As the moon closed yet another cycle in its full radiance, shining above the decaying streets of Franciesse, a meeting was held in a neglected, inconspicuous room of an unimportant boarding house. However, that meeting was far from insignificant.
A tall man concealed in a long, black and too worn-out overcoat made fast, stretched strides across the street, reaching and entering the forgettable inn.
As soon as the doors closed behind him, the humid, reeking air suffocated him, pressing his body down to the floor. The rug under his feet was tainted by the years of mistreatment and where it met the mouldy, crumbling-coloured walls seemed to have been eaten away. Colour wise, the entrance was a blur of reds and browns, lit up by countless dangerously positioned mucky candles.
The plump woman behind the main desk held her bare elbows on the filthy counter, smoking a cigarette. The greying brown hair was tightly knotted in a low bun, showing her full, as grimy as the whole building, face. Drops of sweat trickled down her large nose, staining the dirtily specked guestbook. Her brown eyes showing boredom and disdain, she spared not a glance to the over-concealed stranger.
Apprehensively and languidly, he took the last steps to the desk, as he felt the too warm entrance causing him to sweat too. 'Good evening, Madam. I am looking for the Waxen Mistress.'
The annoyed expression was replaced by mock-pity as she eyed directly the obviously out-of-place young man.
'Room 216,' she spat, though. She had learned that the young are the more dangerous. 'Second floor, three doors down to your left.'
She then resumed ignoring him, her pity forgotten, as she dully took the cigarette back to her thin lips.
The man inhaled deeply, which he regretted almost instantly, and slowly drew his breath out. Finding the staircase in a rotten corner, he took the steps two by two, reaching the second floor in no time.
His feet stepped on the decomposed once red carpet, which surprisingly endured many accidents that left countless marks. The walls were in a better shape than the ones in the entrance, but still tarnished. Soon he found the appointed room, knocking carefully at the aged door.
A boy, younger than fourteen, opened it, pronouncing quite rudely: 'If there is still some glimmer in the sky...'
'...there shall be one coming from the earth.' The young man finished, eager to rip his too warm overcoat off.
'You may enter.' The young boy pushed the door further open, going to the side to let his fellow resistant pass.
The room lacked of the humid air, thanks to the opened windows that also provided light, for no candle was lit. However, the moon supplied the necessary brightness to decoy a wet-by-the-sweat bed behind him, at his left, a commode near the door at his right and a chair at the far right corner, near the window.
Scattered around the room were the other members of the resistance, who were eyeing nervously the Waxen Mistress. The latter sat at the table near the window, her white hair reflecting the moonshine. The juvenile figure of the Mistress was not what it seemed, but only the young man was aware of who truly hid behind the ill body. The eyes of the frail were set on the ally to the side of the building, where starving cats sought food.
'Are they all here?' The childish voice of the Waxen Mistress was directed to the boy.
'Yes, Mistress. I count twenty of them.' The boy provided, admiration glowing in his big dark eyes.
Fool, the young man thought.
'Good.' She drew a tired smile, her eyes connecting directly with the young man. The eyes of the woman only he of all the resistant living in the other countries had seen. Those were not the eyes of the child, but the eyes of the true Ruler.
While their gazes were locked, the child voiced a message from her, the true Mistress, the one who could not risk herself to the vicious lair of putrid men. Nor would he or anyone else let her. She was far too precious.
'Hidden comes the Lady,
'Eyeing the yet Unseen.
'Hidden she comes, deadly,
'Beware, her mind's too keen.' The voice of the child faltered: her last words almost unheard. However, the message was given and all the man sharing the room felt anxious. A new member was coming!
Suddenly, the young man spoke: 'A woman? You're sending a woman?' He was almost furious, close to crossing the rage line.
The child's eyes flickered; the true Mistress was fading away.
'Do not underestimate the power of the female.' Even if faded, there was fury in his Mistress eyes.
'They will eat her whole!' He tried to bring some sense to Her.
'He is right.' A man in his fifties, small and plump, calmly agreed.
The answer of the Mistress came low, tired and faded by the sick body that delivered it. 'Trust and support is...'
The Mistress left the eyes of the child and soon after the body fell, limp, on the floor.
Hurriedly the boy ran towards the Waxen Mistress, picking her up in his arms and laying her on the bed. No men made a move, as the boy treated the girl, too lost in their thoughts. Their Mistress was sending a woman. It wasn't a good sign...
Suddenly, the childish voice was heard again. She was calling the young man, according to the boy, for her voice was too low.
The called one approached the bed. He eyed the girls orbs, finding a trace of his Mistress behind them. 'Protect her.' Frail were the words spoken, but there was command in them and in no way was he going to disrespect. He would protect her, whoever she was, even if he was against her coming there.
The child closed her eyes and a deep breathing was heard, as her chest rose slowly and fell languidly.
The meeting was over.
Unwarily, the men left the building, one by one, taking their time to leave long after the man before. All of their shoulders were held down: they had not been expecting bad news.