Peter itched to help the others load the horse-drawn wagon but couldn't get close without accidentally leeching someone. He tried to find some other way to be useful, but there was none. His jaw clenched tight as he watched uselessly on the sidelines.

The horses had been concealed in a shallow burrow stable, hidden under a tomb.

Morris, Benedict, and Skye left just as the packing started. On Vangraif's command, Nine Fingers' remaining members hiked north towards Julleck.

Commandant Van Graif, Director Van Den Hoek, and Captain Tobias Visser rode horses.

Isabella and Doctor Aarts sat on the front of the wagon, Julian and Van Dijk in the back, and the rest of them marched to the side. The commandant had sent what few soldiers Peter didn't know to escort the survivors West to Macbare. Captain Visser's cell was the most intact, so the commandant elected to use them as his escort.

Peter couldn't be near horses without leeching them, either, so he sulked behind the column by himself. Dr. Aarts and Captain Visser regularly looked back at him, and Peter wished he could say they were making sure he was okay, but the courtling knew they were making sure he didn't run. His temple bulged as Peter kept pace. The long grass by the side of the road kept withering as he got too close. Interesting, that had never happened before.

Though their pace was slow, Peter's mind and heart were not. He twitched and fidgeted as he walked behind the group. He couldn't just do nothing; he had to do something.

"Can we take a rest?" Peter called at length as he saw stone Ataggin ruins peeking from the grass.

"What's wrong?" Commandant Van Graif called from atop his horse.

"I just need some time to heal," Peter lied. "I think that walking is obstructing the process."

Van Graif nodded, and they pulled off the road and into the ruins for concealment. As Peter walked, the grass around him pulled away and decayed. It wasn't the same as a leech flair that affected sentient beings. If anything, it reminded Peter of the curse that had occupied Rahashelian territory; the grass had the same tinge of decay as the rotted effect that infected the buildings and landscape. That hadn’t happened to plants around Peter before.

It's growing more potent, Peter realized. The curse of this band.

Peter didn't feel more in control of the court abilities. In fact, if anything, he felt less in control. More raw and unfocused.

As Peter approached, he studied the ruins, a habit he carried from his past life. The ruins looked like they may have been for some building that Peter could only imagine was immense while it still stood. They didn't often have grandiose buildings in Nosmeria and never tall ones, aside from the Nyamarian estates. These ruins very well could have been a cluster of towers.

Peter sank into the dirt away from the others and hugged his knees to his chest. He had lied; his wounds from the Incentiviser had finally healed. But he couldn't resist the spike of anxiety that ran through his bones and stirred his stomach when he considered removing the Bedorven.

He rocked back and forth, cradled into a ball on his heels. Iris, Julleck: What did he do?

Over the wall, he heard the others chatting. He didn't want to let them down, but ... Iris!

Peter groaned; his mind ran in circles, which wouldn't get them anywhere.

Peter leaned his head against the stone and closed his eyes. His head felt naked without a hat. Iris had it.

The stone wall was thick. In its prime, the building of the Ataggin Empire would have made even Court Rahashel's palace look childish. Peter smiled at that. What would have happened if the courts had come during the Empire? They had the power of Nyamar, stolen unlawfully, but functioning as efficiently as ever. The Ataggin Empire would have quickly crushed Rahashel and assimilated his power. Peter nodded to himself. What a chilling surprise that would have been for the courts. Instead, Rahashel came to a peaceful era of rebuilding, not conquest like the days of old.

Peter slipped out of his thoughts but smiled. Despite the chaos of their journey, and the heavy weight of regret, he could still lose himself in ponderous meditation. It came as a comfort that he could still fade into his own mind. The minutes brought a slight relief to his anxiety.

Isabella laughed with the others, and Peter got up with a sigh. Why did Nyamar have a house and not an empire? The open-walled ruins constricted around him. Peter stalked away from the voices behind the wall and back towards the road.

Again, the grass seemed to shy away from him. Just like people did. Everything and everyone treated him like he was toxic. He looked at the band on his forearm. Though immortal, he was toxic so long as he had the band. They were wise to avoid him.

The sound of a sword ringing from a steel scabbard stopped Peter mid-thought.

Captain Tobias Visser arose from his concealment in the long grass in front of him with the naked officer's sword in hand. "Not another step," he growled. "I thought you might run off."

Peter's face heated up. "You expected me to run?" He asked. "You were waiting?"

"Of course, running is what a selfish child like you might try to do."

