Chapter 39: STAR

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“I’m going to name you Usain. See what I did there? Usain Bolt… thunderbolt… and you’re a thunderhorn?”

It snorted and kept chewing grass.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so. But it’ll grow on you, I promise. Wait until you meet Kitty. You’re gonna love each other.”

I lingered at the forest's edge, the fishing village just within sight, its inhabitants moving about their evening routines. The sun had already begun to set, creating a silhouette of the broken, rickety windmill above the horizon of treetops. I stayed hidden among the trees, choosing to watch rather than enter—even at this distance, everything smelled like fish.

“Alright, Usain, let’s see if this works.”

I extended the familiar ring I bought from the merchant in Raishoto. Usain disappeared into it with a soft, light shimmer. The ring vibrated with energy on my finger, reassuring Usain was stored away and safe.

I found a spot and settled in for the night, gazing at the stars.

* * *

Something told me to blink into the Jingozi arena. I’d never fully appreciated the spectacle of the arena sky, yet here I was, admiring the view. It was nice to come here to relax for a change. Straight above, I found the brightest star—the North Star.

“How does the North Star work here?” I asked the voice.

“It marks your entry point where you left your physical form so you can return.”

“Sure, but why stars? Why not an X on the floor? A mini-map, even.”

“You’d be amazed at the knowledge in those stars. The stars share a language—a star song in every world.”

“So, it’s the same stars everywhere?”

“Not exactly, no. But stars tell stories, all connected if you take the time to look. Stories are made up of words. and we live in those words.”

“You mean we live with those words? Like we live with our stories?”

“No, Ember. We live in our words. That’s where your power comes from. The Jingozi understand this, and that’s why they’re afraid.”

“I don’t get it.”

“You must.”

“Can’t you just explain it to me?”

“It doesn’t work that way. I don’t work that way. Just know that the words you use here and those you use with the Jingozi matter. They have the power to create and destroy.”

“Oh,” I took a few more moments to gather my thoughts. I’d lose myself and the mission if I stewed on this any longer. So, I’d have to settle for this to be one of those “to be continued” conversations. Yet something in me stirred.

“I’m going to the Emperor.”

“I see that.”

“I’m scared.”

“I know, Ember.”

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re courageous—just stay focused on your North Star.”

* * *

I must have dozed off. The morning light filtered through the branches, and the village buzzed with activity. Shouts and cheers broke the morning calm. I sat up, peering through the trees to see what the commotion was about.

A crowd gathered at the edge of the village, their excitement palpable. Jon Deerfoot strode into the village with the usual smug grin. The villagers flocked to him as he handed out coins like a hero throwing a parade. Dorian and Sentinax remained up the road, scanning the crowd from afar.

“Lord Jon! Lord Jon!” the village cheered.

I pulled my hood down and blinked behind a building past the crowd. Slipping through the gaps between villagers, I found a spot in Jon’s view. When he spotted me, he motioned to a nearby shack.

The shack was small and sparsely furnished, with the smell of dried herbs and smoke from a small fire burning in the corner. Jon pressed a coin into a fisherman's hand, who stood with his wife and child. He gave another coin to the child and tousled the boy’s hair. They left the shack, closing the door behind them.

“You’ll wait here,” Jon said. “This village is a usual stop for a prisoner caravan. It shouldn’t be long now.”

“Are you a local celebrity or something?” I asked.

“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?” He gave me his signature smirk.

I rolled my eyes as usual.

* * *

After a full day, there was no prisoner caravan.

“Don’t fret, my dear. It will be here,” Jon said.

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I played with my fish stew.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he pulled up a chair. “You had a contract to end my life. Was that true or a ploy to scare me?”

“It’s true. Valen says hello.”

“You did say contract, correct?”

“Yes.”

“A Jingozi contract?”

“I think so.”

“Ember,” he sighed. “What did you do?”

