Mirk looked down at the key in his hand, then back up at the door before him. He'd noticed the key waiting for him beside the alarm that'd been set for him that morning. Genesis hadn't left a note, nor had he mentioned the evening before that he'd made a key for him, but Mirk couldn't think of any other reason why it'd be there. Genesis wasn't one to forget his key on the dresser while hurrying to get to work.

Something about the key bothered him. It had a certain weight to it. Like there were multiple keys in his hand, a whole ring of them stacked atop one another instead of one thin, unremarkable skeleton key. It was probably the magic on it. If the arrow he'd pulled out of the mage's chest that morning hadn't still been in his bag, or if his grandfather's staff hadn't been tucked into the pocket in his sleeve, the key would have been the most magical thing he'd ever held. Though the shadows were loath to emerge into even the dim lights of the hall, Mirk could sense them pulsing within it. It unnerved Mirk, in a way. As if the key was a weapon instead of a tool to open the door to his ostensible new home.

He was woolgathering again, searching for an excuse not to go in. Mirk had gone to the tavern nearest the infirmary with Yule after Emir had dismissed them for the day, but the older healer had been in one of his moods. Yule had hurried off back to his own quarters in the healers dormitory to sulk after only a few drinks. Mirk suspected that his cheerfulness, such as it was, grated on Yule's nerves. Though he had considered lingering after Yule had gone, he'd decided against it. It wouldn't do to come back to Genesis’s quarters tipsy that early in his stay with him. And Mirk knew that if he stayed at the tavern and started drinking alone, he'd imbibe far more than he'd planned as a way to avoid his worrying.

It wasn't terribly late. That meant there were good odds Genesis wasn't there, even if he was following healer's orders for once and taking things easy, more or less. There was no sense in continuing to stall. Mirk moved the key toward the lock.

Before he could slide it into the lock, the door creaked open on its own. It startled a laugh out of Mirk.

Yes, Genesis was there.

"Bon soir, messire," Mirk called out as he entered. It wasn't a greeting as much as it was a warning to Genesis that he was about to enter his domain.

As usual, Genesis didn't reply. He was sitting in his resentful wing-back in the furthest corner of the room, intently focused on a thick red grimoire, which had as sinister of an air to it as the chair did. Mirk couldn't help but notice that Genesis had recruited an ottoman to go along with it while he'd been out. Purchased didn't seem like an apt term for how Genesis had probably acquired the thing. Its clawed feet were made of a darker wood than those of the chair, its leather upholstery glinting, somehow, in the dim glow of the bluish-green magelight above the door that'd illuminated when Mirk had entered. Mirk could easily picture it trundling out into the hall on its own volition in the dead of night, in search of fat rats and unsuspecting drunks.

Mirk shut the door behind himself. Its lock snicked shut and its wards engaged without any effort on Mirk's part. Only once the magic surrounding the rooms they now shared engaged did Genesis care to acknowledge him, twitching a hand in his direction as he turned a page. The gesture triggered the room’s standard magelights, an addition that’d appeared unexpectedly while he’d been unpacking his things the night before.

It was as good of a greeting as Mirk could expect to get from the commander, he supposed. He knew better than to pester Genesis with the usual pleasantries. But, for once, he had something useful to offer Genesis instead. "I, euh, have something for you, actually. Not a gift, technically, but it seemed dangerous to leave it in the infirmary. And methinks you'll find it interesting."

Again, Genesis didn't respond immediately. Mirk debated whether it'd be better to go find something else to tend to while he waited for the commander to finish whatever he was reading. He'd almost stepped off the mat in front of the door and headed to the bedroom when he remembered: no shoes. Mirk set his bag aside and bent down to take them off, placing them at the edge of the mat. By the time he'd finished, Genesis was closing his grimoire. Mirk searched through his bag as he crossed the room to his side, grimacing at how cold the wood was underfoot, even through his socks. "Where is it...allez, allez, donnez-moi...ah!" His fingers finally closed on the arrow's shaft and Mirk drew it out, presenting it to Genesis with a dip of his head.

