Upon a sheer hill, dark filaments rise up to the heavens. You can see for kilometers in the distance. There’s a far away lake or large pond, and near the horizon, there’s a hint of farmland.

Atop this cliff, the pawns — Ooliri and two others — sit in meditation. Oocid guides them, while the mentor stands off, regarding Awelah.

“I watched you fight Fihra,” she says. “You’re trained. You were going to be a vesperbane, yes?”

“It was my purpose.”

“And now, the banehold that would have countenanced you is…”

“It’s gone. All of it.”

“Yes. So, what now, Awelah? What is your new purpose?”

Awelah’s eyes darken in a way that the fiend looking at her, years of exposure to all the menace real monsters offer, can only find cute. “I will hunt down whoever is responsible for this, and I will find out why, and I will avenge my clan.”

The fiend nods. “For that, you’ll need the power the vespers grant, and for that, you’ll need the countenance of a banehold. The Windborne Stronghold is the strongest of all the provincial baneholds. It welcomes new vesperbanes, and one of your bloodline…”

“If it will make me stronger, then I will have to accept.”

“What does being stronger mean, to you?”

Awelah pauses to think for a moment, eyes distant. Then, “Do you know… have you ever heard of a vesperbane that can walk through fire without being burned? Travel through blazing flames without crossing the intervening distance?”

“Ah, you’ve heard the stories of the One-Winged Phoenix? The ashbane with an unpaired aviform myxokore… They are a mighty vesperbane. Is that your ideal?”

“How strong would I have to be to be better than them? Defeat them?”

“You… There are some banes it’s best not to compare yourself to. The Phoenix is heir to the great Thimithi clan, and a once-in-a-generation talent — she was the youngest bane to be admitted into the Arch-fiend Selection Exams, the youngest to win, though they refused to promote her. Even if she were a normal vesperbane, she’s a fiend and you are a pawn. That’s enough of a headstart you might never catch up before one of you dies — and, as name suggests, it’s rumored the Phoenix can’t die. Still, training won’t beat greater training — so I advise against besting your heroes being your goal.”

Awelah scowls at that.

“Lighten up, little nymph. I’m sure you’ll become a strong vesperbane in your own right. Now here, if I’m going to put a recommendation in for your enrollment, I want an idea of what Duskroot was teaching you. Fihra, come here. I want the two of you to spar. No weapons, no injury. Ready?

Without her weapon, without a foe who’d just woken up, and without the need for an efficient, immediate takedown, Fihra doesn’t cleanly outmatch Awelah. It’s still no puzzle which one of them has the greater physical power, and seasons more training. Awelah puts in a good showing, but her struggle against the wretch imparts her with mounting frustration. Her temper only makes her easier to shut down. The mentor watches on, antennae working in thought.

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The other pawns gathered nearby, sitting with abdomens to the ground, and Oocid is guiding them through meditation.

“…and breathe out. Come back to me now — what did you feel?”

One pawn shrugs, and another stridulates negation. Ooliri is the odd one out — when am I not? — feeling what might be unmistakable success. But if anyone could mistake it, he might.

None of the three pawns were quite of the laity, even now. Each had a single vesper nursed within their guts. A vesperbane had at least two; but traditionally, a pawn is given one vesper first, to give the body time to adjust, to see if they are found wanting in the vespers’ judgment.

A vesper feeds on a diamantids’ victual offerings, consuming them to bind arete, the foundation of a veserbane’s power. It’s energy stored in dense, umbral fatty tissue. Even a pawn with one vesper produces arete.

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If arete is stored caloric energy, it should be within even a pawn’s power to withdraw. That was the goal of this meditation. The vesperbanes had eaten breakfast; the pawns had not.

Ooliri hadn’t eaten breakfast, and he felt full.

“So you succeeded, little brother?”

He nods. “But that’s not enough to get promoted, is it?” He hated the tone of hope that crept from somewhere into his tone.

The response is a click of mandibles. “It’s progress, certainly. But a vesperbane is a balance of mental and physical excellence. You’ve never been wanting in mental regards — so to be promoted, you need to improve physically.” His eyes lose their focus on his brother. “I’m going to give you three a break, then we can try again later?”

When the wretch leaves, one pawn turns to Ooliri. Her name is Mita. “How. How did you do it? What are you doing differently?” Ooliri’s goggles are hanging around his neck. Without them, the world is blurry, expressions hard to parse.

