Bel opened his eyes and let the blurry world come into focus, then turned his head and looked around. He was in a tent, some draped cloth over a central pillar that was tied off at several points along the edge. He could smell the sea, still, as well as an open fire and roasting meat.

There was a tingle in his mind, like a weak headache. It was Meph, he knew it. When he focused on the feeling, he could sense the snake in his thoughts. As he did, there was an immediate relief, and the headache subsided and was replaced with contentment. He wanted to call out to the snake and make sure he was OK, but he could feel that he was, and that was going to have to be enough.

He pressed probing fingers into his ribs, testing for tenderness. The wound was closed, the skin rough where it had been sewn, but there were no bandages or other dressings.

A voice spoke from behind him, “Ahh, the champion awakens.”

Bel rolled over and looked towards the voice. It was the old man from the night before—the one that had healed him. Dappled sunlight filtered through the roof of the tent, casting speckled patterns across his face. He stepped closer, his expression calm and unreadable.

He was still dressed in the same way he had been, though now more completely. The robe, or one like it, was covered by deeply dyed sashes, and on his head he wore some kind of turban-like wrap, though open on the top. He carried a leather-bound book with yellowed, timeworn pages. As he looked at Bel, he closed it and set it on a small table.

“Can you speak?” he asked. His voice had a subtle accent, something Eastern European or Northern African.

Bel had always like accents, and typically they were a hit in the kitchen whenever he used one in the heat of a dinner rush, so he’d learned and practiced several in his time in restaurants. Any time he heard one in real life, he always took a moment to appreciate it.

After a moment, he opened his mouth, but his tongue felt like it was glued to his teeth. After some gentle finagling, he worked out, “Thirsty.”

“Ah, yes, I suppose you should be.” The man walked to another table and filled a glass with water from an earthenware pitcher. He walked to Bel and handed it to him.

Bel took the cup and looked at it for a moment, but took a drink. It was room temperature and slightly gritty, likely from the sand that blew across the beach, but it was damned refreshing.

“Thanks.” There wasn’t much more he could think to say.

“Think nothing of it. Water is cheap.”

Bel was puzzled by the man’s words and thought about them for a moment before finishing the man’s thought. “But your services aren’t?”

The man smiled and bowed his head. “If they were my services, I would offer them freely to those in need. However, my life is not my own.”

Bel took another sip of the water. It was becoming less palatable the less thirsty he was. “You work for the others?”

“No.” The man shook his head. “I am owned by the King. I have been contracted through the guild to work with them.”

“Owned? Like a slave?”

“Yes. A slave. Like you, I think.” He pointed to Bel’s left hand and the mark of judgement.

“No, this isn’t—” Bel started, but the man cut him off.

“I know what it is. The others don’t, though I suspect their leader has an idea. It is best for them to believe what they already assume: that it is a slave’s brand.”

Bel didn’t reply, and the man continued. “You’ll have to learn quickly that information is the second most valuable commodity on Eon, and only slightly below Aether. Do not give it away, because in the end, it will be you that pays the price.”

“I see.”

“I hope you do. A secret may not save your life, but spoken to the wrong person and it will certainly take it.”

Bel chuckled. “Any more proverbs?”

“For those that listen, I may provide truths. However, as I have said, my life is not my own. I cannot wax philosophical with you, as much as I think we might enjoy it.”

Bel dropped the subject and moved to pressing matters. “Who are you, and who are they?”

“I am called Yillie Kilijin, though some call me Prior, and the men here refer to me as ‘Scalp’.

“Well, Prior, it seems I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

Yillie smiled. “If only I were in a position to collect.” He lowered his head slightly. “As for the others, they are a group of guild hunters—contracted mercenaries—that go by the name Black Lerabo.”

Bel nodded. “Should I bother learning their names, or are they just going to kill me?”

“They won’t kill you. Quite the contrary. You should already be dead. And I don’t mean the injury you sustained. You are Tier 0, and I’m sorry that I have already given this information to the men, but again…”

“Your life isn’t your own.”

“Just so. When you fought the Behemoth, you stood no chance. It should have easily killed you, but you moved with the speed of someone a tier higher.”

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Bel still wasn’t sure about how the tiers worked, or what they actually measured, but based on the warnings of secrecy Yillie had already given him, he didn’t want to asked questions that may lead to answers he hadn’t given, so he kept quiet.

“I think that it may have something to do with your agile companion, or the ring on your finger, but it is beyond my knowledge, and the less I know about it, the better for you.”

“Thank you.”

Yillie nodded. “The men think that you just got lucky. However, now that you are healed, I believe they will want you to hunt with them. I hope that your luck continues.”

Bel sighed, “Me, too.”

Yillie walked closer and crouched next to Bel. “I must warn you. The leader—the one that gave you the harpoon—he is a Chimeran. His name is Gracious Lust—”

Bel held up a hand. “Gracious Lust?”

“Yes. It is a nom de guerre. I am not sure what his true name is. He is ruthless, though, and will not think twice about killing you for an airy word. There were originally eight members of this group. Mind yourself.”

Bel shook his head. “That seems to be the running theme of the last few days. Everyone is a raging asshole or my literal savior. Nothing in between. I’ll keep my mouth shut. The last time I spoke out of turn, I was given something to remember them by.” He clinched and released the hand with the mark of judgement.

“I hope you learned your lesson.”

Bel smirked. “Probably not.” He thought back to the note left to him by Monica. “Apparently, I don’t do well with criticism.” He winced at the memory. “But, real quick, what did you do to me in the fight? The healing, and then now, with my side.”

“Your wounds were healed with a healing spell after the fight. I dared not interfere more in the conflict than I already had. In the battle, though, I cast a simple spell. Some people call it Warring Dead, or Painkiller, but its original name was Last Breath. It harnesses the adrenaline in your body to block out pain receptors, allowing you to fight despite life-threatening wounds to your last breath.”

