Peter stepped back, buffeted by the wind of an unexpected reality. Gravity’s weight seemed to double. His brow knit in confusion, and he examined the back of his liver-spotted hand. Norah was wrong. Only six months? That didn’t make any sense.

“What?” Peter asked in disbelief. “No, that’s … that’s not possible. I’ve spent my entire life in Stalpia. I’ve grown old there.”

Norah's eyes softened, and she tilted her head. "Van Seur, how much can you remember as a crop? Do you recall any details? Can you describe the time you were there?"

Peter shook his head. This was unfeasible; how could Court Rahashel’s arrival have been so recent? "Not much. Everything was a blur."

"So, can you honestly say you were there for decades?" Norah asked, her dark eyes serious, her voice low. It was as if she’d had this conversation many times before.

"I …" Peter couldn't recall the amount of time that passed. "But all the rot; my age. I'm ancient!"

"I don't fully understand it, but the rings the crops wear are slow-leech rings. They've been draining you of your youth. They made you age decades in months. By our reports, they also distort the wearer's perception of time."

"My youth? But why?" Peter asked.

"What do you think are in the tiles we plan to steal?" Norah asked. "The tiles are like gas canisters but store time, or potential time. Your time. The time they sucked out of the crop. The dead are fueled with the time of the living."

The air suddenly thickened. Peter reached back, grabbed tight handfuls of white hair, and slowly began to sway back and forth. She was right. His hair just barely reached his shoulders. It should have been much longer if he hadn't cut it in decades.

Norah looked at him sympathetically, but her sympathy couldn't recall or remedy the truth. Peter's hands trembled as he filled in the empty spaces.

If Court Rahashel managed to conquer Calacray and kill another court in less than a year, he would be much more capable than Peter was first led to believe. That meant that stopping him now carried much more weight. If he turned on the rest of Nosmeria, it would be a matter of effort, not time.

Peter's hands balled into fists. Peter didn't consider himself especially attached to tangible objects, but his time? Peter ground his teeth. He had been violated. Rahashel had stolen his life. Then, an unsettled chill fell on him. If Peter had aged over fifty years in six months, Iris didn't have years or even months left. After Peter's accidental leeching, she was looking at days to live.

"This is bad," Peter muttered. "So very bad!" Was the tomb shrinking? How could he feel so confined in such an open area?

"Not many have hope," Norah agreed. “Nine Fingers is small. Few are willing to fight; many even surrender themselves to be leeched willingly, hoping to end the nightmare.”

"We need to hit the vault now," Peter said, his mind filled with thoughts of Iris. He couldn't bear to see her hurt, not again. In their childhood, fear had held him back, paralyzing him and preventing him from acting. Now, it was bureaucracy and administration. Why was he always so helpless?

"The plan has been in the works for a long time, Van Suer," Norah assured him. "An operation requires planning, timing, set up, and extraction, and many other logistic elements. You don't have long to train. We need you in the field now. We could have used you six months ago."

"Norah, if time can be leeched, can it be taken back?" Peter asked. Rahashel had stolen his time. The loss was palpable, like a heavy weight in the pit of his stomach. He felt sick. This was significantly worse than losing the coat his mother had given him for his birthday.

"Doctor Aarts thinks so, but …"

"You don't know?" Peter guessed.

"We don't know."

"You're gambling a lot. You can't wage a war on such little data!" Peter said pointedly.

"There's no need to be aggressive with me," Norah looked up at him sternly. "We try our best."

"Do you?" Peter asked. "All this …" he motioned his hands to the weapons on the wall. "Shoot them with a cannon? Run? Hide? How do you even know what you know?"

"Well, Doctor Aarts —"

"Yes. Doctor Aarts. I met him once, you know," Peter said, shuddering at the memory of being shot only minutes before. "One man who has spent the last six months studying them. Is that all you have?"

"Yes," Norah said.

"We're doomed," Peter said quietly, as realization sank in fully. "An undead god crushes one nation and cripples another in months, and a scattered undermanned group of renegades thinks they can bring him down on the strength of little to no data."

