger simmers within me for allowing myself to be manipulated. Vianney's eyes sweep across the arena, and not just me. He's been avoiding me.

"Begin!" the Eunuch's voice cuts through, and like a surge, five girls rush to the five men.

The crowd roars, voices clamouring and echoing with fervour, their collective exhortations indistinct. 'It's not him!' the chat repeats, a chorus devoid of a clear target.

Marked by the resonating gong, five seconds signal the transition as five other girls replace the first ones who then join the line behind me.

"It's harder today. These men are stones," one of the girls behind me comments, her tone a mixture of frustration and cynicism.

"My money is on the middle one. Look at how smug he is," another chimes in.

Once again, the gong sounds, and five more march forward. I'm next in line.

"Do you get to choose any of them?" I ask.

Before I could be answered by the girl possessing scornful eyes that claw nails into my soul, the gong peals anew, and she pushes me forward. Rushing toward the central man, she strains to be the first, but I redouble my pace and reach him before she can. A muttered curse taints the air as she swiftly redirects her aim.

Then I realise, it's a trap. No participant in a monetary conclave, especially one tailor-made for a hidden and wealthy council, would brazenly vocalise their thoughts unless it's part of their strategy. Even before I could do anything, the gong strikes once more and I'm at the back of the line again. I take this time to scrutinise the men: controlled yet elevated breathing, beads of sweat especially under the armpits, trembling lips. It should be a dead giveaway, but the decoys seem to be trained meticulously.

One girl resorts to a painful squeeze of one man's testicles. He doesn't scream or react to the pain, but a slight shudder betrays his anguish. The nape of his neck is palpating as if teetering on eruption and his temple clenches as if he's chewing something. He bit his tongue!

On my next quickfire round, I make my way to him faster before any other girl does. I'm determined he's the one, driven by the need to survive and never to see this hall ever again. I take him by his hair, force his head back and grit my teeth.

"Spit or choke?"

The gong resounds but I don't move. I'm certain, almost too certain. His eyes, which initially met mine with pure hatred and despair now seem to silently implore for mercy. The blonde girl attempts to push me away but I stand my ground. The clamour of the crowd dies down coinciding with the gong's three successive strikes.

"We have a contender," the Eunuch announces, his proclamation accompanied by an undercurrent of underwhelm.

"Spit or choke," I repeat, my voice steady.

The man refuses to yield compelling me to pull his head back farther enough that he can swallow and choke on his blood. He releases a low, guttural grumble before spitting blood out with a vehement spew and raising his gaze to the Weavers. "The Weavers have a farm outside Corinth they use to castrate young human boys into Eunuchs. There's one in particular that slipped through their fingers they desperately need to find—distinct for his inhuman nature."

I retract slightly, absorbing the weight of his revelations even though they are German to me. He grunts and then continues, his voice strained yet urgent. "There's more against that one strike against the law," the man chokes with a hint of confidence that seems to grow with every revelation he utters. "They conduct magical experiments on them which killed my son, but this particular mysterious Eunuch absorbed all that was left of their magic, making him the strongest most powerful immortal Eunuch in all of the universe."

The one I assume is the leader of the Weavers rises and the crowd grows dangerously silent, air rife with tension. I push the man to the floor, releasing my grip on him and watch the Eunuch watch me proudly for I have definitely deepened his pockets.

Through my periphery vision, I also see Iris get up mirroring the Weaver's expression: a blend of surprise, apprehension and trepidation. In tandem, the crowd reacts with a potent cocktail of anxiety, fear and uncertainty. Perhaps this might be the first conclave where a truly power-shifting revelation has been laid bare and they too, elements of intimidation, now might be cut out for death.

"Execute them all!" The Weaver's furious decree reverberates in the air, setting off a torrent of chaos that sweeps like wildfire as he storms away from the hall, his colleagues following him quickly behind. Panic seizes the crowd as they rush toward the exits, desperate to secure their lives. Amidst the tumult, a man falls from above. Responding to this unforeseen cue, I sprint forward, driven by the instinct to escape before the doors slam shut, sealing off any chance of freedom.

I am running back down the way we came, hoping to see a garden, but I somehow get lost in this maze of a temple.

"Be still my beating heart," I implore my racing heart, panic tinging my breath as I rely on my soft feet on the cool marble floors.

I run further into darkness, looking for a way out, seeking refuge. Undoubtedly, I will become a target, given that I uncovered crucial information, yet as I stand in the darkness looking for refuge, an unseen force suddenly yanks me into the shadows, and the door slams shut with a resounding bang.

A sweet caramel-scented breath tickles the hairs in my nostrils and I sneeze involuntarily. A hand instinctively shields my mouth before whispering, "Bless you." I still can't make out who the person is until my nose catches the sweet pungent smell of crisp citrus.

Nothing surrounds us but encompassing darkness where silence reigns supreme, punctuated only by our synchronised breaths. Somehow I sense Vianney's eyes watching me—gentle, tender, endearing, I believe. Like the look of a once blind mine upon the setting sun for the first time.

Gradually, his hand retreats from my mouth, gently tracing a path down my arm to encircle my waist—a gesture reminiscent of an embrace, intimate and inviting, one that you'd never want to pull out from. His other hand cradles my jaw, igniting curious sensations that electrify my being. My stomach folds, my lungs consent, my breathing slows and my heart, oh my heart is desperate to win a marathon.

Footsteps echo just outside, the person separated from us by a mere wooden door. Vianney lets go of my jaw and carefully places his hand on the door above my head. We remain prepared, attuned to the sounds without, hoping they won't start opening doors but the footsteps recede, conceding defeat to the blackmailing darkness.

We stand there in silence for a little while longer. My emotions churn within, and I summon the courage to push Vianney away from me.

"You knew," I accuse, trying my best to keep my voice hushed.

He sighs, an irritating sound that barely fills the void but doesn't respond. A silence that speaks volumes. I'm left yearning for visual confirmation of his emotions, but the darkness preserves his expression, leaving me in a nebulous world of speculation. I can't tell if he's remorseful, in regret or just blank.

"How could you let me be humiliated when you know how insecure I am?" I erupt, my voice carrying the weight of my hurt, tears prepared to spill from my eyes. A part of me wants to cry because we are in the dark and he won't see how vulnerable I am, but I mustered the resolve not to shed tears for a man again, especially when it comes to me and how I feel abused in my own body and skin.

My outburst hangs in the air, heavy and raw. The silence that follows stretches, pregnant with unspoken sentiments. I long for a response, a reassurance, a glimmer of understanding from him. Yet, as moments tick by, my hope dwindles, and I steel myself against the vulnerability gnawing at me.

"We need to find Iris and get the hell out of here," his voice finally breaks the silence, a tone of urgency laced within. He then opens the door and strides out, his actions a deliberate snub to my turmoil, my inquiry and the agitated emotions that are now laid bare.

I'm left alone momentarily, the echo of his retreating footsteps bouncing off the dim chamber walls before blending into the corridor. A frisson of uncertainty snakes its way up my spine, my heart pounding in sync with the ominous rhythm of my surroundings. As I finally decide to follow him out, the door creaks shut behind him and locks, and a sense of foreboding settles over me like a lingering shadow refusing to be dispelled.