Marsaine was a small city, perhaps more a town, and appeared even to an untrained eye quite old, founded well before Selvin’s time or even his ancestors’. The cobbles were stained with the muck and refuse of long generations, as faded as the lives that had once made them up.

Selvin spoke a fragment of his True Name and focused his will, drawing out a measure of Strength, shunting himself to the left just enough to land where he desired- a few hundred yards clear of the main city wall. If he saw any pedestrians below him, he would slow himself down further. His precautions should be enough, but it was possible, if unlikely, that he could land directly on somebody and still kill them if he didn’t look first. Selvin began his descent, using his Name to pluck away at the strings of gravity that were so rapidly pulling him back to earth, defying the will of their Name with his own. Will-Naming was not something most Speakers could do, most especially not Speakers of only the Sixth. Selvin was most assuredly not like other Speakers, however.

His father had taught him well. A fact he both exulted in and spent nights weeping over, depending on the mood he found himself in.

Finding knowledge on Naming was harder by an order of magnitude than finding gold in the streets of the busiest city in the world. There was perhaps a single Speaker for every ten thousand mortals on the planet, and of those, even less were actually proficient with the power. Others used it sparingly, for esoteric pursuits, unrelated to warfare and dominion.

He landed with a small puff of dust and little else. His descent had been graceful, careful, and controlled. In the distance, the city wall reared up, dark and low to the horizon. He began walking towards it upon mortal legs, quickly dispersing the energies he had used and pulling them back into his Shroud. Then, he made his Shroud vanish.

“The plan is simple in theory,” Selvin said to himself quietly as grass brushed against his legs. “Seek sources of slaughter, conquest. Warfare. Killing. Absorb the Names of my fellow Speakers and make their power my own. Rise to a Lion within… Aiena… let’s say two months., A Dragon the following week, using father’s technique- and then a Demigod by killing one of the Seaborn... That way should be the quickest.”

Where he and his father had left off, Selvin had just broken through to what men called the Dragons- his Attribute of Strength had been a burning, raging 8. Demigods possessed penultimate nines-

And the greatest among them reached perfect tens, or beyond, depending on their mastery. But that was a hope and a dream away.

For now, Dragon was in his sights. And first he had to start eating level Four and Fives, and a few sixes. Sevens would be tricky. Lions could have sharp claws, after all.

Any Eights, Dragons, would kill him, most likely, if there were more than one. Perhaps he was being generous with himself- arrogance, others would call it. But it was the way his father had treated him. He always pushed Selvin forward, surprising him with what the man believed him capable of. Always to the next level, always warring against what was stronger.

It had been a brutal journey, but it had also been the first time in Selvin’s quaint life that he had finally felt alive.

He wouldn’t fail his father. Not after that.

Selvin entered Marsaine a few minutes later, passing through the derelict city gates without issue or complaint. No city, not even the richest capitals in Elcasia, could afford to have Speakers man city gates. But he still held his tongue as he entered. It was only through spoken words, and the subsequent flaring of a Shroud, that another Speaker could sense the presence of a fellow.

Caution always paid its weight in gold, father always said. And then a little bit more.

His garb was foreign, but still noncommittal. A sweeping traveling coat of indiscriminate dark color, perhaps gray or light black or a very deep blue, and pants of similar shade. He wore no weapon, not even a dagger or flintlock- those had become very popular recently especially. The blade he had used in the Wastes had melted inside the chest of the bandit it had slain.

I probably should be wearing something, though. Not wearing a weapon in this piss-hole is as suspicious as wearing one in the Holy Capital.

Selvin hated wearing them though. He had no use for a weapon and didn’t want to have one. If he needed force, power, strength…

He had something much more useful.

The crowd swept by him, dark and ever-moving in the dimming light, completely unaware that a Speaker was among them, a being that could speak a few strange-sounding words and wipe them all away to dust on the wind, ash in the sky. Selvin still sensed other Speakers- most likely active in the ruling quarter of the city, judging by common sense and his still-faint sense of them directing him- but he still did not speak, and still tried to watch everything in his peripheral without appearing to be on edge.

