"Let's turn back…"
Behind them, the road toward Prius Academy stretched long and quiet beneath the morning light.
The carriage that had been heading toward the academy slowly came to a halt. The dust drifted across the path as the wheels made a stretch. Panto stared at Baston, unsure if he had heard the words correctly.
"What?"
"We're not returning to the academy," Baston repeated calmly, "Not yet since we have to go back to the town…"
For a brief moment, the world seemed suspended between the two directions.
Forward toward the safety and backward toward the uncertainty. The academy meant the routine, the predictability, and the distance from whatever darkness that lingered behind them. As for the town, it meant unfinished business and possibly the danger.
"Are you serious?" Panto's brows knitted together, "We just left that town. Why are we going back again?"
"There is unfinished problem…" Baston replied softly.
The auction incident had ended with chaos. A missing corpse beneath the chandeliers and the suspicion had been carefully redirected. He had gained what he wanted which was the third puppet.
However, a stronger matter held over the old book's silent judgment. The quest about the captured people had not been completed.
The puppets he released last night found nothing more inside the town. There were no cellar, no hidden room, and no underground chamber that was filled with the prisoners.
The town was clean on the surface, too clean for something that the old book deemed as the quest. The only clue had been the granary and that lead had proven false. The captured people mentioned in the quest were not there which meant they were somewhere else.
The old book never made a mistake.
If it declared there were captives, then such captives existed. The problem was not the absence of evidence. The problem was that someone had hidden the evidence too well. He didn't have many choices but to investigate more.
What if the words did not mean about the chains and locked doors?
The old book never wasted its ink.
If it chose those words, then there was an intent behind it. Perhaps, the prisoners were not bound by the iron but by something else. It might be influence, agreement, fear, or something subtler.
If an entire town behaved as though nothing was wrong, then either nothing was wrong or everyone had already accepted it as normal. And when such abnormality became the tradition, no one called it the crime anymore.
Baston turned his gaze away from the road that was leading to the academy, "Sorry... I still have something to do in that town."
Panto opened his mouth but yesterday's memory surfaced instead. The strange atmosphere, the excessive people, and the subtle fear that lingered beneath the polite smiles.
The way the conversations stopped half a second too late. The way those guards stood not in the vigilance but in the anticipation.
His imagination, as always, began constructing something darker. A hidden organization, a cult, or a ritual that was disguised as a normal life.
The more he thought about it, the less he wanted to argue. Without another word, he rushed back toward the town. The carriage slowly turned and so did their direction.
*****
They returned quickly while the morning light was still in the sky. The town did not look different from yesterday.
The same bakery released the same smell of warm bread. The same butcher shouted the same exaggerated praise of his meat. The same children ran barefoot across the street.
It was normal to the point of very ordinary. Yet, the rhythm of the town felt rehearsed.
The laughter rose at the right moments, the conversations paused too neatly when certain figures passed, and even the people at the intersections looked casual when the strangers stared at them.
They looked prepared as if they were not waiting for the trouble but waiting for a signal.
Baston stepped down from the carriage first.
He slowed his steps, pretending to browse a stall and observing the reflections in the polished metal trays. No one seemed anxious and that absence of anxiety was precisely what disturbed him.
He then came back to Panto, "We'll stay here for a few days."
Panto exhaled slowly then nodded, "Alright…"
Back at the inn, Baston closed the door behind them and checked the lock not once but twice. Just to make sure everything was truly safe.
"Don't go anywhere…" he instructed.
Panto frowned, "You just said that we're staying."
"I mean stay inside this room," Baston clarified, "Don't wander outside. If you need anything, ask the innkeeper to buy it for you."
"What about you?" Panto asked.
"I'll check something…"
Panto's expression shifted between the curiosity and the unease, "You think this town has a problem?"
Baston paused for a second before answering, "I think this town knows something."
That was enough explanation. He quickly left the inn, moving through the streets with no apparent purpose.
The morning market was bustled with life. The vendors shouted, the livestock bleated, and the housewives bargained over the vegetables.
In such crowded situation, he did not look at their faces. He looked at their patterns.
Who watched the others instead of their goods, who avoided certain streets, and who paused when specific names were mentioned.
If the captives were hidden here, they were surely buried beneath the layers of normalcy.
Once again, he found her where he expected. The little girl stood near the center of the road, holding her basket of flowers and calling out in a hopeful voice. Unfortunately, few people responded.
Her voice was clear and it was almost melodic, yet people stepped around her rather than toward her. It was not indifference since it was clearly a deliberate avoidance.
He soon waved from afar, "Hello... We meet again..."
She turned and the recognition was brightening her face, "Ah… it's young master from yesterday."
"I'm glad you remember me," he said gently, "Are you still selling the flowers?"
"Yes!"
"How many do you have left?"
She counted quickly, "Almost all…"
"I'll buy five then…"
Her eyes widened in delight. He handed her the money and he was careful not to overpay noticeably. Too much kindness would create the attention and too much generosity would create few questions.
She gave him the flowers with both hands and she almost did it ceremoniously. After a brief exchange, they separated.
Baston did not follow directly. Instead, he stepped into a narrow alley and summoned a puppet. It shifted the shape in his palm with the feathers that were sprouting along its small body until it became a simple bird.
It was unremarkable and common, and soon, it took flight.
From above, the girl appeared small among the crowd, weaving through the streets and the alleys.
She continued offering the flowers with unchanging persistence. Few hours passed and Baston walked beneath the rooftops, careful to remain within the boundary of control. He then noticed something else.