He pauses a moment to consider where to start. “Relaxation is the first step, right? What calming image do you focus on to get there?”

The other pawn’s eyes flush, as if it were embarrassing. “Uh, I remember the day my mom walked me to the academy. I think about what she’ll say when I come back as a real vesperbane. Uh. Something like that. Like, thinking of your mother — that’s got to be calming for anyone, right?” Mita finishes, defensively.

“Oh.” Ooliri is now thinking of his own mother. Wasting away from disease, dying of a condition father had thought he could save her from. A condition he probably could (or did) discover how to fight, in the end. If only they could decode his notes — if only they could finish his research. Silverbane thought he could save anyone. Everyone.

“Sorry,” the other pawn is saying, and it sounds distant from this deep in Ooliri’s thoughts.

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They’re traveling east along a dirt road, stopping regularly to let the pawns rest. Fihra isn’t impressed by Awelah hunting beetles with her spear — but saving her the work, that’s convenient, she concedes. Ooliri gives the fresh kills strange looks, and shies away from eating them even as the other diamantids eagerly take them to pieces.

That night, they hear the howling of direbeasts again. When they make camp, they split into watches. The banes keep watch for direbeasts and bandits, while the pawns are told to keep an eye on Awelah and Makuja. It’s Fihra and Ooliri who get the watch in the middle of the night.

The sound of distant wolves howling haunts the night air. They swear they can see shadows crossing the distant countryside.

Is the howling getting louder? Fihra hears something and gets up to investigate.

Ooliri, meanwhile, is all but nodding off. He’s brought back to attention by Awelah.

Something’s wrong.

Ooliri asks why she’s awake.

Awelah hasn’t slept well in five nights. Thus, she noticed when Makuja got up, but assumed it was to relieve herself. It’s been a while — Awelah counted to a thousand — and the other nymph hasn’t come back.

“I’m going to look for her,” she states simply.

Ooliri can only follow behind. It’s opposite the direction Fihra went.

When they do find her, she’s on the ground, forelegs bound, and the pawns from earlier stand above her. Awelah rushes forward.

There’s a trap, and she trips it, getting caught in a net.

Awelah still manages to sound demanding. “You have me, now. Let her go.”

“No, I think our master will want both of you.”

Ooliri thinks. They’re some distance from the camp. Screaming for help isn’t the smartest thing to do in a night with direbeasts on the prowl. Would it work in the short term, thought? But Makuja was at the pawn’s mercy. What might they do, if Ooliri panicked them? So, not good in the short term, good in the medium turn, bad in the long term.

If he were more like Oocid, Fihra or even Awelah, this would be so much easier. Would this be already over, if Ooliri had the guts to act when it mattered?

Oocid’s words return to him. To be worthy to be a vesperbane he didn’t need to think better, but to do better. He reaches for his baton.

He wonders if the energy from his vesper would help. Probably not.

He draws a breath, and then runs forward. They didn’t prepare more than one trap, almost as if they expected only one to come here.

Ooliri swings the baton like his brother taught him. It cracks against his foe’s chitin. Fear is already flooding his mind when he gets a closer look at the weapons the pawns are wielding.

Then something happens when they’re distracted, advancing toward Ooliri as he backs up. Makuja is bursting up from where she lay on the ground, cut ropes falling off her limbs.

The first thing Ooliri registers is the bleeding, the pawns falling over. Then he sees the knives in Makuja’s grasp. She’s kneeling, and slitting the necks of fallen pawns.

“Y-you’re killing them?”

Makuja just looks up at him with those empty white eyes. “Why do you sound so shocked? Are we not predators?”

“No, no. We’re beings. With thoughts, emotions, souls. They-they were too. And you… killed them.”

“They were threatening us, so I made us safe. It is good for an axe to cut through wood, and it is good for a vesperbane to cut down the enemy.”

“Their life… Every life matters, Makuja. Weren’t you taught that?” he says. “I came to your defense because you matter — you defended us because we matter. I don’t think anyone… anyone should have to die.”

They look at each other for a moment, but Makuja doesn’t have a reply, and Ooliri goes to help Awelah down out of the net trap.

Makuja looks thoughtful all the while, and her grip tightens around her knives.