My Treat

The Main Centre had a cobbled street that twisted and turned out of sight, its corners punctuated by shops of different size and stock. There were about hundreds of ancient-looking torches lining up to the ends of the street, a glass casing each of its pea-size flame.

Somehow, the sight of the shop, the things outside them, the Wielders bobbing in and out of any establishment, a transparent bag filled with various equipment hanging on their wrist, distracted Z from any thoughts she just had earlier.

A plump woman outside an Apothecary was swinging a silver necklace as she passed, saying, “Necklace, oh, enchanted necklace! Charming as it looks, powerful to use.”

Z bit her lips to hide her snigger.

“Hey, Z! I’ll withdraw first,” said George who just managed to catch up. “My shadow’s energy was compromised earlier by that bastard of a driver.”

“Whatever you like.”

A low neigh came from a forest-like shop with a sign saying Sheenie Shorne Shack where several boys peered, amazing themselves with Shorne’s of different sizes and colors. There were shops selling cloaks, shops selling ancient artifacts, panels stacked with fake weapons, windows reflecting millions of books, and different stock of bags hanging at the back of a mannequin.

They have reached a black, gothic, derelict building that has a three-story structure, which was awfully engineered. It looked as if it’d collapse any moment now.

A round burnished, bronze door formed the entrance. When George touched its cane-like handle, it creaked open, revealing the long line-up of Wielders, shepherded by two to three shadows.

“Are you sure we won’t take long?” said Z under her breathe, her voice echoing. Just by staring at them, her head’s already pounding.

It’s not that she’s afraid of Wielders, but she needed to hurry.

“Don’t worry. You won’t be late on your shift.”

They waited until a shadow glided beside them. A thin line appeared at the lower region of its featureless face, issuing a semi-transparent parchment, which floated in front of them, telling George he needed to prepare the Nomism Lender’s crest and that only the account-holder would be allowed inside. The Bank was named after Nomiseo who was once a great Protector. After he retired, he founded this place to store data and energy of shadows so that Wielders would be able to preserve their strength. As he believed it, the more the energy is, the wealthier and stringer the Wielder becomes.

Before any of them could say a thing, the wind pushed Z—whose mouth was already taped, stopping her from creating any noise—in the corner, forced to sit on the bench with the others, and then, a dark curtain covered them from the eyes of the lining Wielders.

George brushed his nape, his stomach squirming. “Is there really a need to do that?”

The shadow, instead of answering, pushed him forward where he faced another door, gold this time, engraved with slanting, curvy words.

The room from which you’ll see behind,

All wealth and glamour you can find.

Unguarded may it seem to your eyes,

Steal something and your life is the price.

It took George a second scanning to get the gist of the warning. ‘Seriously, though, why does the council keeps threatening us?’ he thought, remembering his corpse painted at the Main Centre’s entrance.

When he was already inside, a vast marble hall greeted him. About a hundred shadows were sitting on a high stool behind a neatly polished, long counter, checking accounts or else accommodating customers. Thousands of shelves stood rigidly at their back, seemingly shaking with the fullness of potions.

George handed the crest—a square wood signed by the head-shadow—to the shadow who examined it with floating magnified glasses. He found it hard to guess if it could see, as it had no eyes.

After about a minute of scrutiny, he was given a small tube filled with a dull liquid. Stuffing it inside his pocket, he was then assisted by yet another shadow toward the other ends of the hall where a dark portal stood. It looked like a radiating sphere, but when he stepped into it, he found himself turning rapidly, the air piercing his very skin until he fell facedown in front of the bench seated by the no-account Wielders.

Looking up, George had a glimpse of Z’s reddish eyes before his vision became fuzzy. The next thing that happened made the others move back. Bent on the ground, he vomited, his insides feeling as though vacuumed by an invisible force. As he relieved himself with the funny feeling in his stomach, a fire would circle the part where his vomit fell, flashing for a moment and was gone together with it.

Although Z’s not in the mood to help, she found herself assisting him to his feet, just as the tape covering her mouth vanished.

It’s as if the world was conspiring against her. Earlier, she was chained to a post and, now, she was forced to sit on a hard-rock bench. Admittedly, she shed tears. She swore it would be the last. She wasn’t a coward nor a crybaby, but with what the protectors had done, her feelings were distorted.

Imagine, just for being ignorant, she was chained to a post. Was that how the law goes? Wasn’t the use of it was to keep order and protect Wielders. Yet, with just a simple mistake, she suffered an emotional injury. Such insolence.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” said George when, at last, they were outside, and he could finally balance himself without assistance. “I didn’t know they changed the protocol.”