“Fuck.”

“It is a heinous spell, and it has been used to terrible ends by many people, and I’m sure you can imagine the value for those with less than pure morals.”

Bel took a moment to run through the scenario, and his stomach turned. “Torture.”

“The worst kind.” He shook his head sadly. “Imagine your body being dismembered while you watch, unable to feel the pain or react to it, but fully experiencing the horror as it happens.”

Bel’s guts knotted tightly. “God-fucking-damnit.”

“The universe is replete with horrors beyond reckoning.”

Bel closed his eyes, but all he could see were the images the spell conjured in his mind.

“It does not do well to dwell on these things, though. We have a saying in my world, ‘The sky is blue.’ It means that no matter what you may face, there is beauty to be seen if you look for it.”

Bel laughed and Yillie looked confused, so he explained. “Sorry, I just keep forgetting you are an alien. You look so human—err, I guess we all look human, but you look like a human from my world. No weird skin, or crazy eyes, or horns, or anything. You’re just an average guy that I could have passed on the street.”

Yillie smiled. “You are Tier 0. Were there other species on your planet?”

Bel shook his head. “No, just us. Well, intelligent species, anyway, though there were questions about some of them.”

“I see. Well then, I hope you can find the beauty in our similarities and differences.”

Bel smiled and gave a brief nod. “I will. I’ve been through a lot in a short time, but I’m still here. My life wasn’t great before, and I can’t say it’s improved, but it’s different, and that’s a lot more than I probably deserve, so I’m going to take advantage of it while I can.” He looked at the old man. “You seem like a good person, Yillie. If you don’t mind me asking, how did you wind up with this group?”

“That is a story I do not have time for, and you wouldn’t want to hear it, anyway.”

“I’m always up for a story.”

Yillie closed his eyes tightly and slowly breathed. “Maybe one day. Not today, though.” He opened his eyes again. “The sky is blue.”

“It is, and thanks to you, I get to see it.”

“My pleasure, but I do not know your name.”

Bel widened his eyes. “Oh! Right! Sorry. I’m Belmont, but my friends call me Bel, and I think you should, too.”

Yillie’s face drained of color, and his eyes widened in abrupt terror. “Belmont?”

Bel pursed his lips. The sudden change was so complete and unprompted that he was immediately concerned. “Yeah… Mich—”

A voice from outside the tent called, “Hey, Scalp. Get out here and patch up Julo. He took a hit while we were hunting.”

There was a moment of silence while Yillie stared at Bel, and the man from outside opened the flap and looked in.

“Scalp!” The man looked at Belmont. “Oh, the slave is awake. I’ll get Gracious. Scalp, get out here and do your fuckin’ job.”

Yillie turned and nodded. As he walked to the flap, he turned back to Belmont, and he could tell that the man wanted to say something, but he couldn’t because of the other man at the flap.

What the hell was that about?

Bel sat in silence, the weight of Yillie's words pressing down on him. The sound of the flap lifting jolted him, and the figure that entered made his pulse quicken.

He was still covered in a hood, but it wasn’t a robe or a cloak. It was like a sleeveless vest that came up and over his head, completely concealing him. Bel looked at his arms. They were covered in fur, red-orange on the outside of his arms, and white on the inside, like a tiger’s pattern, but without the stripes. His torso was partially exposed and scales covered his abdomen. His legs weren’t furry, but scaley, too, though not the same color as his torso. They had the same color pattern as his arms, and that pattern of scales continued on to his long, lizard-like tail. Bel looked at him, and he couldn’t think of another way to describe what he was seeing other than the creature called Gracious Lust seemed to be a patchwork of other creatures. He remembered what Yillie had called him. A Chimeran. Bel felt his blood slow in his veins.

“Ahh, you’re awake.” The man’s voice was a hiss, raspy and forced, as though the act of speaking were a struggle.

Bel swallowed hard and nodded. The man walked towards him, and Bel smelled it again, the same as the night before, that scent of perfumed death, though now in the confines of the tent, it had tenfold strength. He coughed involuntarily.

“Does my scent offend you?”

Oh, fuck me, Bel thought.

“You haven’t met a Chimeran before, then, I assume. Strange, for a slave, as many of my kind are slaves as well.”

Bel couldn’t clear his mind long enough to formulate a sentence. The stench was becoming unbearable.

“We will take a walk. I think you will enjoy the fresh air more.”

Bel felt his eyes watering.

“But first,” Gracious hissed, “I think we should get acquainted.” He reached into a small leather pouch on his hip and pulled something from it. Bel recognized it—his wallet. He flipped it open and removed Bel’s driver’s license.

“Some kind of identification, I presume. Portland, Oregon. I’ve never heard of it. Is it your homeworld?”

Bel couldn’t pull himself together enough to correct him, so he only nodded.

“Michael Belmont Graham.” Each word of Bel’s name was punctuated with an audible sneer. “That is a unique name. I’d never heard it before…” Gracious paused as if for effect. “I’d never heard it before 30 years ago, when King Michael Belmont Graham took the throne.”

Bel fought through the stench, struggling to think of something to say, but beyond the noxious odor, confusion and disbelief were all that he could muster.

Gracious put the ID away and tossed the wallet back to Bel. It landed in his lap and slid down to the floor. Bel didn’t move for it.

Gracious put his hands to the front of his hood and dragged it back, revealing a face half rotted; some animal-like skull partially exposed through blackened, bloated flesh, and two sunken gray eyes.

When he spoke, his bare jaw worked with what muscle tissue remained to hiss mocking words through moldy, yellowed teeth. “Do you have some secrets you’d like to share, your highness?”