Peter bared his teeth. "I've tried, I've really tried to get along with you. I've been kind, and I strive to give you space. But everywhere I turn, I find you in my way." Peter growled. "Pointing, accusing, and assuming. I just went for some fresh air, Captain. Is that too much to ask?" Once he started, words rolled out independently, and his voice took on a new edge.

"You say you need a break to heal, and now you say you need to walk," the captain retorted, his words acerbic and biting. "I don't buy it."

Peter gasped in indignation. "And if I was walking away? If I was going to get Iris? What were you going to do about it? Stab me with your sword? Do you really think you could stop me? You might be a captain, but I'm a god!"

"We were going to stop you."

Peter turned to see Doctor Aarts behind him, holding a funnel cannon pointed at him.

"You brought toys to stop a god?" Peter asked, his lips curled mockingly. "I thought you two were supposed to be the smart ones!" It was the fire talking at this point. There wasn't a single part of Peter that was worried about these two.

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

"If I was running, and I mean if," Peter growled, "I would do it, and there would be nothing you could do to stop me."

The grass around him lost its color, curled up, and died. It started at his feet and slowly extended out in a ring away from him, slowly widening.

"No? But I can."

Peter's wrath dropped to his gut, replaced by icy glass as he heard Julian's voice. He looked to see the domestic looking at him in all earnest. He held the smooth Druk dagger in his hand. Where had he come from?

"Julian …" Peter pleaded. "I wasn't going to, I didn't mean —"

"You called yourself a god, Peter. You've changed; that thing has changed you," Julian said. "I like you, but I don't like this." He gestured, as if to the new Peter.

A horrible thought filled his mind. "You mean — the armband is controlling me?" he gasped. "Influencing my mind?"

"I don't think so," Julian said, holding up a placating hand. But you have been through a lot in a short time; you've been grossly traumatized, and it's left its mark. I could only expect you to change, but remember, the power of a court doesn't belong to you; it belongs to a piece of metal."

The three men's shadows seemed to stretch and reach for Peter. They had him surrounded and stood poised to hurt him.

"Just — I — All of you stay back!" he shouted.

They were supposed to be on his side, but they stood, weapons in hand, ready to end him.

"Give me some space!"

The growing ring of dead grass exploded and rushed out. All three men cried out as the grass under their feet withered and turned black.

Peter panted, and the large circle of dead grass stopped. He looked at the three men who were supposed to be his friends, then turned and marched back towards the ruins.

Peter forced Doctor Aarts to jump out of the way, as he intentionally passed just a little too close. He made his way to a different wall and clawed handfuls of his white hair as he tried to slow his breathing and extinguish the fumes of his rage. The three men didn't openly follow.

Were they even his friends? Why did he owe them any loyalty? Peter was his own man and had his own to care for. The court band belonged to him. Van Gutter died. The Last Nine Fingers operative who had it failed, and Peter was the one who picked it up. It was his, and he was indebted to no one. He had the power of a court, and no one could take it; if they wanted to try and stop him, they were more than welcome to try —

Peter sat up, suddenly alert. Was that … crying? Peter stood.

Yes, coming from behind a crumbled wall, someone was crying. Peter stepped around the wall, and to his surprise, he saw Niels Van Dijk sitting and crying by himself.

Van Dijk sniffed as he looked up at Peter through tear-streaked eyes.

"Oh, sorry," Peter said awkwardly, his problems fleeing from his mind momentarily. He turned to leave.

"Van Seur!" Van Dijk cried in embarrassment, quickly wiping his face.

"Sorry, I'll just go."

"Wait!"

Peter stopped.

"How do you do it?" the private asked

"It?" Peter turned back to Van Dijk.

"You face ghouls so calmly; you run at them, kill them, and … you're just awesome."

Peter was suddenly taken aback. Was Van Dijk being serious? He certainly didn't appear to be joking.

"Van Dijk, I can't die," Peter said. "That is, with the band on, I can't die," he quickly amended. "Makes it a little easier."

Van Dijk shook his head. "I wish I could be like you."

Peter laughed. "Why? So you could be confused, conflicted, and helpless?"

Van Dijk looked down. "Aren't we all?"

Peter shut up. How selfish could he be? He hadn't even considered how any of the others felt for a second. In light of the horrors he practically slept through, they were just trying to survive.

"I can't face them; when they come, I run. Captain Visser …" Van Dijk blinked away tears. “The captain told me how worthless I am."

Peter's face contorted in rage. "Me too. Good at that, isn't he?"