“What do you mean? People break contracts all the time. It’s not like I wrote it in blood.”

“It might as well have been. When you break a Jingozi contract, it reverses onto you.”

“Meaning?”

“You become the target, and the contract can be sold to another Jingozi apprentice or higher tier. They can track you using the scroll and claim the bounty.”

“Valen didn’t mention that.”

“Of course, he didn’t,” Jon shook his head. “My stepbrother is a snake.”

“Whatever. I’ve got bigger problems right now, Jon.”

“Well then, love,” he said, peering out the window. “They’re about to get bigger. It’s here, let’s get ready.”

Pulling my cloak tighter around me, I stood up and tossed my leftover soup into the fire. I think I’m done with fish. The sounds of hooves and wheels rumbling into the village grew louder.

“We need to make this look convincing,” Jon said, passing me a bundle. “All your weapons, please, and put this on.”

I unbuckled Cragmarr’s card belt and placed it in his hand.

“Turn around,” I said, sizing up the dusty tunic he wanted me to wear.

“That’s not fair,” he said. “You’ve seen me—"

“Just do it, Jon.”

He sighed and faced the wall. I changed outfits and stored the Ninja kimono and the rest of my gear in my inventory.

“Okay, done,” I put my cloak back on.

“Follow my lead,” he turned back to me, holding a thick rope. After binding my wrists, we stepped into the street. Dorian and Sentinax stood in the street. Jon signaled for them to step aside.

The wagon was parked near the well, where two guards in chainmail watered horses and gathered supplies. Their uniforms were dirty, and their expressions were apathetic, uninterested in anything other than their routine. Jon approached, tugging the rope to have me follow.

“I have a prisoner that needs transport,” Jon said, his voice smooth and casual.

The nearest guard, a stocky and ugly man, didn’t even look up.

“The wagon’s full,” he grunted, dismissing Jon with a wave.

Jon reached into his pocket and pulled out two Jingozi tokens, holding them up just enough for the guards to see. Their eyes snapped to attention, and they pocketed the tokens without a word.

One of the guards glanced back at the wagon, nodding to his partner. They both turned and yanked open the door to the cart. The first prisoner was a filthy, frail old man inside, wearing a burlap prison uniform. The guard closest to him pulled out a knife and slit the old man’s throat.

Bile rose in my throat as the old man’s lifeless body was unceremoniously dumped onto a pile of nets. The guards turned back to Jon, nodding in approval as they wiped the blood from their hands. Village onlookers didn’t make a single sound.

“Come on,” one motioned for me.

I was shoved into the wagon, the door slamming behind me with a metallic clang. The interior was dark, boxed in on all sides except for a few narrow slits. But the stench—sweat, filth, despair—was so thick I felt nauseous.

Eleven other prisoners, covered in grimy tatters, slumped against the wooden walls. I could only assume how long and grueling a journey they endured. I avoided their gazes. Through the slits, I could hear the conversations outside, muffled but clear enough.

“I’ll join you,” Jon said. “I must say, it’s been a while since I rode. We can take shifts.”

There was no reply except the creak of the wagon as we set off, the wheels grinding against the dirt road.

* * *

The ride in the back of the wagon was rough. Every bump and jolt sent shudders through the cramped, dark space, and the oppressive heat made breathing a challenge.

It didn’t take long to realize my wagon mates weren’t hardened criminals. They were regular folks—shopkeepers, farmers, and tradesmen—locked up for petty offenses that barely deserved a slap on the wrist.

Agnes, a gray-haired woman with a kind face and weathered hands, told me she’d been locked up for stealing a loaf of bread to feed her grandchildren. Then, there was Finn, a skinny young man with a quick smile, who’d been caught fishing without a permit. And Garret, a burly blacksmith whose only crime had been defending his neighbor in a brawl.

Their resentment and fear faded as they spoke. They’d been mistreated, beaten, and starved, their spirits almost broken—almost. Despite everything, they still smiled, joked, and welcomed me into their little circle.