Genesis's interest was piqued. Mirk could tell by the way his eyebrows raised and his lips pursed, ever so slightly, as he plucked the arrow from Mirk's hand. "Where did this...come from?" the commander asked, as he began to examine it.

"A patient came in today with it stuck in his chest. What was his name...euh...Elijah? Elijah Oliver."

Genesis made a low, derisive noise. "I assume you...spared him."

Mirk shrugged. "We all have our duties, messire."

The commander ran one finger along the flat side of the arrow's head. His touch drew the shadows out of it in long coils, which seemed to be examining Genesis just as closely as he was them. "This is a...Destroyer's weapon."

"I thought it might be. It felt like you. Well, different, but close enough." Mirk paused, considering the way the shadows were moving over Genesis's hand, searching. Like kittens that had lost their mother, almost. Oddly forlorn. "Honestly, the only reason we were able to save Elijah was because I'm so accustomed to your magic by now. Are they all connected, somehow? The shadows?"

"A...complicated matter," Genesis said. His tone made it clear enough to Mirk that, for once, the commander was too distracted to indulge in a lecture on magical theory. The arrow had to be more important than Mirk had assumed.

"Anyway, I'm glad I could help. Both you and him."

"I am...surprised you were allowed to touch that mage," Genesis said, without looking up.

"We weren't supposed to," Mirk said, watching as Genesis continued to manipulate the arrow's magic. His own shadows, unbidden, were slinking out to investigate, curling out from underneath Genesis's armchair and creeping up his leg toward the arrow's point. If Genesis noticed his own magic responding to the arrow's, he didn't comment on it. "But the two healers from the Tenth who were supposed to see to him didn't know how to help him. So we stepped in. You know how forceful Yule can be when he sets his mind to something."

"I am...well aware."

"Though, we did get scolded afterward by another healer from the Fourteenth. Yule said he was one of...oh, what's the commander's name...it's one of your click-words..."

"S'kanyk," Genesis said, being deliberate to pronounce the name correctly. Or, at least, that was why Mirk assumed that the name only bore a passing resemblance to the one that he’d heard the other healers whisper to each other, that countless members of the other divisions had bellowed curses at in the tavern. Despite the hissing inflection Genesis gave the name, his tone held in it the sort of disdain that the commander reserved strictly for the nobility. Another mysterious enemy of Genesis's, then, one that Mirk had somehow still never caught a glimpse of. It made him wonder whether the commanders of the high-born divisions ever came to the City at all.

"Yes, that's right.One of his personal healers. But he said that he wouldn't mention to his commander that we worked on him."

"An...opportunity for him to gather acclaim for himself instead."

Mirk hadn't thought of it that way. Perhaps it was a bit of both: whatever kindness Ambras had left in his heart for Yule, mixed with his own desire to advance. But Mirk had always been too optimistic about other people, as everyone constantly reminded him. And he hadn't been able to get a sense for Ambras's genuine feelings beyond the blockers he'd been sunk in. "What do you think of it?" Mirk asked. "The arrow?"

"I suspect its owner will want it back. This is not the kind of arrow that is shot once and left behind. The spellcraft involved in its making is...quite advanced. And the components are also rare."

Mirk tried to ignore the way his stomach clenched. "Do you mean another Destroyer will come looking for it?"

After debating for a moment, Genesis shook his head. "If a Destroyer made this weapon for themselves, they have been dead for some time. A Destroyer's weapon has a certain...personality. It is connected to its wielder. A Destroyer would have been able to call this arrow back to themselves. And it would have...finished the job. As it were."

"I'm glad it didn't," Mirk said, giving an involuntary shudder at the thought of it. He didn't know the mage the arrow had nearly killed, but he didn't think anyone deserved the kind of end that arrow meted out, total destruction of the soul rather than being ferried by a Death to an unknowable eternity.

Genesis, however, had other reasons for nodding in agreement. "If Ravensdale...encountered another Destroyer, he would...doubtlessly attempt to enslave it. In the same manner he uses with his djinn. Thus, I would become…superfluous. To him."