The adults avoided eye contact with her while the children did not. Some mothers pulled their sons gently away when she came too close.
While he was pondering for the cause, the first puppet neared its limit.
He then deployed the second seamlessly. By the afternoon, the exhaustion weighed on his legs but the girl's pace never faltered. She sold almost nothing yet she did not seem disappointed. That detail unsettled him.
Such hope without reason was unnatural.
Finally, as the dusk approached, she returned home. Her house was modest with wooden walls and a patched roof. There was a single window through which the bird perched quietly. Inside, her family gathered.
"Sister! Sister! Look at this money!" she exclaimed, "I finally sold the flowers!"
The sister smirked, "Maybe, a neighbor pitied you."
"It wasn't a pity!"
"Why do you always run to mother when you lose?"
"Enough…" the mother said gently, "Wash up first."
The father laughed, "If you have the money, just save it in your piggy bank."
It was just an ordinary banter. There was no hint of fear and no mention of the captives but Baston noticed something subtle.
When the girl mentioned the buyer, the parents exchanged a glance. It was brief and almost invisible.
Baston then guided the bird's gaze around the house and he found nothing unusual.
There was no hidden hatch and no strange markings. He began to wonder if the thread he followed was nothing more than a coincidence. He waited before came a knock.
Three men stood outside and the father spoke with them in low whispers.
Baston strained through the puppet's senses but he caught nothing distinct even though the body language was revealing. The father did not ask the question and he only nodded.
At the moments later, the entire family stepped out. There was no resistance nor panic and they followed the men calmly. Only the little girl hesitated for a heartbeat before walking after her parents.
His pulse tightened toward such clue.
The bird then took to the air while he was moving quickly along the streets, maintaining the connection. The twilight darkened the sky as they approached the largest building in the town.
He followed from far until everyone reached the mayor's mansion.
The torches burned along its perimeter and the militia stood guard in several numbers for a simple town official.
More families soon arrived from different directions, entering through the main gate. Just by the numbers, it was indeed too many.
Baston summoned the bird back just before its limit expired and approached from a different angle. The walls were high and the guards were numerous.
He deployed his third puppet. It shrank into a rat and slipped through a crack near the building.
Inside, the mansion was larger than expected. The corridors extended like several veins and the rooms branched off in orderly arrangement.
The bedroom was empty, the kitchen was clean, and the guest chamber was unused. The rat continued exploring until it reached a big hall. At there, the people filled the space.
There were dozens upon dozens people who were standing up, waiting for something to be announced. The little girl stood among them with her family.
At the front of the hall, the old man that was presumed to be the town mayor stood with broad smile and his arms spread wide.
"Welcome…" he said warmly, "As always, we gather to celebrate this month's harvest. Please, eat and drink freely."
The servants soon moved through the crowd carrying the trays. It was such a festive moment yet something felt wrong.
"And do not forget…" the mayor added lightly, "Drink your specially prepared juice. It is healthy and beneficial to your body."
The laughter followed while Baston narrowed his eyes. The rat remained hidden behind a decorative pillar.
He counted there were twenty-five glasses of the so-called special juice. It was only twenty-five even though the number of the crowd was far bigger.
He watched carefully.
Some guests took the glasses eagerly, some ignored them, and some who did not drink later claimed that they had already drunk.
One man declared loudly that it tasted wonderful though he had clearly seen him that he never touched it. His friend, who had finished the glass entirely, frowned faintly.
"It tastes bland…" the friend muttered.
"You must have drunk too much wine," the first man replied quickly, "It makes your tongue dull."
The friend laughed it off. It was strange reason but he shoved it off. By then, Baston saw it.
The little girl's family approached one of the trays. The parents did not take the juice. Instead, they handed the single glass to her.
"Drink it…" the mother urged.
"It doesn't taste good," the girl complained softly after a sip.
"Don't be ungrateful…" the father scolded gently.
The sister coaxed her. Under their watchful eyes, she finished it. The family resumed eating as if nothing had happened.
Baston's gaze sharpened. From the expressions around the hall, many adults seemed aware of something. It was not the fear but more like the silent agreement. It was their understanding and participation. As for the children, only several of them drank it.
A pattern formed slowly in his mind. He allowed the rat to explore further, slipping along the walls and under the tables.
It observed without being noticed. As the gathering progressed, the people were getting relaxed. The conversations soon drifted into light topics.
When the event began thinning and the guests started dispersing, Baston prepared to withdraw. By then, the rat froze.
At the edge of the hall, the mayor's wife stood by herself.
She was alone in a side corridor, moving toward what appeared to be the private chambers. The rat had paused near her feet. She looked down but she didn't look afraid.
For a second, he thought he was discovered, but instead of screaming, she crouched.
"You're hungry, aren't you?" she murmured softly.
From a small pouch at her waist, she took a piece of dried meat and placed it before the rat.
"Eat this and leave... This is not a place for the living creatures."
The phrase echoed inside his mind. He controlled the rat to grab the meat and scurry away. Only after reaching the outer bushes did he summon it back and the dried meat returned with it. He stared at the object in his palm.
The puppet could retrieve physical items. It was such an interesting found to explore but it was not the time to experiment. He needed to think about the present.
From the juice, the children, the mayor's excessive security, and the phrase about the living creatures. None of it aligned cleanly, yet none of it was random.
As he walked back toward the inn, the streets now were quieter under the nightfall. He tossed the dried meat toward the roadside.
A real rat darted out from the shadows, seized it, and vanished. He watched it disappear.
His expression was unreadable with thoughts that were threading themselves into something darker than simple harvest celebrations.