The music stopped as Ren staggered up to a stool waiting by the other musicians.

The sound of sloshing wine bowls and yelling soldiers pressed on him as he sat—and missed the stool entirely. A few laughs pierced the din as he pushed himself to his feet and gave up on the idea of sitting. Ren kicked the traitorous stool aside—and into the path of one of the bar girls who halted just in time to save the drinks she carried and glare at him.

“C’mon! Let’sss hear a song!” Gunneys voice escaped the crowd.

Ren closed his eyes and performed some mental alchemy, transmuting the ruckus of soldiers to the clatter of laborers, pounding of a fist on a table to the thud of Garam’s feet on floorboards, the scent of spilled alcohol to-

No, that could stay.

He inhaled deep, ready to start, and for a frozen moment, he found nothing inside. No song.

“What, is this a silent performance? Where’s the damn music.” He smiled at the thought of a round faced woman from the southern fringe of Ardus. Norn might’ve said something like that.

Then the music came. An ode to the unknown. To the trials of adventure. To the glimmering memories of a childhood on the road. To the lips of a lover, the bursting blooms of new life, the warm fire glow of mead and rice wine.

His body started swaying. A drum started playing.

Pain melted like snow at winter’s end.

The notes sang together like friends sharing laughter.

And for a shining, precious moment, the last bits of him disappeared into song.

***

Ren stumbled out of the Pointy End. The world was spinning, and he slumped against the wall, sliding down to sit on the ground and cradle his head.

It felt good to play music again. He’d never played with other musicians before.

The others had gotten up and danced. Gunney had tried to conduct Rhami around the dance floor, but it looked more like a fight for who got to lead. Bahmul had just tapped his foot and bobbed his head, composed even in the glow of rice wine. A girl actually approached the young scholar, but he’d turned her down. Hamsa had grabbed one of the serving girls who swooned as he spun her around—graceful and charming as ever.

He was happy to see his friends happy. He definitely was. But as the haze of drink faded, the pit in his heart had opened up again. They’d all be going their separate ways, and Ren would be alone again. He had no choice but to keep going and hope that nothing went wrong. The more he thought about it, the more trapped he felt. Fourteen years till the debt was paid. His siblings would lose their childhood. And could he really last that long? He’d already shown he was too pathetic to even make it through a simulated fight. What would happen when he was faced with the real thing?

“You look downtrodden for a man celebrating his future.”

Ren looked up. A tall man with a lean frame stood over him, wrapped in a green cloak edged with yellow-gold embroidery, his aquiline features framed by hair that reached his shoulders—punctuated by sharp eyes, a neat mustache and a wry grin.

What business was it of his?

But even under the influence of drink, Ren couldn’t say that. Instead, “I’m sure others have much to celebrate, but I’m not sure I do.” Of course he’d be embarrassingly honest. Couldn’t even hold his liquor properly, it seemed.

The man sat back against the wall beside Ren. “Then why don’t you let it out? I always find that helps.”

What did he have to lose? “Have you ever felt that you are cursed? That no matter how hard you try, or what you do, or where you go, you’re just running in the same circle over and over?” The man remained silent, and more words rushed from his mouth to fill the space. “I know I’m supposed to feel lucky. Things could be worse. Hell, six months ago I was starving and hiding and running for my life. I’d have given anything for regular meals. For the hope that one day I could pay off my family debt. But… but I’m afraid. I’m alone. I don’t think I can do this. I’ve pushed through so much, but I still failed, over and over. I can’t hold a real sword without getting shaky. I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to spill blood. I don’t want to do this for the next decade and then some. I want life to go back. I want my family. I want my old home. I want Sitara, and the shop, and to hear more of uncle Irah’s stories. But-” He choked on a sob. Tears rained down his face, and he wiped snot from his nose with his sleeve. “But it’s all gone.”

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Those words hung in the air. A truth he’d been running from. Chasing goals and hope and dreams, but ultimately, he could never change that fact no matter what he did. It crushed him now. The weight of grief and loss and despair. He’d still been thinking of himself as the boy he used to be. A boy who was dead now. But for some reason he still had to stay there, alive, in this body, watching all he was fade to nothing.

The man whistled. “Damn. That was honest.”