Mirk couldn't keep himself from glancing at Genesis's forearms. His shirtsleeves were buttoned up tight at the wrist, but Mirk had caught glimpses of the binding runes since the incident with Samael. They had closed, finally, though they hadn't yet faded away into whiteness. "Would that kind of spell work on a Destroyer?"

"No. But I suspect...he might be willing to go to a...better mage than himself for assistance. Perhaps with an...offering in hand."

The knot in Mirk's stomach grew tighter. "...Samael? Sharael?"

Genesis nodded. "A...mind-breaker in exchange for a Destroyer. A fair trade for Imanael. Since he...is of the opinion he already possesses...enough destruction to suit his ends." The commander's words took on a bitter tone, as he rolled the arrow’s shaft between his fingers. "It was...prudent of you not to leave this elsewhere. If Ravensdale learned of it, he would...undoubtedly attempt to locate the Destroyer that made it. Fortunately, I believe that Oliver is too...frivolous to have known what struck him."

"Is he a cruel mage? Elijah?"

"No. He is merely...unsuited to combat. He is a mage that specializes in theory over...application."

If Genesis was willing to grant the mage a pass, despite his seeming alliance with Ravensdale and the other high-borns, then he must have been a good person at his core. Mirk sighed, fiddling with the straps of his bag as he shifted worriedly from foot to foot before Genesis. "Well, all's well that ends well, I suppose."

Genesis was silent for a time, watching the shadows curl off the edge of the arrow's point. When he spoke once more, he didn't glance over at Mirk. "This could...prove useful. Perhaps. In any case, I have...a matter that might be of some interest to you as well."

"You do?"

"You had a visitor. Am-Hazek."

The news jolted Mirk out of the worried thoughts that were quickly overtaking him. "Oh! Monsieur Am-Hazek! Are he and Madame well?"

"He brought some...correspondence," Genesis said, making a dismissive gesture in the direction of the bedroom. "However, he also brought some...news of his kin among the K'maneda. We exchanged words during that...party, you'll recall."

That fact had completely escaped Mirk's mind in the midst of all the chaos that had unfolded between when Laurent had thrown down his gloves and the present. Although Madame Beaumont's ball felt like it had happened months ago, only a little over one had passed. "Oh? Did you?"

"Yes. You...told Am-Hazek of a djinn named Am-Gulat. Who requested to speak with me. Am-Hazek has been...attempting to find a way for this to occur. He believes he has found a way to allow Am-Gulat to...pass an hour outside of the barracks where Ravensdale keeps them, owing to their...shared kinship line. It will only work once. But...I believe it may be useful to all of us."

Mirk's eyes flitted back and forth between Genesis's expressionless face and the arrow he was still turning between his fingers. "You think you can help them? The djinn?"

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

"All the djinn the humans have enslaved," Genesis said, without hesitation. "And all K'maneda who are...worthy of the name."

Electing not to ask Genesis to elaborate on what, exactly, made a K'maneda worthy in his eyes, Mirk nodded. "May I do anything to help?"

Genesis sighed, finally releasing the arrow, allowing the shadows curling about his thin frame to spirit it off to wherever it was in the Abyss that Genesis kept all his most private things. "I am aware of my...deficiency in communicating with others. It is especially acute when dealing with those who have traditions I am...unfamiliar with. I would request your presence when I go speak with him."

"Bien sûr, messire. It won't be a problem."

A deeper frown came onto Genesis's face as he watched the shadows play about his legs, outstretched atop the sullen ottoman. Mirk would have thought that the commander was avoiding looking at him, if he wasn't so familiar with his habits. It rarely occurred to Genesis to look another person in the eyes when speaking to them, save for when he was trying to make sense of their expressions. "Am-Gulat also....mentioned wishing to convey his...gratitude for your aid personally. Thus it would satisfy two matters."

"Did he? I was only doing my work. I would have done the same for anyone."

"I believe that is...exactly the point."

Mirk sighed. "Everything really is a mess, isn't it? I hope this business with the djinn and the arrow don't cause you any more trouble. You were just starting to be well again," he said, making a vague gesture down the length of Genesis's thin frame. Though Mirk couldn't be absolutely certain how Genesis passed his waking hours, it hadn't involved anything too dangerous since the incident with Samael, or so he thought. Genesis hadn't shown up at the infirmary since then, at least. And Mirk thought he looked a little less pinched and drawn, though that also could have been the lingering effects of his long-awaited bath.