No one here could harm him. Probably. But as he always said… Selvin shook his head in mild agitation. The thought that he would have sailed all the way to his goal and beyond but for one lapse of caution and judgment… it nagged him. And it kept him alive.

He passed into the upper-class region of the town shortly thereafter, appraising the relatively well-cleaned, pale stone walls making up the inner keep from the paved stones below. An even circle of street surrounded the whole region- perfect for mounting a defense from the inner walls. Selvin saw a fairly ornate gate in the faint distance down the road, but he didn’t want to bother. He would have to actually speak to enter a royal area, and that gate might have actual Speakers guarding it. They were what was called Fool’s Speakers- Speakers of the most basic rank- what was formally known as Flower Speakers, recently blossomed, but most either called Rats, Fools… or any other demeaning animal or caricature. They did not know their True Name and likely stumbled across their one Name by chance, and it could give them anything from the ability to turn invisible to the ability to cast a small flame burst. Some relied on the pathetic measures of pure Self-Naming. Admirable, but weak. No Ancestral Names to rely on, and certainly nothing else.

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

Essentially not much better than common mortals, but still. Their image was arguably more important than their actual power. As weak as their souls burned, they were still on fire.

The area of the street he was in was relatively empty. Looking around to confirm no one was near him, Selvin took a light leap and soared over the keep’s walls.

A few more similar bounds took him directly to the source of the Names he was feeling, growing stronger as he approached- and he leapt up into an open window into the chamber they were seated in- a group of some half a hundred Speakers, the majority mercenaries with clashing outfits and styles, and all woefully weak in Named Power. Pale Shrouds burned over dozens of heads, giving off a hundred different impressions in body, mind, and soul. Selvin slid into the room silently, and no one noticed him, so fierce was their arguing, screaming, and posturing with one another.

Panicked, desperate argument, the kind that preceded danger. Danger they had no way to escape from. Everyone blaming the other.

Selvin quickly assessed the situation and realized what was happening. And opportunity shone in his mind’s eye like a treasure chest.

Some were standing, some were sitting. Selvin approached the table and chose a seat near the front, and he rapped the hard wood chair he was pulling out with his knuckles, drawing out a brief burst of strength to make it very loud in the enclosed room, enough to silence the bickering. Like a gunshot.

“Hello. Let's get started," Selvin said as he sat down. “I couldn't help but overhear some of your discussion." He looked at them all for a moment, then continued when they remained silent.

"We’re not waiting for them in the city itself, and definitely not in this keep.” He eyed the ancient, cracked bricks distastefully. “That would be a bloodbath- for you, and your citizens. Centuries of warfare on this planet and across the Named Worlds of Aiena should tell you well enough what happens when magicians do battle among mortals. I will not help you if a single innocent lies dead by the end. Understand that.”

He did not make it a question. He was here on a whim, not out of necessity. Elcasia was a large place, with dozens of lands and countries and kingdoms spanning it, and tens of thousands of Speakers. He could easily go elsewhere if he so chose… in theory. With only a little less than a year remaining, he would never do that. He couldn’t afford it.

Selvin could, however turn against them if he wanted to… not that these pitiful wretches would be worth the effort of their own consumption. He saw Third and Fourths, and a handful of Fifth. And one… single… Falcon, like him, shining the brightest out of a line of dim fires, if one were to look in with their Shroud perception. A Sixth, in more Attributes than one.

A squadron of Sixths, and- allegedly, if their chatter was to be believed- two Lions were coming to eat them alive.

They needed Selvin, and most certainly not the other way round. And he made sure they would understand that. It was how father always did things. They couldn’t afford to be meek, polite, or show any other form of hesitation. In every situation, his father said, he was the center. That was the role he had to take on to win in a world like Elcasia.