Z breathed deeply, her arms crossed. She didn’t want to open her lips in case it triggered a spark between them.

In silence, they crossed the intersection at the farthest corner where a small shop was resting. There was a banner just outside its glass panel, saying, Merrylod’s Clothing and Stuff.

“What are we doing here?” said Z, whose eyes were moving from the cabinets reflected inside the shop, three small, round stages lay in front of it.

George stared at her, thinking fast. If he tells her he’s going to buy her proper clothing, she’s sure to disagree.

Clearing his throat, he said rather awkwardly, “I’m gonna buy a new shirt.”

One of Z’s brows raised. She looked at him from head to toe, noticing for the first time that he wasn’t wearing a cloak. Instead, he fashioned himself with a simple Byron shirt, which has a loose shape with a small pin tucked on the back yoke, black drop-crotch pants, and a black sneaker.

“Where’s your cloak?”

His brows furrowed. “What cloak?”

“I saw it beside my—you know what? Never mind!”

“You’re at it again. I really won’t understand you if you don’t specify things.”

“Just—just don’t mind me.”

They looked at each other for a moment, until George broke the eye contact and moved ahead of her.

Miss Merrylod, a beefy woman who hardly had any neck, greeted them. She was wearing an elegant apron lined with golden threads, a tape measure hanging on her shoulders.

“I’ll be taking the usual, Miss!” said George with an irresistible smile.

“Ooh, how about that pretty woman over there.” Her big eyes bored at Z who was already seated on the bench, her arms crossed.

Moving closer to her, he whispered, “Stitch her a magnificent cloak but, please, keep it a secret.”

“Ooh, you want to surprise her!” She giggled. “Don’t worry, she’ll never know what hit her.”

After a while, George found himself standing on the circular stage, the tape measure moving around his body. Miss Merrylod, meanwhile, was bobbing in and out of a small room, bringing with her gray silks, long thread, a sharp pin, and scissors, dancing in the air as she moved. When the measurement was completed, the scissors started cutting the silk all by itself, still grooving on a rhythm no one could hear.

As her equipment need not her mandate, she then proceeded to Z who’s watching the working things with polite interest.

“Do you know what makes a Zorphean woman different?” said Miss Merrylod, leaning against the post beside the bench.

“I do.”

Trying to hide her surprise, she went on, “Really?”

“They’re loud, judgmental, and arrogant.”

“You’re wrong.” Snapping, four lavenders hovered above them, wafting the air with its wonderful scent. “They’re elegant, down to earth, and pretty.”

Z snorted. “I find that hard to believe.” She opened her palm as the lavender’s petal started falling, and yet, it flew back to its stem even before it could rest on her hand.

While she was distracted, Miss Merrylod did not waste time. She summoned an invisible tape measure. Slowly, it slithered past her body, taking her measurements. When done, she smiled beside herself and gave George a thumbs up.

“It’s up to you to believe it or not. Last question, Miss. Have you seen what’s on the wrists of Zorphean women?”

Looking at her abruptly, she shook her head.

“Well, it’s part of the punishment.” With a last tap on Z’s head, she left her with a big question mark pounding in her head.

What’s the thing on the Zorpheans’ wrists? What punishment? Why, in all her years, hadn’t she noticed that thing? Of course, she wouldn’t. She’s way too focused on their judgmental eyes that she forgot to take into account other things. She didn’t even notice that men and women in Zorphe wore different attires. Only women were prescribed to wear a cloak, but every Zorpheans she saw looked the same.

“Let’s go?”

Snapping out of her thoughts, Z looked at George who was offering his hand. She’d been too occupied that she hadn’t noticed the hours that passed by. Nevertheless, she took his hand, and they exited, hearing the cheerful goodbye of Miss Merrylod.

“What happened to you? You look wasted.”

“What’s on the women’s wrist?” she blurted out even before she could stop herself.

Taken aback, George adjusted the two transparent bags he’s holding. “It’s a black shackle, Z. Why’d you ask?”

Her eyes widened. “Black shackle? But why hadn’t I noticed it?” She put her hands on her chest, trying to remember the times where she met other women, but no thoughts of them wearing shackles or something came to her mind.

“It’s not something that can be seen, Z. It’s encrypted on a women’s wrist, way deeper to their bones. It’s part of their Superior’s punishment. Let’s not talk about it, though. I’m starving.”