"This is...how it is," Genesis said, after a lengthy pause. "This is what I am."

"What you are?"

"I will never be able to...stop. And remain well, as you say it. Some are made to...put together. And others...break apart. Fighting against it will only cause greater harm." Genesis paused again, sending the grimoire he'd been reading back off to its proper shelf with a flick of his hand. Then he exchanged it for another that he called to himself from the pocket of his overcoat hung beside the door. A thin volume bound in blue cloth. Jean-Luc's journal. "Incidentally, I have reviewed the materials you have given me on the...men who were bound rather than killed as retribution. I believe I have found a way for you to…dispel the bindings on them. Though it required further research. As it will require you to...break apart. In a sense."

"You translated more of the journal?"

Genesis nodded, opening the journal and turning past page after page, more than it should have been possible for the book to contain. "I wished to translate it in a more...linear fashion, but the present situation required...searching for the most relevant excerpts. And further...expeditions to the south with K'aekniv's assistance," Genesis added, his frown deepening.

That explained why K'aekniv had been back late several nights during the week he'd passed with him. And why the half-angel hadn't thumped down beside him on those nights with any more injuries than he acquired on a usual day spent ambling about the City rather than out fighting. Mirk looked about the room, at its unadorned shelves and the tidy worktable, his eyes returning to the sullen ottoman only once he'd considered all his other options. "May I sit?" he asked, gesturing at it, unsure of whether he was making the request to Genesis or the ottoman itself.

"Do...as you will," Genesis replied, without looking up.

Mirk sat down on the barest edge of the ottoman, trying to avoid aggravating both it and Genesis by not putting too much weight on the former or drawing too close to the latter's bare feet. How could Genesis stand to go about without any socks or slippers on, even when he covered every other inch of himself with interminable layers? Perhaps it was something cultural. Mirk couldn't see a practical reason for it.

Neither party seemed aggrieved by Mirk’s presence, thankfully. The ottoman due to the proximity of its master, and Genesis because he was already too engrossed by the journal to be paying him much heed. The commander plucked a sheet of mage parchment out from between the journal's rough-cut pages, skimming it before he began to read. "The King and his advisors are quite...upset that the staff is not an instrument of war." Genesis paused, his eyes flicking toward Mirk perched on the far end of the ottoman. "I have been told that...upset is not the proper word. However, I find K'aekniv's...alternative suggestions to be rather too...colorful. And particular to his own native language."

Mirk smiled and shrugged, gesturing at him to continue. "It's fine, messire. Methinks you got the spirit right."

Genesis didn't seem to be comforted by his reassurances, but he began to read again. "The other mages who came at this King's orders were happy to use their staves and swords and butcher's sticks...I believe he is referencing some manner of polearm...nevertheless...to subdue these foreigners from the north. They call great balls of flame and bolts of lightning to kill the mages the foreign king has sent. But I have learned from listening to the lady that this is not the way of her weapon. And it makes the other rich mages moan and roll their eyes. I do not care what they think of me. I can crawl on the ground before them, and I will still be a lucky nobody to them, because I don't speak their church language and their thinking man's language and I won't put on powder and dance in circles throwing sparks like an idiot."

He could tell that Genesis was dissatisfied by his translation of whatever "colorful" words his grandfather had favored. But the subject matter of the passage was calming him some, Mirk thought. Genesis's voice had taken on the evenness and flow that it only ever did when he was reading, his pauses evaporating, replaced with something emotional, though Mirk couldn't pinpoint what that emotion was. It was curious — Mirk had never thought of his grandfather as being particularly rebellious, or ever as an object of scorn from the other nobles. But it was clear that the Jean-Luc Mirk had known was nothing like the Jean-Luc contained within the journal's pages.

"I learned how much the lady hates war for mortal kings when I marched out with them one morning, to keep them from biting my back. I was not going to fight for anyone. I did not care about this king or that other one, none of those foreign mages had done anything to me. But one still came to me and fought me like we were in a bout for the honor of both our homes. I used all the tricks my cousins had taught me in our bouts, but my cousins had no magic. It wasn't enough. I called to the power in the staff to save my life.