"At least we try!" Norah snapped. “Julleck, Macbare, Astria, Vorsabia … All the city magistrates do is hide behind walls and pretend the end isn't coming. We fight because no one else will. So don't belittle us for our hope. It's all that keeps us going."

"Oh," Peter said, feeling horrible for accidentally giving offense. "That came out wrong. I'm sorry. What I meant was we need to be much more confrontational and smart."

"Peter, we have lost almost all of our operatives. We have been confrontational."

"But now we have this," Peter said, tapping the armlet through his coat sleeve. The fabric of both his shirt and coat completely blocked the violet luminescent glyphs. "We need to keep it in use where it counts most."

"Right. We have picked off several high-profile liches and saved hundreds of crops," Norah said. “Do you really think you have a chance against Court Rahashel now, totally unprepared?"

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"Goodness, no," Peter said. “Your hit on the time vault is brilliant. But why on earth haven't you raided the library?"

"The … library?" Norah asked.

"Every time Court Rahashel appoints a new overseer, they study and are trained in the library. They have books there, Court books. I have no idea what might be on them, but I have heard overseers mention records."

"How is it you didn't even notice that only a short time had passed, but you remember these other details?"

Peter shrugged. "General things are fuzzy, but some details slipped through the haze."

"That's convenient," Norah said doubtfully.

"It—It is," Peter agreed, suddenly puzzled. In his damaged memories, he could see the library clearly.

"Van Seur?"

For a moment, another clear image of a tome with a title of glowing purple glyphs sitting on a pedestal inside the library danced in his mind. The library's interior was unrecognizable from when Peter had gone as a student. The shelves and interior had been changed and reorganized. Curious, Peter had never entered the library as a crop. He had no point of origin for the memory. He could have sworn the Bedorven vibrated almost imperceptibly on his arm for a moment.

"I think we need something in the library," Peter said.

"What?" Norah asked.

Peter felt the icy chill of certainty snake down his spine. "I'm not sure, but it's important."

Norah studied him suspiciously for a moment. "Van Seur, if that band is exerting any undue influence over your will, you must tell me."

"What?" Peter said in surprise, not having considered the possibility. If a leech ring could affect his mind, why not a court Bedorven? But this felt different. "No, I don't think — ”

"Good," Norah cut in. "Because your plans and ideas are irrelevant. You belong to Nine Fingers. You will execute directives and comply with orders. You will not decide for yourself what's important."

"Yes, okay," Peter raised his hands defensively.

"If that thing steers you into an enemy position and falls into enemy hands, everyone would be at risk. We would have to face two courts instead of one."

"Yes, ma'am," Peter said, taking a step back. Norah had stepped dangerously close to the edge of his six-foot leech radius, and the air between them was beginning to ripple ever so slightly, like a wave off the dirt on a hot day. She wasn't close enough to see purple light, but Peter knew he was siphoning fumes of her time.

"We've wasted time we don't have. My mission is to get you as trained as I can."

Peter stepped back again.The air cleared. The shimmer disappeared. "You're right, of course," Peter said. I promise I'll focus on my training."

Norah relaxed. "Very good."

"So what will it be? My training, I mean?"

"You're going to run," Norah said. "Laps around the tomb."

"Seriously?" Peter asked, as all his expectations were instantly crushed.

"Yes. According to Captain Visser, you don't seem to have any physical enhancements — aside from the fact that you can't be killed. So we need to work on your conditioning. Getting up to your targets is necessary, and being able to retreat when called out is especially important for you."

"But …" Peter started.

"Run!"

The tiny trainer stood firm.

Peter didn't hesitate. He ran.

Peter never liked running. Ever. It made his lungs feel like acid and fire, left him winded, and only reminded him of how unathletic he was. He had even tried several times to work past that stage. Everyone told him that if he did it enough, the burning lungs and the aching side wouldn't come, but he never got past that point.

Ten steps in, he felt an ache gnawing at his side. He quickly grew irritated. He really hated running.

"Faster!" Norah barked; unlike her body, her high voice was big but somehow also small as it didn't carry far.