The apparent lord of Marsaine sputtered at Selvin in the silence that followed his arrival. “Who are you to-“

Selvin tapped his Name lightly in his mind, with a casual, easy touch from long years of familiarity, and kicked his body into motion at the same time. From their perspective, he would have appeared to instantly shift from his seat to standing at the shoulder of the regent. “Be silent. I am a Falcon, stronger than all of you combined, and the only person here that can save you from what is coming. As of now, I outrank you. Severely so.”

Some of the stronger among them had their mouths agape as they finally discerned his ranking from his speech. Those expressions were enough to solidify his words in the regent’s mind. “For… Forgive me, please.”

Selvin nodded at him sharply and walked to the front of the table, standing over the sitting Speakers with their pale faces and sweating demeanors. Once, this situation might’ve overwhelmed him. He’d watched his father in his own place often enough that it was like acting a role in a play. A role he knew well.

“What is the situation here? What is your plan of battle?” He asked, speaking it more like a declaration than a question.

The strongest among the Fifths spoke. He was a brutal-looking man, large and scarred. Selvin knew he was the type to become a powerful Speaker someday- relatively speaking, of course. “A hundred Marametian Speakers are coming to sack this city over some political trifle or other, led by their Crown Prince. Only… when we were hired for this position, we were lied to on their rank and number. And now it is too late for us to leave. The city is surrounded.”

He stood and bowed to Selvin, approaching him cautiously. “If I may, Lord…”

Selvin smiled tightly. “Selvin.”

“Lord Selvin.” He approached a pinned board that held their battle strategy and field tactics. Selvin had already assessed it and thought he understood it, but he still wanted them to tell him. “They’re approaching from the north, the only way for a large body to approach Marsaine. We hold the high ground and have twice their number. I plan to lead a contingent to engage them directly while the others, the Bears and Tigers, pound them from on high. A simple strategy for a simply doomed situation, so I think.”

Selvin considered him. “What’s your name?”

“Althony,” he said shortly.

“Althony,” Selvin repeated. “You will be with me.” He seemed like the only person in the room that could aid Selvin in battle even a little.

“Do they plan to attack soon?”

“Yes. Perhaps before dusk tomorrow.”

Selvin promptly sat, closed his eyes, and flared his Shroud.

The room cried out as he dazzled them. He tried not to burn it too brightly, lest he truly hurt them with its power. As it was, it would merely brush over their Shrouds like a... relatively gentle, calm wave of power.

“We take the fight to them, then.”

He ignored their words, their cries, and everything else, and turned himself inward. At the Shroud burning in its hue of a thousand colors and sensations.

The intersection of Strength and Heart, among others… could produce what Father liked to call the Name of Speed. It wasn’t quite a real Name in truth, but it was a collection of ideas and energy flows that both he and his father could identify. By combining the two- along with his Mind, once the physical reactions grew strong enough- he could raise the speed of his body to supernatural levels.

And that was his secret weapon- among others, of course. His father had stacked Selvin’s deck quite well, and he had a variety of cards to choose from. But this was the weapon that was truly his. That made him different from other Speakers- that was a core tenant of his True Name. It was the power he trained in, honed, and focused on in battle and practice.

With it, he could outmatch the senses of those ‘stronger’ than him. And kill them.

With it, he was brutally confident he could best this group of a dozen Sixes. As for their two royal Sevens… Well, he still wasn’t worried.

Speed, for whatever reason, once he fine-tuned and strung the proper threads and flows of Strength, Mind, Heart, and Perception, flowed them through his muscles in the proper patterns… gave off an amber glow. Like he was on fire, almost.

His father had laughed himself to death when he had seen it. Afterwards, still tearing up, he had assured Selvin that he was not mocking him. The fire would be very intimidating. No, what made it so funny was simple: By having that fiery glow, he made himself a strong candidate for the Name of Fire.

His father had taught it to him that night. Selvin smiled at the bright memory, remembering his father’s face.

Remembering his father’s laughter.