𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐔𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐓 𝐏𝐔𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐑 ⋆━━⋆ 𝘎𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘏𝘢𝘸𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘦

𝐯𝐢𝐢𝐢. 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐧𝐞

THE ONLY THING RUNNING IN MY MIND AS I STARED AT THE SCENE IN FRONT OF ME WAS: What the holy fuck?

Let's back it up a bit.

When Valdez Wannabe left us to explore my wing, which I still have some trouble accepting, I decided to skip the tour of all my fancy bedrooms the size of apartments, bathrooms that made luxury spas want to change careers, and closets having so many clothes, I started to question whether this was Barbie's Life in the Dreamhouse.

Instead, I made my way to my hall's fifth and final door. Enormous leather chairs-six- sat in a horseshoe shape, facing a balcony. Glass display shelves lined the walls. Evenly spaced on the shelves were items that looked like they belonged in a museum-geodes, antique weaponry, statues of onyx, and stone.

I stepped into the office of Tobias Hawthorne.

As I got closer, I saw a large bronze compass built into its surface. I trailed my fingers over the compass. It turned-northwest-and a compartment in the desk popped open.

Traps upon traps, riddles upon riddles.

I ran my hand over the desk. Beautiful, old, and dignified. Yet a touch of undeniable mystery. Was he like this too?

Behind the desk, there were shelves filled with plaques and trophies. I walked toward them. The first plaque had the words United States of America engraved on a gold background; underneath it was a seal. It took a little more reading of the smaller print to realize that it was a patent—and not one issued to Tobias Hawthorne.

This patent was held by Xander.
There were at least a half dozen other patents on the wall, several world records, and trophies in every shape imaginable. A bronze bull rider. A surfboard. A sword. There were medals. Multiple black belts. Championship cups—some of them national championships—for everything from motocross to swimming to pinball. There was a series of four framed comic books—superheroes I recognized, the kind they made movies about—authored by the four Hawthorne grandsons. A coffee table book of photographs bore Grayson's name on the spine.

"Holy..." I let it slip from my lips. This was no display. This was a shrine. Tobias Hawthorne's ode to his four extraordinary, genius grandsons. It made no sense. None of it. Four boys—three teens still—having such excellence. 

Or the fact that none of them were deemed worthy by Tobias Hawthorne for his fortune.
Instead some random girls from nowhere.

And then it caught my eye.

A knob. 

It was a pretty little thing in the middle of the sea of prizes. It must have been old. The green copper was dark and the intricate patterns of gold were dull. There were many little patterns. Leaves. Or maybe knives. The face of a girl with her eyes closed and her hands clasped together. And vines. Or chains.

I reached to gently press the knob and then the entire wall slides open.

Now let's come back to when the only thought in my mind was: What the holy fuck?

Twelve shelves high, filled to the brim with gold. Trophies, certificates, and medals gleamed in the light. Paintings, Crafts, and models so complex I couldn't even understand what half of them were. Yet in the back of my mind, I knew exactly what they said. The prizes were of everything; dance, arts, speaking, and ammunition control...?

If that display earlier had been a shrine. This place had to be a temple.

All belonging to one person.

Sarina Elizabeth Salva

·······•✦•······

"Woaaah!" There were stars in my eyes. They were bright.

Not as bright as his.