“But it nearly cost me it. The earth split and the man was crushed to pulp like wine grapes inside its mouth. And something came out of the staff and crushed me too, chewed me up and put gray in my hair and took all the power out of my arms and legs. I fell asleep, or maybe fell dead, I don't know. But I was back in that place beside the river, by my house. It was only a few stones high, but better than it was.

"I did not see the lady come to me. But I heard her voice, terrible and beautiful. Don't be stupid, she said. This is not my way. This is not my war. If you want to pay this price, you can. But it will cost you your house. I grow. I do not cut down. But growing can also be deadly, if you are smart instead of stupid. If you want to throw stones, you must gather them first before I'll help you hurl them. Learn your lesson, and don't come back here soon. Don't make me regret showing you my mercy.

"Then I was awake again, and there were other mages who spoke with rocks and trees all around me, asking me how I did such a thing. I said it was my secret to keep and that they should be grateful. But I'm telling my secret to you, my son, you who'll build our house back strong. The lady likes clever men more than strong men. And her wrath is worse than that of any king or noble mage."

Genesis fell silent then, contemplative, holding one long finger in among the pages to keep his place as he shut Jean-Luc's journal. While the commander had been reading the passage, Mirk had drawn the staff out of the pocket in his sleeve and held it in his hands, shrunk down to the size of an unassuming wand like it always was when he wasn't leaning on it or drawing on its strength.

The story Genesis had told him made him more reluctant than ever to draw on its power again. Mirk couldn't recall ever hearing anything when he leaned on it. The staff had always seemed oddly silent to him — though he could see it in his mind's eye, its magic golden and hazy, close to the glow that pain-blockers draped over the world, it didn't have a voice, not like every other bit of earth-grown wood did, if he held still and listened close. He must not have done anything foolish enough with it yet to earn a rebuke from whatever power resided within it.

"How can I grow men out of bindings?" Mirk asked Genesis, when the commander seemed disinclined to speak up. "Methinks it doesn't work that way...though, you'd know more than I do..."

"It is not strictly...growing, per se," Genesis said, after turning the matter over in his mind for a minute or two. "Your grandfather has a very...poetic way of putting things. He either was never taught the proper magical terms for things, or...refused to use them. Nevertheless, I believe I may have some idea of where that came from," he said, nodding toward the staff in Mirk's hands.

"You do?"

"It is my...opinion that a...creating mage assisted him when he was ill. The inverse of what I am. A mage that is...more order than anything else."

Mirk was reminded of his own conversation with Am-Hazek then, when the djinn had helped to take the measurements for Mirk's new suit for Madame Beaumont's ball. "Like the Aelina."

Though Genesis frowned at the name, he nodded. "Correct. They are...rarer but more...well-known things. The worst of them tend to think of themselves as something akin to...deities. Much like the one that was...influential on the angelic realm. This one appears to be no different, though...less ambitious."

As he worried at his scabbed-over lip, Mirk rolled the staff forwards and back in his palms. Genesis would know better than him about that kind of magic. But something didn't feel right to him about the commander's evaluation. His grandfather's journal had shown well enough how little Mirk truly knew Jean-Luc. But he had trouble imagining his grandfather deferring to anything short of a saint in the way that he did the lady who'd bestowed the staff on him. Then again, perhaps Jean-Luc simply hadn't had enough of his wits about him every time he encountered her to truly evaluate what he was dealing with. "Will I still be able to help the Montignys with it?"

"It will take some...time to construct a suitable technique. As mine are...the inverse. However, the bindings are one of Imanael's...less complex spells. It is not impossible."

