Osai’s journey took him east. But not as directly as he would have liked.

Each time he charted his course for the immortal lands the lightning in his body would start to crackle behind his ruined eye till he opened his sight to the threads. And when he listened it stilled, became calmer. Became a little more his.

Half the time, he’d realize that some part of him had already been pulled. That there was a voice from deep under the surface of what he knew of his own consciousness that already knew where he wanted to go. Was it that part that directed the lightning? Was it coincidence? Was the lightning somehow changing his mind? His soul?

Out here in the mortal lands time and space were mutable. Centuries ago he’d learned to step through space in areas with less dense Aether. But it had been a technique. An application of will and force, bending the world and its rules around the weight of his own spirit. Now… now it was different. He still limped. Still ached and hobbled when he was tired. Still stopped regularly to partake of the shelter offered freely by trees. Still needed food and water and sleep. But each step pulled him through space and distance, farther than it should. Not by force, but through harmony. Like he was swimming through the fabric of reality. The world almost an extension of his self and his will. It reminded him in some ways of how the Master walked through the world.

He sighed and savored the feeling of the tree supporting his back. The tug of fate was calling him again. Osai cast a sideways glance with his good eye at the shimmer in the air where the rift had been. His task of cleaning up the rifts torn open by the passage of the Serpent was nearly complete. But he still couldn’t find the source. Where had it come through? What sort of being was hiding the Beast’s origin from him. What being could?

No matter, when he reached his Master he would get all the answers he sought.

The threads pulsed. Deep agony tracing their lines, tempered by an iron will, touched by the dark coils of primordial darkness. Osai pushed up to his feet with a groan and started walking.

***

Osai examined the wound on the Great Beast. Somehow, she’d kept the serpent’s dark venom at bay for these months.

“In the mortal plane, there is hardly a force that can stand against a mother’s love,” his Master had said. And now he believed it.

But it was spreading. All he could do was buy her time, and not much at that. Her eyes met his and blinked slow with recognition and acknowledgment.

The beast gestured to her swollen belly. “I know I am not long for this world. Is there anything you can do for my daughter, Wise One?”

It wasn’t for him to take on the child. Not where he was going. And he couldn’t delay any longer. Every day the ache for his Master grew.

But the threads had led him here, had to be a reason. He opened his sight, asking the weave of karma for answers. A single thread, brighter than the others, led from the still unborn babe in the beast’s belly to the West, back the way he’d come. Back to Ardus.

Injured as she was, it would be the last voyage the mother made.

*****

Fish-Lips scanned the street. His head was always on a swivel these days. Finding no signs he was being followed, he ducked into the alley and slipped in a door hidden behind the remains of a dresser. Inside was bare. Not even a rug for the floor. Just a couple stools, a wobbly table, and two stolen mattresses.

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“You’re back, Fishy,” Basher said, scratching around the eyepatch on the caved in side of his face. “What took so long? Did you get it?”

Fish-lips held back a scowl. It was just the two of them who’d survived and they’d been on the run for the months since. He just had to put up with this bastard a little while longer till he could afford passage clear of this cursed country. He was done with Ardus.

Instead of answering, he unrolled the blueprints on the table and asked, “What about the docksiders, are they in?”

“Aye, they were hit hard, too.” Basher grinned savagely—which was to say he was generally a savage as far as Fish-lips was concerned and he happened to be grinning. “Didn’t lose as many as we did, but it was enough to convince them that we either stand together or die struggling alone in the gutter. Hunted down by those gilded rat fuckers.”

“So we’re on then.” Fish-lips felt his guts churn. Hopefully this would be worth it.

“Aye, fishy. We’re on. Tomorrow night is the night.”

***

The Golden Fang Trading Company had three warehouses in Katarn and this one was the most heavily guarded. Which meant it was also mostly likely to have the best haul.

They crouched in the shadows watching the patrols go by, waiting. Something crashed in the distance and armored feet ran off to investigate. It was all going according to plan, but Fish-lips couldn’t get his palms to stop sweating. He wiped them on his pant legs, not for the first time.

A door in the side of the building cracked open and a clammy looking fellow stuck his head out. Another thing according to plan. They began their silent run to the door, followed by docksiders, and nodded to the man and his fearful eyes as they passed through.

Basher didn’t have many redeeming qualities, but when he threatened your family, he was pretty convincing.

They were led through the facility, past towering racks filled with weapons, armor, and other odds and ends, to a wide metal door in the wall. The safe.

Basher gestured the docksiders forward, and they proceeded, their safe-breaker leading the way. When Fish-lips moved to follow, a large hand landed on his shoulder and guided him to the shadows between two racks.

They waited silently for minutes that stretched and stretched and put a sick in Fish-lips’ stomach. They were taking too long.

Basher pursed his lips and started to peruse the rack they’d hidden by, opening crates and inspecting contents as he went, pulling a pair of shining metal bracers from a crate and strapping them to his forearms with a satisfied nod, then he stopped by a small box on the bottom shelf and pried the lid off, pulling out a collar engraved with faintly glowing scripts. Maybe Fish-lips should be getting something for himself too-

The door clicked loudly and swung open slowly, but the smile that came froze on his face. A figure stood inside the door, waiting. The man tilted his head so light hit the bottom of his hooded face, revealing a sneer. It was familiar. He’d seen that face before, he could tell just from the mouth.

Basher grabbed his arm and pulled him away, pale.

The man blurred and blood splattered as his fist exploded out the back of one of the docksiders.

They ran.

And ran.

Busted out the door they’d come through.

Ran, even as guards yelled and chased.

Ran into the darkness and kept running. Into side-streets and alleys. Through twists and turns, panting.

So that was him. The man who’d killed the whole gang. The man he’d walked past on his way to the hideout that day. Shit and piss and fucking rat bites.

“I’m leaving.” He’d meant to think the words. But hearing them come from his own mouth only made him more sure. He had a little money he’d been saving up for the past few years. Not enough for his plans, but enough to get out.

“Like hell, you are. We still haven’t gotten revenge on those bastards. They need to pay for what they did.” Basher’s voice ground out and Fish-lips looked him in the face. Real agony. True rage. Loss.

“You can stay if you want to die.” He started walking away. “I don’t. At the very least, get out of this city.”

Basher just sputtered, clutching the side of his head and watched him leave.

*****

Fish-Lips had been right, of course. That was why he’d kept the ugly fucker around. Had a brain on him.

It was hopeless to fight them directly.

Basher stepped off the ferry, into the capital. He hadn’t been back here in a decade. It was time to visit some old friends.