They walked so briskly through the cold, unfamiliar territory that Aissaba stumbled repeatedly. Tassadu counted whenever he caught her – sometimes with his hand, sometimes his tail, and sometimes bouncing her upright with the stretchy trampoline of his wing membrane. Seventeen was the current count.

Meanwhile, they took turns trying to distract themselves from the fact that there was a giggle-prone twelve year old child playing with a re-flashable pebble.

“Odds are,” Tassadu said, trying optimism, “she’ll destroy it. Flash it with the wrong thing.”

“Won’t the TSO warn her before that?” said Aissaba.

They trudged on in silence, Aissaba tripping on a root, Tassadu counting “Eighteen.”

Tassadu had created his eponymous main protocol years ago – partly for fun and partly to help Aissaba after she had lost her billionth pebble to pebble-strain. The internal physics of pebbles were subtle – if you used a pebble for map magic a few times, it became “attuned” to map magic. Then, if you used it for life magic, it might turn to dust. Pebbles could also become “highly attuned” from centuries of repeated use in a specific Mastery. Such pebbles were particularly valuable, and you could push them pretty hard without losing them.

But Aissaba had lost plenty of those too. Hence, Tassadu’s TSO-duh to the rescue – catching her from falling on her face, as per usual.

“Nineteen,” said Tassadu, bouncing her with his wing before she dove accidentally into the river.

“Why do they even recruit twelve year olds?” said Aissaba, trying a new strategy: trying to start an argument. “I mean, you never know what a kid is going to become.”

“Supposedly, the Master of Virtue knows,” said Tassadu. “Or so Styxx would say.”

Aissaba rolled her eyes. Styxx had often been prone to something that on Earth was called “mansplaining,” and he had given her multiple lectures on the history of the Fortress’s Styx Protocol – usually under the guise of “mandatory training.” Apparently, the recruitment logistics had evolved over the millenia – with most of the ancient Masters hailing from a bygone era when the Master of Virtue’s prophecies had foretold (and mandated) the recruitment of particular individuals at the moment of their death.

Chosen Ones.

But as the population of Earth had grown, the number of viable apocalyptic scenarios had multiplied, and the need for a steady, reliable source of new Fortress talent had to be addressed. Hence, the evolution of the ancient lottery system – which was now used almost exclusively.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

The drawback, of course, was that some of the “talent” ended up like Aissaba – causing more problems than they were worth. She said something to this effect out loud as she took yet another tumble. Tassadu knew better than to engage with this, so he caught her, and just said, “Twenty.”

It was hard, these days, to get Tassadu riled up, so she tried again: “I bet the Master of Virtue isn’t even real.”

“Not the first time you’ve said that,” he reminded her, politely.

“I bet your dad is the Master of Virtue,” she said.

A low involuntary growl rumbled in his chest. Aissaba chose this moment to fall on purpose. Somehow, he still managed to catch her, but he didn’t say, “Twenty-one.”

Sullen silence was the first step in Tassadu’s eruption protocol. Something she had honed to a science over the years.

It wasn’t something she did often. It was good for him, though, to fight every now and then. He was like a volcano, prone to massive apocalyptic eruptions if he wasn’t vented occasionally. A service Aissaba was happy to provide.

Unfortunately, it would have to wait. The compass pebble in her hand stopped vibrating, and the Master of Mind’s voice in her ear said, You are now standing within one-hundred yards of the Johnson’s property. You will establish the encampment in the small basin surrounded by trees.

The voice, which Aissaba figured was pre-recorded, went on to direct them down into the basin, where they were to open the pouch. A single life pebble was to be planted in the icy soil to provide food. Three mind pebbles were to be placed at the perimeter to provide 48 hours worth of a “psychic distortion field” to keep them hidden. And a map pebble would dig them a small cave for shelter before destroying itself.

“Shall we?” said Aissaba.

Tassadu grunted – still miffed about the “your dad” comment, no doubt.

Aissaba planted the life pebble, which immediately began to sprout a tree – growing hungrily in spite of the season and the darkness. Soon, it was taller than they were, lush leaves and fruits providing a canopy above them. No doubt it would be quite conspicuous during the day. But that’s where the psychic distortion field would–

Tassadu wasn’t moving.

“Hey,” said Aissaba, moving into his warmth and putting her arms around his waist. The science of venting the volcano came with a twin science of soothing him when necessary. Head on his chest she said, “I’m glad you’re here.”

But he remained tense, as if carved in ice. “It’s Orion,” he said. “He’s awake.”

(Blink: The towels Cassandra had shoved under the bathroom door were moving, being plucked at from the other side. A small hole appeared. A yellow school bus rolled though and coasted all the way to where she sat with her back to the bathtub. So much for keeping secrets, she thought. Orion’s eye was already looking at her through the hole.)