"He's right," Van Dijk said, contrary to Peter's opinion. "I respect Captain Visser more than I respected my father; he has always been my hero, and I continuously let him down. He's right. I'm a coward."

Van Dijk cradled his head in grief, and Peter watched the man in silence. Seconds passed, and Peter looked from the man to the ruins against which he sat.

"It's not your fault, you know," Peter said, and Van Dijk looked at Peter hopefully. "Not all the way, at least. What were you before the courts came?"

"A stable hand,” Van Dijk admitted, a rueful grin on his face.

That surprised Peter, considering Van Dijk's literary preferences. "In your day-to-day life, did you ever fear you would be killed?"

"No."

"We weren't ready for this,” said Peter, realizing anew just how much Rahashel had taken when he fell from the sky “How could we be? You were a stable hand, and I wasn't even out of school. We could have been prepared for this, but we weren't. How were we to know the courts would come? In our optimism and our budding prosperity, we became susceptible. We became dull, like the crop who wear leech rings. We need the will to fight back. We need to be as strong as Ataggin was."

Van Dijk recoiled. "Peter, Ataggin was evil. They were brutal and barbaric."

"Life is brutal and barbaric," Peter gestured to the ruins around them.

Van Dijk raised a hand, shrugged his shoulder, and cocked his head in a gesture that indicated, 'fair point.'

"I'm not saying we need to do things like they did," Peter clarified. "I only said we need to be as strong as they are. The House is very small compared to the Empire, so it takes people like you and organizations like Nine Fingers to heed the call. We must move into an era beyond brutality; we must master war to the point of power to become true competitors to the courts. We need to become threats, but I think that starts by acknowledging that our upbringing was wrong."

"You're one of those Ataggin fanatics, aren't you?"

Peter shook his head. "No, but I believe we can win, and we can do it as men. Do you remember what getting your crop ring cut off was like?"

Van Dijk shuddered. "Shocking, everything coming back all at once."

"Being a crop was like life before the courts. Slow, mundane, out of touch. Getting the ring cut off is like when they came."

"So what's next?"

"The part where we become who we need to be and do what we need to do for victory."

Peter froze, caught in his own hypocrisy. "You're not a stable boy, and I'm not a student." He looked at Van Dijk for a moment. "I'm also not a court. We're both Nine Fingers soldiers."

Peter contemplated the band on his arm. “I don’t think you’re a coward Van Dijk. I’m not going to be one either.”

Peter tugged his Bedorven off. The metal warmed by his skin seemed to sense his intent and widen, making it more accessible. His fingers brushed the familiar glowing engravings, and as the ring passed, his fingers and the hair on his neck stood on edge. He half expected Captain Visser to pop out from behind a wall and shoot him. He was exposed and mortal. A primal instinct screamed at him to put it back on. Not some paranormal compulsion, but a natural drive to survive. He held the band as vulnerable as Van Gutter when he found Peter in the sewer. He recalled Hendrik rushing back into the fight at the estate after burning through all of whatever fuel domestics used to power their boons. Peter envisioned Norah rushing to protect an immortal man from a dangerous ghoul. These people were strong and ready to lay it all down, making Peter believe they could meet the courts as mortals. The tenacious soul of man and their ability to see things beyond themselves.

Peter could do that, too, right? The band slipped from his fingers and landed with a mundane thud on the dirt. He forced himself to step away from it, knowing he might find himself putting it back on if he didn't give himself some space.

He looked away from the band, his hands balled into fists. He knew he might not put it down again if he picked it back up.

The motion of Van Dijk standing pulled Peter from his internal toil.

The private looked at Peter and then down at the Bedorven, free for the taking. Peter recognized the desire written across Van Dijk's face as he stepped up to it, stooped, and picked it up.

Peter probably should have rushed and knocked the cursed court object from the private's hands, but he knew with a certainty that Van Dijk would make a better court than him.

The court glyphs' reflection shimmered in Van Dijk's eyes, but then he looked up and crossed back over to Peter.

"Van Seur," Van Dijk proffered the Bedorven back to Peter and put a hand on his shoulder. Peter had somehow forgotten how a human's touch felt in the few days he was a court. "Give it back to the commandant."

Peter didn't trust himself enough to take it back, but Van Dijk pressed it into his hands. "I'll go with you."

Peter relented and accepted the Bedorven, and the two soldiers went toward the rest of the group.

"I'm sorry, Iris," Peter whispered, his voice quivering and his eyes blurred.