Time flows differently in Limbo. Whether through intentional design or great happenstance, it allowed Grisla to convert one hour of sleep in his world to ten. He took five and the other half was reserved for meditation. Putting to bed the disquiet in his heart consumed it like tinder to a flame; a Seri suggestion. He agreed weakly. To let emotion sink in knee-deep would harry him on Olimuth’s explanation, he was sure. Besides that, he needed to rest.

To think.

  “I believe,” Seri said, arms behind her back, “you’ve four minutes left.” Her eyes saw the skin, the face of a boy who’s experienced much, and knew there was more to come, but the digging she was attempting with that stare was mining to find a Grisla below. An indeterminate process. He grunted and stood. Without a look back, with no word, he departed for his world.

Thankfully, the returning of himself back to the “real” world included the exact position from which he left, meaning his shackle was undisturbed. There could be no good explanation if it somehow were broken or, he returned outside of. Beyond the jungle in the room to the outside, the rain stopped. Water trickled to wherever to settle in their pools and puddles. Where the rain died, the wind’s continuous assault never ceased or retracted for mercy. Grisla’s absentness, while staring at the ceiling receded upon the door’s opening, right on time. An hour as said.

Olimuth Banrei brought in supper and laid it on the bed before undoing his chain. Doubtless there’s no reason for the Elder to be on guard; he was wounded, and as a man who could handle Fang Lai stopping his escape would be trivial. Instead, Grisla was in silent dining; Olimuth hanging by. Where does a man begin for a story that he was in the dark to, for the months of his absence? He wondered. He could take a thousand years to begin, it mattered not. Grisla could wait, and he’ll anchor himself if need be to hear every word and letter, start to finish.

  “Fang Lai must’ve gone soft, if you managed to wound him,” Olimuth said questioningly. Deep in his food, Grisla wasn’t giving a clue.

“What’s going to happen is the clan won’t hear a word of this. The Fang’s will see to that. There’ll be a trial, in secret most likely, with your fate decided before anyone touched the doors. But there’s no need to worry,” Olimuth reassured, “like I said before, I’ll make sure that—” Grisla’s chewing froze, so did his spoon.

  The boy tilted his head, and said, “You promised me a story, Pillmaker.”

  “Yes,” Olimuth nodded. “I did, didn’t I?” Bitterly said, the man looked as though the sentences and words queued right in his head were wastefully thrown into the nether, to be replaced by a story he was yet ready to tell. “Before I begin, I must ask: what do you know of the Rosewater Exchange?”

  “A little. My father participated in it once, is this true?”

  “Hmhm. One could say your friction with the clan was predestined from there.”

  Grisla gave him his own look. To that Olimuth responded in kind by not delving further.

  “The Rosewater Exchange is a tournament hosted by the One-City Kingdom, an open tournament hosting all talents on Hannamith, who’re subjects of Her Majesty, though, ninety-eight percent of the participants are in by invite. An individual would have to carry a level of confidence to come themselves without. Precedence has said that small powers like our Grittus clan would never be chosen to host such an extravagance, but, well, it seems that has changed.”

“Our clan was chosen to host this decade. And, as of last year we hadn’t the infrastructure nor a location for it. But—”

  “There was a family of ill repute, whose unused land could be of service,” Grisla said. He chewed once more.

  Olimuth weakly grunted.

  “Gihren, your father wasn’t invited to the council meeting. In fact, they had only queried him to ask; only for formality, however. This was… hmm, possibly a few weeks after your departure?”

  He blinked. I was busy training in the Wilderness at the time.

  “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you? Listen, don’t blame yourself. I… doubt that your presence here could’ve—”

  “Continue,” Grisla insisted. The soup wasn’t bad but lacked that pinch of seasoning. “Please. We’re both killing the night.” A tournament. His ancestral land, was demolished and defiled for that? He thanked Seri for suggesting meditation and his own for the trip there.

  Olimuth, with steepled fingers had bent shadow around his face, and almost disguised the grey invasion on top. “I knew something was wrong. He didn’t come for a visit since your departure. By the time I had learned of it, the Orlith gates were chained and the area cordoned off. Only by the heaven’s favor was I able to catch the man. Briefly.”

“I don’t understand him. He wasn’t radiating rage. Honestly, in the years I’ve known him I’d have expected you to return home as an orphan. Gihren seemed to have put it down into acceptance, I suppose. Least, that’s what I felt. But that’s not important. He left me this to give to you.”

A letter flying like a disc was caught between fingers. The wax seal had no brand, and opened from his pressure almost like it had already been broken, but that was not due to Olimuth’s dishonesty, just his own sudden haste breaking it open. His father’s handwriting had a marker to it, Grisla could see branches holding swords when it came to his lettering. He read: My son, by the time you’re reading this, I have departed from the clan. Where I leave to, I cannot explicitly say. Only know that, I’m seeing an old friend. Time will tell when I’ll be back home. Please, Grisla do not do what I think you’re going to do. I’ve tasked Olimuth to keep you secure to prevent that. Everything coming will be pointless if you are dead. I beg of you, if only this.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Grisla’s hands trembled. A father really did know his son. He wanted to steal a look at Olimuth, who gazed off absentmindedly, looking as though he were pondering on regrets and wondering if new ones were coming.

Your mother’s heart follows you. You were too young to know this, but at one point I had doubted you, doubted you’d come out as my child—you were too frail to fight, and I was afraid you might not last long as a babe. But, your mother believed, above all else, that you are special. You’ve long since proved her words just.

  He knew this to be true. Hell, he saw it himself. But he grinned anyway.

