Pak

　　Kano goes to smoke with the stranger, always the trusting sort. I`m not, and I never have been. The man hasn`t given us a reason not to trust him, but he`s a stranger, and this is all very& weird.

　　I slowly rise from my pile of leaves, careful to stay as quiet as possible. I`m not trespassing - he invited me in - but still, I don`t want him to hear me snoop and come to stop me. I nearly trip over the vines that grow around the perimeter of his only chair, and I notice that everything furniture-like is outlined by them in the same manner. It`s too perfect, like he specifically cultivated them that way - a clue to how he sees, maybe, but I can`t wrap my mind around it.

　　The knick-knacks on his shelf are just an assortment of whittling attempts. One of them looks a bit like a cat, probably the best of the bunch. The rest are unidentifiable. One has a dark brown stain on the pale wood, dried blood, if I had to guess. Probably cut himself whittling.

　　Up a dirt step, around a corner and veiled by hanging ivy hides the only other room in his hut. I pull the ivy back to find a makeshift bedroom. He`s stuffed a shirt full of moss into what I imagine he calls a pillow, and the bed itself is just leaves over mulch. There are pictures all over the walls, paintings and drawings tacked up by thick thorns. Some do look like they were drawn by a blind man, the subjects barely recognizable: a six-petaled flower, a shanty house. The black-and-white charcoal drawings drip sorrow - rain clouds and lightning, the silhouette of a crying woman, the smoldering remains of a forest. The portraits are true masterpieces, as real as if they might come to life, but the colors don`t make any sense. Some of the faces have entire rainbows worked into a single skin tone, the hue shifting depending on the angle. It`s like glimpsing into another realm. The room reeks of magic, and the pictures overlap. There`s no bare space left on any of the walls.

　　A crudely crafted wooden table nestled in the corner catches my eye. It holds a half-empty mug, a scattering of paints and brushes and other art supplies, the partially-smoked stubs of something like cigarettes, and a shriveling banana peel. Beneath it, I see a dusty wooden box with no lid. I nudge it out with my foot. There`s a dainty necklace inside with a teardrop-shaped pendant and a tattered, folded set of papers. I know I shouldn`t, but I just can`t help myself. I pick up the papers and snoop:If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

　　IRIDAN CITIZENSHIP AND IMMIGRATION SERVICES

　　DEPARTMENT OF REFUGEE PROCESSING

　　Next to the letterhead is a stamp depicting one of the former Kings of Iridan, King Benewick the First. My heart quickens. It`s a citizenship documents for a pale, blond human. Why would he have this? Was he some sort of spy...?

　　I put the papers in the box and slide it back under the table, as it was. I turn around, searching the pictures in the wall for some sort of clue& And the one just beside his pillow freezes my blood.

　　I know this symbol. It was carved into a red wax seal in the box in my mother`s room, the box where I found the weapon. It`s the symbol that was on the guard`s tunic outside the manor, and Grandmother used to wear it when she dressed up fancy, a brooch pinned over her heart. There`s no mistaking it: the magpie in flight with a pearl in its beak. It can`t be a coincidence.

　　BA-DUM. BA-DUM.

　　He knew my family.

　　BA-DUM. BA-DUM.

　　He knew my mother.

　　BA-DUM BA-DUM BA-DUM BA-DUM

　　He deserves to die.

　　Pip.