There's always a slight chill that sneaks its way into the Emperor's Castle. Seeping from beneath the heavy doors, an occasional ghost of the wind that's just enough to make Hunter tug his cape a bit closer. The biting air mingles with the looming hallways that look as though they stretch on endlessly, seamlessly replicating the corridors next over in a way of too perfect that would make anyone itch with discomfort — though there's hardly anyone to be seen.

Resounding distantly, there's an occasional collection of footsteps that drum in even tempo, with clacking boots and slender, white masks. Yet, Hunter can count on one hand the amount of times he's actually ran into them. When he does, they tend to quicken their pace or scramble to salute. Their light banter dissipates when he approaches, and their heads turn to him only when he's not looking. And as he makes his way through the labyrinth that is the Emperor's Castle, ceilings arching and walls narrow, stretching — it's suffocatingly lonely.

He feels so, very small beneath the long, slender banners of the Emperor's Coven, and the tall, golden framed paintings that depict his uncle's grandeur. There's no need for Hunter to even glance at them, each memorized as he steps on carpeted floors he's walked before his gaze could reach the artwork. But time and time again, he still finds his eyes catching on them, lingering on the vague drawings of his uncle in the old, delicately painted tales.

Muffled, poorly hushed chirping sounds from just beneath his ear. The palisman is tucked under the hood of his cape, something Hunter had told very clearly not to make any sort of commotion in the coven's presence — his eyes flick back and forth as the chirps echo, checking the corners he passes — the stupid thing wouldn't leave him alone all the way back home, so it could at least repay him for keeping it around. It sounds more like a bird screaming nonsensically than anything else. Hunter questions if it actually means to.

"Will you keep it down?!" His snappy comment is reduced to a furious whisper as his eyes flit around once more, convinced this creature has some sort of death wish for him. Which, considering his family history, would make some sense. Honestly, it would already be in the hands of his uncle if Hunter wasn't curious about wild magic. The forbidden always enamours him; something just out of arm's reach, everything he doesn't know, but holds the constant allure that he could know.

Yet the longer the palisman squawks about, the more he's tempted to actually hand it over. Hunter draws out a loud sigh, teeth gritted and lips pulling down into a tight frown.

Reluctantly, it eventually dies down for reasons he can't discern (what does he know about a living, breathing piece of wood?), but its wings are flapping irritably, and its claws are grabbing at his back in protest — it's tugging him opposite to the way he walks. Hunter groans.

"I'm not going back." His stomach churns at the thought. Nobody ever wants to be face to face with the Emperor in his throne room, but only the irresponsible actually avoid it, to which he's seen a quick dismissal from the coven follow, sometimes worse. The possible consequences for him are something he'd prefer not thinking about. Hunter winces at each scratch, stumbling in a beeline as he walks. Titan, did he ever want to strangle the little shit.

"Ow — ow, okay, that's enough! I told you, I'm not going back, why would I even—"

A slender, grand door catches his words in his throat and stops them just short of collision — well, only him, because of course the stupid palisman won't get a face full of hardwood, tucked safely beneath his cape. At this, it finally relents. And in its absence, there are no more footsteps, the gusts of wind sweeping through the door too distant to be felt; and there are no paintings full of colourful, grandiose stories, or banners boasting the presence of the emperor's coven.

All that's left in front of him is a single door.

It stretches thin, so imperiously tall that it just barely reaches the untouchable ceiling, built of a thick, dark wood, with circular handles that sit just above Hunter's head. His mouth goes dry. A single foot shuffles back, and he strains his neck back until the doorway fits in his whole gaze. Hands that once clutched his cape around him drop limp to his sides. The silence is smothering, weighing down his legs until they're shaking, constricting his throat until his breaths are in short, quick heaves. It's too much. His legs won't move, and the mask atop his face restrains his breathing. There's a sense of apprehension brought about by the narrow walls, as if they're closing in on him.

This is it. There is nowhere else to go, nowhere else to be. Hunter can fiddle with his cape all he wants, stare at the entrance for as long as he'd like, but he cannot avoid the Emperor's eyes, and he cannot avoid any sort of punishment to come.

As a child, his index finger could just barely brush the door's handles, arm stretching until his heels lifted off the ground, but still too weak to make it budge. There were times where his uncle would surprise him and lift him up, let his tiny hands wrap around the cold metal, heaving it open. His uncle did all the pulling, but it made Hunter grin ear-to-ear with a toothy smile every time, a bounce in his step once placed back on the ground. Now, he reaches to the door hesitantly, then gives it a brisk tug with a slight huff and a furrowed brow. The metal is untouched, covered with lingering dust, cold. It stings his fingers. He watches silently, his face knotted. The door slides open with ease.

There's bile caught in his throat. He doesn't want to do this.

His hands catch the hem of his cape, clammy as they clench and fidget with its rough fabric, worn down and covered in smudges of dirt from the night before. He can't look away from the ground. it's dimly lit by two grand torches that dance in the shadows, and a long, red carpet makes its way down the center of the room. Hunter can see a few of the guards' feet shift to face him. He knows they're eyeing him — they must be — scrutinizing him with their flawless posture and long-nosed masks. Oh, how he'd love to let them know their place if he didn't want to be six feet under right now.