“What did that Superior do?”

“I’ll answer you after we’re full. I’m hungry. Come on!”

They walked for about a minute until they arrived at an elegant restaurant filled with local diners. Square tables were distributed amongst the place, even outside. About three to four shadows were gliding in and out of the place, a large pan hovering above their darkened hands.

The moment they entered, they instantly felt their hunger, for wafting on the air around them, was a mouth-watering smell of different dishes. A shadow led them on the farthest corner, giving them an old parchment with the list of what the restaurant offers. George was the one who ordered and was told to follow the shadow for the payment.

Alone, Z rounded the Wielders dining in. There were families, judging by the similarities of their features, lovers, looking at how they held each other’s hands, and some who were merely friends, enjoying the sanctuary of being served.

She smiled bitterly. She wondered what it felt like to act like them, to be like them. She just couldn’t stomach being happy every time she thought of her unknown identity.

Just as she was about to focus back at their table, a woman caught her attention. She was alone in the table opposite hers, her hand clasped together, her chin resting on it. There’s something about her fierce diamond face that clicked on Z’s mind, as though they knew each other, as though she’s a link of her past life.

She stopped staring at her when George came back, tailed by a shadow bringing their meal.

At the opposite end of the restaurant, dined Michelle Dela Vega. She’s been there for about ten minutes, waiting for her correspondence who’s already late. Patience wasn’t in her vocabulary, but under this circumstance, she needed to tweak her principles. After all, she’s meeting with a very important Wielder.

‘Just a little bit,’ she kept thinking, reminding herself of the importance of this meeting.

Truth be told, she should’ve been in the summer vacation, ousting herself from the dull task of being a Shadowest (a term that refers to students), but their headmaster, who’s already withered with age, find it imprudent for her to have some time off.

Finally, after about another five minutes of ignoring either the stares of a familiar woman or the urge to leave, Marjorie Valdro came. She was sporting a long, gray cloak, a briefcase held on her dark hand. Her black, bushy hair was tied in a bun, and her dark features gave Michelle the reason to snort.

“I’m sorry I’m late, Ms. Dela Vega. I was held up by an important meeting.”

To show respect, Michelle bowed gracefully. “No worries, Ms. Valdro.” Although she wanted so much to curse her, she forced herself to smile.

She was about to call the waiter when Ms. Valdro stopped her.

“I won’t be long, Miss. Let’s just get straight to the point.”

One of her brows raised, but like before, she faked a smile. “The headmaster wants your approval with regards to his mobilization of Zorphe’s protector—”

“That isn’t something I can decide, Miss. Yes, I am the president of the Shadows’ Magistrate Organization, but that doesn’t give me the right to decide such important matter. Besides, why would a headmaster, of all Wielder, would want a band of protectors?”

Clenching her fist, she said in contempt, “Not much is known, but the headmaster believe that the Masakonian is on the move. Their Empire has been on the loose for years, and up until now, they’re aiming to control Pasithea.”

Ms. Valdro grinned, looking at the wine red double-breasted gothic long coat of Michelle. “And this information came from you, right, Ms. Dela Vega? You want me, the President, to approve what you want. Who do you think you’re fooling?”

“I’m not fooling anyone.”

“You’re a Masakonian, too. Why should I trust your word?”

All the blood rushed to her now reddening cheeks. “With all due respect, Ms. Valdro, I have nothing to do with those Masakonian—”

“But you’re one of them. You’re even wearing their clothes.”

“Since when did you become narrow-minded, Ms. President?”

“Excuse me?” She stood, squaring her shoulder.

Michelle stood as well, her lips pursed, and her arms crossed. “No! Excuse me! I came here with the headmaster’s word, and damn, I believe you, of all Wielder, will not hold prejudices. Shame on you!” She looked at her from head to toe before walking out, ignoring the curious stares she was receiving.

The peering customers looked away when Ms. Valdro followed the trail of Michelle, whispering words about time-waster and disrespectful kids.

“That was—” said George, a spoon stuffed inside his mouth. “—intense.”

Z ignored him. She’s still staring outside, where the two women were continuing their debate. The feeling of familiarity still etched in her bone, and she couldn’t pinpoint it.

“Do you know that girl?” She pointed to the fierce woman with a different cloak.

George shrugged. “I’ve never seen her before, but she’s pretty brave for acting like that in front of the president. Why’d you ask?”

She shook her head, eating rather hurriedly than she intended.

‘We’ll meet again,’ she thought, pricked by the feeling she’s someone important to her.