Ren reddened. What was he doing, drunkenly confiding to some strange man? Ever the fool.

“Let me introduce myself,” The man held out a hand which Ren clasped after a pause. “I’m Azam. Scout Captain of the irregulars.”

The blood drained from Ren’s face. He wasn’t too drunk to know he’d fucked up in a major way.

“Don’t give me that look,” said the Scout Captain. “I’m not in uniform right now, so no need to worry.” He plucked at the strangely fancy cloak for emphasis. “To be honest, I came out here to compliment your playing in there. Quite the performance! I didn’t expect to fill the role of priest and hear your confession.”

Ren looked down and pulled his hand free of Azam’s, realizing they were still clasped.

“Seriously, it’s okay.”

He was way too casual to be in military leadership—definitely an imposter—but Ren didn’t want to risk any more missteps. The best course of action was to get away as soon as possible.

“Look,” said Azam, “Let's just chalk it up to my inquisitive nature as a scout. It’s my job to gather information. No harm no foul, right?” Ren met his eyes tentatively. “Good. Now that you have spilled your guts all over the street, we might as well finish talking about this stuff. You open to some advice?”

Ren shrugged. “If you have any, I suppose.”

“What are you fighting for? How have you failed?”

Well he was fighting for his family obviously. And he failed to become a medic, then failed to be a real soldier. Failed to distinguish himself. Failed to prove he wasn’t trash. Failed to get back at Kareem. Failed his friendship with Parna—no, that one might not have been his fault. “I’m fighting for my family.”

“Good answer. That is what you feel you should be fighting for. But what are you fighting for?”

There wasn’t more to it. The rest was just a childish dream. He shook his head.

“Hmmm.” Azam scratched his chin. “What kind of soldier do you want to be? What kind of man? How have you succeeded already? Don’t answer me now. Sleep on it. Running from the bad things can get you pretty far, but it isn’t enough in the long run. If you live from a place of fear, it will rule you. Find something that is meaningful to you and move toward it.”

That was… actually good advice.

The imposter stood up and turned to Ren. “Oh. And when you spend your merits think long term. Flashy rewards might seem exciting right now, but what is going to make it easier to distinguish yourself in the long run?” He started walking away

Merits? Who-

“I’ll be watching your progress.” Azam called over his shoulder. “Be sure to impress me again.”

The strange man faded into the night and Ren was alone once again.

Who did he want to be? If he freed his family, then what? He hadn’t thought that far ahead. It was always just focusing on the next step. Pushing until he couldn’t anymore.

Ren closed his eyes and let his life play before his eyes. Years as traveling merchants. Every season, back on the road, a new place, new people, new adventure. Stories of heroes, and duels, and tiny glimpses of magic from his uncle. The shop. Finally having a bed. Looking forward to making friends. The first time he heard the words ‘empyrean trash’. The bruises. His brother leaving them to join the street toughs, then disappearing. The tears his mother shed. The way his father got quieter and quieter. The twins, oblivious, who played and ran and reminded them all how to live. The way Sitara had looked at him. The cheering crowds at military parades. Loss. Surviving. Garam and Norn and the manual. The Caravanahri and their glimmering swords and stoic chins. The horror of the serpent. Osai. Lightning so bright it bent the world. Melfina. Training through the pain. His podmates. Laughter. Growing stronger.

Yes. He would move forward.

Parna.

But he would never let his guard down again. He would grow strong enough to protect himself. He wouldn’t need anybody. He would be a hero. The hero the twins thought he was. Crowds would chant his name some day. He would finally be recognized. And accepted. People would know his name like the Flame-Blade. He would never again be that weak boy alone on the streets. He would never be that fool toyed with and humiliated in the arena. He would never be the naive child lying at the bottom of a gully of thornbane, looking up at his friend as he walked away.

He’d made it this far. He didn’t know how, but he would prove himself and he’d move up, free his family before the twins had worked away the whole of their childhoods. And, as petty as it was, he’d make Kareem and Sig and all the others like them regret what they had said and done to him. Sitara… No. This was enough. And she was a part of his past.

Ren heaved a breath and stood. Time to peel Gunney off the table and make sure his friends got back to camp safely.