Peter growled in annoyance. He made his first lap, gasping for air. He couldn't keep this up for long.

"More effort!" Norah cried, and Peter growled as he settled into a casual jog. Through ragged breaths, he gasped.

"Come on! Feral ghouls will have you in seconds."

Peter stopped and doubled over, hands on his knees. “I … can’t … just … will … myself … on …” He gasped.

Norah frowned, disappointed. "Maybe we can motivate you."

"With what?" Peter panted. "A drink? Do you have water?"

Norah crossed the wall and drew a pistol from a rack. "You wanted the carrot? I was thinking more along the lines of the stick.” Her pinprick eyes gleamed in the gaslight. She cursed softly. “Oh, my poor floor."

Peter ran despite his ragged breath. As bad as burning lunges and an aching side were. Bullets felt much worse. He confirmed that when Norah shot him in the shoulder for falling behind pace. Peter screamed and fell down, but his shoulder wound was gone in moments. He felt the ice-cold slug lodged in his flesh. The foreign entity sealed in his body made him feel woozy.

"I didn't say you could stop!" Norah barked.

Peter got up and threw up.

"My floor!" she lamented as she reloaded the weapon. "You're cleaning it all up, you little lich!"

Peter ran, wishing that, with every step, he hadn't been born.

With a shriek of rapidly decompressed gas, she shot him in the hand. Peter cried out and waited the agonizing moments until it returned to normal. Peter felt phlegm build up in his throat and sucked air into his lungs like a clogged snorkel. He hacked up mucus, then spat it on the ground and was shot for it. He didn't even slow down that time!

"My floor! Van Seur, I swear …"

Peter ran his old body threatening to give out, he just couldn't keep pace anymore. What was worse, the bullet lodged in his shoulder grated uncomfortably against bone.

He slowed down, and Norah shot him in the back. He went down and choked for a second and then died.

He sat up.

"I didn't say stop!"

Peter got up and sprinted. His lungs didn't burn, and the bullet was gone from his shoulder. It had burned away the moment he died. He sped around the tomb one full time before his lungs started to burn. He got around five more times without getting shot despite the burn in his lungs when an idea dawned on him. He stopped and pulled another pistol from the wall.

"Van Seur! What do you think you're doing?" Norah asked. Her hands tensed on her pistol. This time, her voice was filled with fear, as though she thought he might turn on her for some payback.

Peter didn't know how to operate the weapon, but he guessed from the weight it was loaded.

"Van Seur? Van Seur!"

Peter bit his lip painfully, then said a word his mother would have been disappointed to hear. He pushed the pistol against his temple and fired.

His death was relatively painless as it was instant. He managed to catch himself before hitting the ground, then ran. As he had suspected, his lungs no longer burned! It was as though he were starting fresh. The instant kill shot had healed everything, including his exhausted lungs and aching legs.

He cackled with deranged satisfaction as he made it around the long tomb twice before getting winded. His old body ached and groaned less, and his energy dropped a little slower.

He stopped a safe distance from Norah and glared at her through triumphant eyes.

"What are you doing?" she demanded.

Peter felt sick as he hoisted the pistol. "This is my recovery!" He explained. He then realized he gripped the weapon in an iron grip and had to force himself to relax. He may have been immortal, but his mind and body were not okay with what he had just done.

"What?" Norah asked, shaking her head in bewilderment.

Peter ground his teeth and took a deep breath before explaining. "If I'm seriously harmed, my wounds instantly recover, but fatigue stays."

"Unfortunately, we don't have much time to rest," Norah said.

"We won't need it," Peter continued. "If I die, everything heals, even bullets seem to burn out of me. My energy seems to restore itself."

"That violates so many scientific laws," Norah said as she subtly shied away from Peter.

"How long does it take to build a fighting physique?" Peter asked.

"It depends on your body. It takes years for some." Norah said, "Longer still if you're older."

"Not anymore," Peter said, though his hand trembled as he contemplated the implication. "I recover instantly if I die. I need you to show me how to load this."

Norah glanced at the pistol and then winced as she caught on. "My poor floor …"