“You don’t belong here,” Agnes said. “You’re not like us.”

“Maybe not, but I’m here now.” I met her gaze in the dim light.

Over the next few days, I practiced my healing. I mended broken bones, treated infections, and took care of some nasty gashes on Garrett’s back. Each time, they looked at me with awe, their gratitude clear in their eyes.

“Thank you,” Finn whispered.

“Just promise me one thing,” I said. “Don’t say a word to the guards or even that elf out there. This stays between us.”

They all agreed, their expressions solemn.

Occasionally, rotten vegetables were tossed into the wagon. The others scrambled to gather what little they could stomach. I handed out rations instead. Jon passed waterskins through the window slits when he could. And I discovered the metal flasks looted from the Amazons were filled with mead—a surprise for everyone. It wasn’t much, but enough to keep their strength up for a bit of hope.

As the days passed, the wagon rattled along. I taught them the meditation I’d learned at Thunder Temple. By the time we reached our destination, the change in the prisoners was undeniable.

When the wagon door swung open, the guards were stunned. They expected to find a group of sickly, half-dead prisoners, barely able to stand. Instead, they were met with rejuvenated faces. The guards exchanged confused glances, unsure of what to make of it.

Jon gave me an inquiring look. But he didn’t say a word, and neither did I.

“What’s this?” the guard snarled. “You lot are supposed to be the walking dead. Not looking like you just came from the pub!”

He marched over to Agnes.

“Think you’re better than us, old woman?” he spat, raising his baton. “Let’s see how you handle this!” The baton fell hard on Agnes’s back. She crumpled to the ground with a cry of pain.

Without thinking, my foot connected with the guard’s groin. He doubled over with a grunt, his baton clattering to the ground. I slipped behind him, using the ropes around my wrists to choke him, planting my knee in his back.

The other guard drew his sword, unsure of what to do. Jon intervened, standing between us.

“I think he’s had enough, my dear... please let him go.” He turned to the armed guard. “And you, stand down. That will not be necessary.”

I loosened my grip on the guard, shoving him away. He rolled forward, coughing and gasping, his face red with humiliation. But he wasn’t done.

“She’s a bloody prisoner,” he said. “She should be put in her place.”

“I said, stand down,” Jon said. “I can always drag you in front of Overlord Edric, and you can explain how you let a girl best you. Now, escort the group to the holding pen.”

They exchanged a stubborn look but complied. Still struggling to breathe, the guard gave me one last hateful glare before returning Agnes to her feet. I moved to help her, but Jon shook his head.

We were ushered to a large holding pen, a crude enclosure surrounded by tall wooden spikes. Other prisoners milled about inside. We were herded through the gate like cattle. I gave Agnes, Finn, and Garret a final smile of encouragement.

Jon stepped in as a guard reached for my ropes.

“Not this one, my friend,” he said. “This poor soul is due for an audience with the Emperor Overlord himself.”

* * *

I sat in a holding cell, waiting for the inevitable summons. A rat skittered across the floor. Compared to the Samurai prisons, this place was disgusting.

The door opened, and Jon appeared, his expression neutral. He turned to shake hands with a guard in the hall, no doubt palming him a coin, and closed the door.

“Nice place,” he said. “Could use some art to liven it up.”

“Oh, I’m fine, Jon. Thanks for asking.”

“My sincerest apologies, my lady,” he said with a curt bow. “Please forgive my lack of etiquette.”

“Jon, I need a favor.”

His eyebrow arched.

“There’s an old man in the dungeon,” I said. “Well, at least there should be unless he’s dead. He looks like a Samurai, but there’s something unique about him. His eyes—they’re different. I need to know if he’s there.”

“What are you not telling me?”

“I just need to know. But I don’t know why, exactly. Please, Jon.”

“Alright, Ember, I’ll see what can be done.”