"The Circle is meeting soon. It's less than a week away. I'm lucky I got extra time, since the fire mages wouldn't come until they'd sorted out who'd replace Serge..." A boon delivered to him by a standard runner from the Teleporters Guild rather than Seigneur Herbert d'Aumont's personal djinn, which made Mirk believe the matter was more serious than the letter let on. Appearances were everything to men like Seigneur d'Aumont. And the fact that he couldn't have Er-Izat deliver the news on his behalf either meant that Er-Izat was needed elsewhere, or that Mirk had suddenly become nothing more than an afterthought to the lords and ladies of the Circle. He was hoping it was the former rather than the latter, even though it would have been a relief to be forgotten. Henri and his cousins were depending on him to remake their fortune. And being forgotten would make that task even more impossible.

"I...recall. It will be handled by then. I have...very few other matters to tend to at the moment. I suspect that will remain the case until Ravensdale...elects to call on the Seventh to manage the mage who possessed that arrow."

Mirk sighed. "Will it be bad?"

"No worse...than anything else."

That wasn't a reassuring evaluation, coming from Genesis. Mirk got back to his feet, tucking the staff away up his sleeve and stretching. His back and arms ached from leaning over wounded patients, from letting them lean on him as he walked alongside them down the infirmary's long hallways to keep their blood flowing. "I suppose we both have some work to do before then. I have to find two attendants to come with me. It'd be much easier if I could get Niv and one of the others to come with, but methinks they'd be a little too much for the other nobles. And it'd be wrong to leave Comrade Commander Emir short three healers instead of just one..."

"I do not understand the...necessity of this. Are you expected to be prepared to defend yourself from your...fellow royalists?"

Mirk shrugged. "It's tradition. Maybe that was the point long ago. You'd have to tell me, messire. I can't read grand-père's journal."

"Be...grateful for that," Genesis grumbled, as he banished the journal back to his overcoat with a wave of his hand. "The man is...unduly concerned with...his tomatoes. And cattle. And...worse things."

"It's nice to know that's always been the same," Mirk replied, meeting the commander's frown with a smile. Some of his fondest memories of Jean-Luc had been the time they'd spent in his garden, Jean-Luc having Mirk eavesdrop on the attitude of his beans toward the nearby squash. Despite being an earth mage, his grandfather had never been good at hearing his vegetables' backbiting.

"Am-Hazek has informed me that his plan will come into effect tomorrow evening."

"Then I'd best be off to bed early," Mirk said, shouldering his bag. "Though I'll take a bath first, I suppose. It's only fair, since you're letting me stay."

Genesis called the red grimoire back to himself without looking up at Mirk, opening it to where he'd left off. "You are always...free to do as you will."

"I'm sure I am, messire. But it's better when you're not grumpy. You'll need your rest too."

That got a frown out of Genesis, though he still refused to meet Mirk’s eyes. "I am not...grumpy."

"No? I'll have to remember that the next time you have words to say about my fingernails first thing in the morning," Mirk said, exaggerating the laugh that bubbled out of him to be certain Genesis understood that he was teasing him. The commander waved him off, recrossing his legs and focusing in more intently on his book. Mirk had the feeling that Genesis was bound to be entrenched behind it until midnight at the very least. But he didn't get the impression Genesis was cross with him either — his expression remained neutral behind his book, and not forcibly so. Resigned might have been a better word to describe things.

Mirk took that as his cue to go about his business. He could only assume that partaking of Genesis's charity also meant partaking of standing baths in his odd, enchanted bathroom every night rather than washing the most important parts and leaving the rest for when he felt more ambitious. Not unless he wanted to be subject to the same relentless tidying and badgering that K'aekniv had complained about. All things considered, it was a small price to pay for a good night's rest, safe from the stray emotions of his fellow K'maneda.

He would have to ask Yule for the recipes to his personal arsenal of soaps, mixed to encourage good coloration and softness rather than cleanliness, and to the lotion he insisted on slathering himself with at every opportunity to ward off wrinkles. Mirk didn't share the older healer's opinions on the unsightliness of dry skin and an uneven complexion, but washing so thoroughly and so frequently was bound to leave him itching if he kept using the standard stuff from the Supply Corps. Borrowing Genesis's soap was out of the question; it was far too harsh. He'd used it by mistake to wash his face that morning and his skin had been numb for a good half hour afterwards.

...though it had left the scent of lilies wafting after him all day as well. But it'd be better not to dwell on that sort of nonsense if he could avoid it.