The One

Izar's grievances

"Both of you are hereditary witches," said the cloaked figure as he waved his right hand over the siblings' foreheads. There was an emerald ring on his index finger, his skin pale.

When he spoke, Waylon and Feray exchanged a glance: he sounded much younger than they'd anticipated. Many times had they envisioned getting caught, but none of those times had they imagined the witch who caught them would be around their own age—only a few years older, perhaps. The witch pulled his hood up a little, just enough for the siblings to see his face. He had long, wavy ash green hair previously tucked inside his hood; now, it fell cascading down his shoulders. His eyes were a silver color, with a glinting ring of a slightly brighter silver color around his pupils. A notable feature was the long scar on his face, stretching from his left eyebrow to the corner of his lip, passing through his left eye. His cloak was a velvet black, along its rim was a thin silver lining.

Of course he would look different, the siblings reminded themselves. It's much easier for a witch to make alterations to their appearances.

"Both?" It was Waylon who spoke first. He began to stand up, reaching out to Feray with a hand. She took it and stood with him.

"Yes, both," the witch replied. "How much do you know about this? I see that you expected the lady to be a witch, but not yourself."

Waylon couldn't refute it. If the witch had been there with them this whole time—if he had been there for even a minute, in fact—he would have overheard their conversation. There was no denying what they had expected.

Again, Feray and Waylon exchanged a glance. Through each other's eyes, they saw a reflection of their own worries.

"I don't know anything about magic or witchcraft," Feray said, "It's just that it's obvious that glow couldn't not be magic, that's all."

When she spoke, the witch turned his gaze on her. Oh good, she thought to herself, at least he's not ignoring my existence because the brother is here.

"Dearies," the witch said, "Lying about or hiding this sort of thing is felony. You know that, right? Right here, right now, there's only the three of us. Now that you've been found out, you will have to be transferred—let's do each other a favor and be honest, shall we?"

Waylon squinted slightly at the male. Witches could not be trusted—that was what his parents had told them all their lives. This one in particular wore the kind of smile that could not possibly be genuine. It was a veil on its own, an attempt to hide something. As for what it was, there was no telling. It could be evil intent, or it could be simply something personal.

The witch glanced at Waylon. He sighed. "Alright. I see that you don't trust me. That's fine—I'll just go first." Saying thus, he sat on the ground right there, now completely pulling his hood back—a sign that he was willing to cooperate. "My name is Izar Quartermaine, and as you might have guessed by now, I patrol this realm and look for any hereditary witches that should be transferred to Refica. As for how long I've noticed the both of you...well, I've watched you for about a year."

"A year?!" Feray exclaimed. She sat down too, pulling Waylon along with her in the process. "Why didn't you bust us out sooner? What are you planning? Why do you want any information from us?"

All of them valid questions. I patrol this realm and look for any hereditary witches that should be transferred to Refica was what he said. That didn't necessarily mean he definitely transferred them as soon as he noticed them—or that he transferred them at all, for that matter.

The man named Izar chuckled in approval—he sounded almost happy. "A smart one, aren't you?" he noted. "That's a good thing, because you will need those wits to survive in Refica."

"Answer the question," Waylon pushed quietly.

"Right. Let me say it this way: what do you think of transferals? It's the uprooting of a person from their original environment and throwing them into their 'natural habitat', which is in fact a completely foreign environment to them. The same goes for transferring someone from Refica to Hominum."

The siblings nodded.

"Unless they were discovered as babies and transferred immediately, these people are likely to have families, friends, lovers—all sorts of social circles. They will lose all of that when they transfer."

Feray nodded again. Waylon arched an eyebrow in anticipation.

Izar looked at him again. "You seem to be saying 'don't tell me you're a good witch', dearie. Being cautious is a good thing."

"You're not even trying to convince me otherwise," Waylon noted.

"If I do try to explain myself, you will only suspect me more, won't you?" Izar explained, then continued. "But it is true that I've turned a blind eye to many, on both witches in Hominum and humans in Refica. Humans in Refica though usually turn themselves in—it's not easy living in a magical world as an ordinary human being. As for witches...so long as they don't use magic, I won't do anything. Some witches don't even know they're witches."

"...like me," Waylon mumbled.

"Is that an okay thing to do?" Feray asked. It was her turn to arch an eyebrow.

Izar grinned. It was that smile again, the kind that didn't reach his eyes. He seemed, however, very practiced at that.

"Where do you think I got this from?" he asked her back, pointing to the scar on his face. "Of course it's not an okay thing to do."

"You said it yourself: it's felony," Waylon said, "Isn't that punishable by death?"

"But I've also gotten away with it many more times than I've been caught. I think it's worth it."

A moment of heavy silence befell them.

"I've told you about me, now it's your turn," Izar said, clapping his hands together as if to crush the weight of his burden.

But they ignored his plea.

"Why did you choose to transfer us then?" Feray asked.

Izar sighed. "Still don't trust me, I see. Ah, that's fine. Look. I've said that I've been watching you for about a year, yes? This is what I've gathered: you, Feray Inglebird, stay inside a lot. And you, Waylon Inglebird, run errands for her. Your parents go out and about every day with their usual business. This means that you all knew Feray is a hereditary witch but not that Waylon is one too. You tried to hide that from us. Am I getting it right so far? Yes?"

The siblings neither confirmed nor denied it.

"I am then," Izar concluded on his own—he had no other choice. "Do you know that sibling witches are an extremely, extremely rare thing?"

Waylon and Feray exchanged yet another glance. This time, they nodded simultaneously.

With a serious look in his eyes, Izar said, "I think you might make a difference. I think Refica might need you. And I'm quite sure—especially after meeting you in person—that you can support each other. You won't be alone like everyone else who gets transferred."

As if to prove how serious he was, Izar reached out to the both of them in an attempt to place his hands on theirs. Both of them drew back quickly enough to avoid being touched. His hands touched the soil on the ground instead.

The witch feigned a sob. "My life is so hard."

Half an hour later, Izar placed his hand on the ground. A dark green mist was released from his palm, forming a misty-looking circle.

"I won't have you transferred completely right away—don't look at me like that; this part is legal. Usually, a month of preparation is allowed. The best way to prepare is to have someone guide you, isn't it? So—"

"And who will do that?" Waylon asked, his arms crossed.

"Someone who is to be transferred to Hominum," Izar answered, "I'll explain more when you meet him."