Our family has been in decline; that much is not false. To the point where falcons who’ve envied our power have finally taken the opportunity to snuff us out and scavenge the rest. I am not blind to their schemes, Grisla. Only that we lack the means to resist. Which’s why I have departed, to seek out what we need. And, to be honest I want to talk with this person. Whom I haven’t spoken with in quite some time.

You hate them. I can tell, and because I can there are elements in our clan who wish to quiet you forever. You must contain yourself. Please. Restraint’s what kept you alive so far, practice it once again. Until I return, Olimuth will take care of your needs.

  Finally, he glanced at Olimuth, who returned it with a nod. Although he hadn’t read the letter it was obvious his father had already instructed him.

Ever since that day at the last Exchange, I have trusted no man that carries our clan’s pride, and even less if possible for someone bearing “Grittus” in their name. That in mind, the Patriarch’s scheming will come to an end; I promise that on my return.

  Hope is good, however it's hard to believe, Grisla thought.

Until I come back, do not be… a Grisla. I don’t care what has happened to you my child, you’ve always been the Chosen One of this clan and family, and always have. Meng Grittus has feared you for a reason.

And we will remind them why.

It went unsigned. A usual when it came to letters back home.

His father… said all that? The man when was home had enough words to freeze stone when it came to him and his perceived failures. Who could squeeze much out of Gihren Orlith unless he deemed them worthy? He reread it all again. Leaving to see an old friend he said, but what kind of friend would his father have to assume he could make the clan fear them? It appears he isn’t the only one with secrets. But on the receiving end it tasted like bitter candy. It wasn’t him who needed Gihren here, right now, it was the family itself—the Orlith’s and its living two descendants. As heir he’s still lacking rights to do what’s necessary to keep them afloat.

What did it matter, even? Far as the clan—the world—was concerned, the Orlith family was extinct as of months prior. Rebuilding the clan won’t happen. Not while they still breathe.

He could hang back on his father’s word, and wait for some implied reinforcements but… Grisla was done waiting. The letter ignited on a spark from his hands, and to ashes it went. There were more questions left with no answers, why did he wait until now to see an “old friend”? His discerning thought leaned to it being a last resort of sorts, maybe, Gihren’s going there begrudgingly. Perhaps. Regardless of that—he almost feels as terrible as he did before reading.

He was, now and for the foreseeable future, truly alone. Olimuth was on his side, but out of a favor and maybe some semblance of a friendship for his father—but how far did that extend to? He diverted Fang Lai today, but what about a Xinrei tomorrow? Or the High Elders? Especially them.

  “On the day that you were brought here,” Olimuth said, while not looking at him, “your mother, Mira was like a mother bear. She once threatened to rip a High Elder’s arm off and beat her with it if she so much as dare insult you in her presence. Imagine that, a woman not even a month out of childbirth and she was ready to combat to protect your honor.”

“And you wanted to risk all that, for your anger. There’re consequences coming, child. I cannot protect you from all of it, but I promised your father that. My clan’s important to me as well, to favor one over the other is something I cannot do. But I could do both at the same time.”

  “This is your plan then?” Grisla raised his shackle. “You’ve missed the part where someone might ‘forget’ to feed me in a cell.”

  “It is my plan and your punishment. When next you wake we’ll be on our way to the court and there, I’ll already have your safety guaranteed. All you must do, is plead—”

  Grisla snarled. “No,” he could almost taste the venom he’d spoken.

  Olimuth stared at him, wordless. “Is this rebelliousness Gihren’s doing? No, it couldn’t be. You’re merely looking for some outlet, and taking the semblance of control that you have and are using it to—”

  “Oh, don’t give me that nonsense,” Grisla said, fists balling, “I will not plead mercy from men who’ve wronged me so. Never. Never again. I would rather die.”

  “I very much doubt your father would agree to that.”

  Grisla wanted to toss his plate at a wall, but that’d serve no purpose as much as he liked. So instead, he gave the “wise and great,” Pillmaker a ponderous inspection. “You are correct.” And the man sneered at him! How it prickled the skin! Why do men in their growing age act like this? Is that sort of attitude him in the future? If so…

  “To bed Grisla, you have… a long day ahead of you. We’ll continue later.”

Olimuth went to go touch on some more of his plants with his dapple of attention of every one inside, writing notes to himself on the health of each, before shuffling a few things out of the way in preparation for a shop that needed his help as much as Grisla. He watched him work, for a time, then covered himself under blankets while the final bits of sound faded as Olimuth finished up. Upon a strange insistence from him, the Pillmaker agreed to keep the candles alit; he did sound like a boy afraid of the dark in the meanwhile.

He wasn’t afraid of what he might do—the time since then has passed. Hitherto, he was already working the pieces for his first idea. But then, Grisla noticed something. Where Olimuth worked, a vial was left by its lonesome on the desk. It wasn’t the vial itself that was eye-catching more so what it contained; a color so familiar it jolted memories from long ago. But it couldn’t be.

  It couldn’t.

He started but—shackled as he was, there’s no getting to it from here. Without a second thought, the metal was cracked in a sharp striking of it with his free hand; the noise he’d made would disturb Olimuth, if it somehow did not then maybe the sun’s collapse wouldn’t either. Freed, he snatched the bottle. Reading… nothing.

Unmarked, but the substance made him want to groan. When the cork flew free, Grisla’s nose had wanted to drop its post and run, to wherever. After his crippling, he devoted months to researching what had crippled him, how it worked, and how it was made. But—it was right here, in Olimuth’s shop. Suddenly appearing after his departure.

  Grisla whispered, with half a mind to shatter the vial, “Mortal Reminder.”

He was holding the end of the former Chosen One.