Nothing is spoken when he steps forward. It makes him wobbly on his feet, eyes darting around the room. Hunter truly wishes the gravity weighing down on him would crush him into nothing, a speck on the ground that Emperor Belos would dismiss with no other comment. This is the same as any other time Hunter reports — approach his throne, kneel stiffly with a head down, tell him what he wants to hear.

But he can't. He can't, he can't, the words are trapped behind pursed lips and every single gaze in the room is on him. There's nothing that his uncle wants to hear, not a single thing to say that is worth his time. Hunter can already feel his presence boring down on him, watching his every move and waiting. He bites back the urge to cry.

"Well?"

Hunter opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He doesn't know what to say. There is no rehearsed speech for this, and there is certainly nothing in his hands to make up for his lack of words. He didn't plan for an apology. Would it make things worse if he pleaded for another chance? The Emperor is tapping his foot impatiently, drumming his fingers on the throne's arm expectantly. Well, maybe his death could be quick, at least.

He swallows, "I ran into some issues along the way."

His heart is thrumming in his chest. A gap of silence follows, his words washed away into quiet echoes. Seriously? That's the best he could come up with? He should've started with an I'm sorry, and ended with a respectful sir. But he's already spoken. Hunter shrinks further into his shaky crouch, the silence loud in his ears, the beat of his heart pulsing through his body. Things could have gone so much smoother; none of this would be happening if Kikimora hadn't waltzed over and—

"Do you know why I chose you for this?"

Hunter stares.

It's not rhetorical.

He shakes his head hesitantly. Why did it matter? He already failed. Emperor Belos unfolds his legs, and leans down in the corner of his vision.

"Look at me, Golden Guard," hissed low and clear. Hunter crooks his neck up like a dog on command, and he looks. He has to restrain himself from averting his eyes. The Emperor's mask is slim, with long, porcelain horns that could pierce skin, and the stare of a deadman that shadows his gaze into crisp, pitch darkness. Hunter knows the way his eyebrows furrow softly beneath, he knows how his eyes crease and nose wrinkles when he smiles. But right now, he isn't looking at his uncle.

Fingernails are now thrumming against the chair, quicker and louder.

"I chose you because you said you were trustworthy," the Emperor dawdles, perfectly still as his empty gaze burns into Hunter, "and look at you now. Where are the palismen?"

His hands itch to squeeze something, anything to hold onto. He can't breathe out. It's too hot beneath the mask, the air stale. His cape is constricting him. Suddenly a fist slams down, violently against the chair. Hunter flinches back harshly. The Emperor straightens, only becoming taller as he looks down on him.

"Where are the palismen?" His voice is firmer, crisp and drawled.

He can't stop trembling. A sense of undeniable dread wraps puppet strings around his limbs as his uncle toys with his denial of failure, tossing him around like a ragdoll with questions he already knows the answer to, toying with him as he contemplates fervently how to get a reaction out of a lifeless face. Hunter wants to let the sob caught in his throat escape, wants to curl up on the floor and squeeze his eyes shut until everything is gone.

"The — the human took them," he blurts out.

Why did he say that?

"You let the human take them? How hard is it to get past a human, Golden Guard?" Hunter's lip is trembling, and he bites it down as his uncle goes on, "I don't think you really understand how important this is. You are aware I will continue to suffer, correct? Or is this just some game of fetch to you?"

"It's not, it's not, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. You — you don't get it, She didn't just steal it from me, she was using wild magic—"

Fingers turn white as they curl around the chair arm, and the Emperor snarls, "Then you should have dealt with her. Now we have a human with wild magic meandering The Boiling Isles? As if she wasn't enough trouble!"

He winces.

His uncle's mask tilts downward, a hand raising to hold it as he breathes in shakily. For a moment, Hunter can swear there's a flash of blue behind the mask, and a stutter in the emperor's posture, but it's gone before he can open his mouth. Did he cause that to happen?

"If," Emperor Belos is rubbing circles on the forehead of his mask uselessly, "you truly think an infantile human is so clever as to steal an entire nest of palismen, then capture her."

Hunter nearly breaks out coughing, catching his stumble with a palm flat against the ground.

"What?" It's barely a whisper.

He hadn't even asked for another chance. The apology was rushed and desperate, without an ounce of formality. Yet as Hunter crouches pathetically to the ground, his uncle drops the strings, letting go of the taunts he played with and distressed faces he searched for. It's such a quick motion, resignation with swift ease that Hunter gets mental whiplash. Why is he being forgiven so easily?

"I won't repeat myself. Don't return until you have her tied up under one of those scrawny arms — shouldn't be too hard, no?" Hunter shakes his head miserably, and his uncle slowly slumps back into his chair, "Good, good. Oh, and that Owl Lady would be quite a bonus, as well. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," he croaks out. There's buzzing in his head. He feels numb. Not a single bruise from harsh contact to the floor, no clawing hunger, or nights spent staring at nothing in his room. Just a small dismissal. Is he forgiven?

"Then go."

He scrambles to his feet, clumsily grabbing his staff off the ground, and takes one step back while his gaze lingers on his uncle. There is nothing to be seen behind the slender mask. It doesn't look back at him, nor does it smile as he stands expectantly. This is real. He's leaving everything behind for this mission. Why is it happening so fast?

"Go," he hisses.

And he spins around, does as he's told.