KAL SORVENN

Kal was having a wonderful day after the cultivators left. He could breathe again, but there was another problem.

Pria Summerborn, his servant, was silent. She was quiet when she walked, and she never spoke a word too much. He didn’t know how to walk around her, and quite frankly, that unnerved him. She had known Lahrs Sarnasia for two weeks, but here he might be acting like a different man, and she didn’t raise a voice concerning it.

He was lounging in the parlor, near the hearth, when he glanced at her with the intent of inviting her for tea. “You must be cold,” he told her, gesturing over to the couch.

She looked at him, blinked, and bowed. He expected her to take his invitation, but nothing came.

“You’re not much for words,” he observed.

Another nod.

“I admit I much prefer that than our visitors yesterday,” he said. “You told me they were only looking for a reason to duel with me. Was there no way out?”

This time, she answered. “Cultivators always get what they want.”

“What about what I want? Forget it. I talk like a child. Comfort yourself by the fire, Lady Pria. Preferably with a blanket and hot tea. Sickness will catch up to you.”

“I am fine, young master.”

“You’ve brewed tea for me several times, but I’ve yet to see you drink your own. Sit.”

She didn’t move from her spot. Then, “Is that an order?”

He pursed his lips. “It’s an invitation,” he said softly.

She politely refused.

The next day, when the sun hit the early afternoon, Kal carried a plate of roasted chicken, broth, bread, and vegetable soup. He wouldn’t give up that easily. He knocked at her door.

When she opened her door, he brought the food closer to her. But Pria Summerborn was ever too diligent. She gestured at the food she was eating at her table, gave him a polite thank you and slid the door shut.

He was about to leave when he heard a creaking of wood. He grinned. “I was hoping you changed your mind.”

“The chicken,” she said. “Is it cooked near the bones?”

He pried it open. Blood greedily pooled at the crevice.

Two days had passed since the cultivators left. His palm healed rather quickly. Was this because he was a cultivator? Or was it related to his soul? He didn’t know.

Sometimes, Pria Summerborn would go outside carrying a longbow, blunted arrows, and loose it on a tree each marked a significant distance away from each other.

She reminded him of his brother.

He cautiously walked over to her with a short bow of his own. She glanced at him then returned to her practice. A nock, then loose. She sighed.

“How well can you hit that?” He pointed at the farthest tree in the distance.

She nocked her bow, slowly, aligning her bow to the target, and loosed. It struck true to the center of the tree.

Kal mimicked her. He missed by a fraction, sliding across the barks.

“You’d kill a stag through the heart, I see. But only if it’s a corpse. What about a dancing target?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, wooden mannequin resembling a crude, four-legged animal. He sent it waddling to the distance.

“What about it?” She asked mockingly. She sent an arrow hitting it on the head.

“Faster.” He made it gallop from one end to the other in the same distance as the furthest tree.

She hit it seconds later. Now she was glancing at him. He created a set of commands that made his aspect zigzag through the trees in a complex patterns, looping around trees and stopping.

Pria took her shot—and missed. That seemed to surprise her than it did me. “Command it to run again,” she said. He did. This time, she swapped her bow to her right hand. Her left would pull the bowstring. “I’m left-handed.”

She hit the target before it could even make a loop. When Pria glanced at him, she didn’t smile, but he could see a proud glint in her eyes and a challenging one.

He distanced the creature farther, and it looked almost like a dot through the bushes. “I was ten when my father first carved a bow for me. I rarely miss.”

She hit the target again.

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“I’m curious as to how you’ll hit it with a galloping horse,” he said.

She seemed to brighten at the idea. “I was too. But a horse is a summer’s season away. Up here, they’re worth their weight in silvers.” Then, after a pause, “The two cultivators, were they strong?”

“Strong? I doubt it. I very much doubt it. They were children who learned how to swing a sword and thought themselves kings in their kingdom.” He thought for a moment. “Yet when we fought, they truly were. But strong? Not even if they slice my head off my neck. I’ll be more cautious of a man who wields a book than a sword.”

“I beg to differ. You’ll appreciate a book less if they stick an iron through your stomach. Especially if the man has the childish notion of bleeding someone if they were ever offended at the slightest.

“It’s not the sword that moves armies.”

“The emperor points his sword, the generals nod and in turn point their swords to the book-men, who scribbles obediently.

He scoffed. He looped his aspect in the distance with random patterns and erratic stops. But she would hit it, he knew. “You’re a good shot,” he said. “You can be better.”

“How?”

“My cultivation can be trained.” She missed the target. “We ought to start writing how much you’ve hit the target and missed.”

“Don’t talk about that again,” she said in a low voice. “I won’t stoop to being so low as to be a cultivator.”

This isn’t cultivation, he wanted to say.

“What are you after?” She asked. “You don’t need to befriend a servant, young master. Or did you want to take me to bed?”

“No!” Then, he added quickly, “That was never my intention.”

“Yes, and buying a female slave accounts for a slip of a tongue. An unforeseen accident?”

He stopped himself before he could speak. A female slave? He connected the dots, then—the merchandise! And he’d already agreed to buy it. Was this vessel planning to build his own little harem?

“Did I—um,”—he stuttered—“Have I ever told you the slave was um. Female?” If it was a man, he could put him to work, but then again, that was never going to work out with this person, was it?

Her eyes widened. It only took him a second later to realize what he’d just uttered. “Wait—no. Don’t harbor any of those ludicrous thoughts—“

She bowed. “I am not one to judge, young master. You’re right. This conversation is not for mortals to intervene. I’ll take my leave.”

“It’s all a misunderstanding,” he wanted to say, but it came out as a whisper.

Fuck.

Having unsolved that misunderstanding, Kal tried as best as he could to put it off his mind. He wouldn’t be able to go back on his word right after what he said.

It wasn’t long before he heard a knock on the front door.

And beyond that door was a fat, tall man named Murinn Unnatse, the servant had told him when he asked. Accompanied behind him were the two cultivators who waited outside. Lim Fortson, who remained back, smiled at him.

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PRIA SUMMERBORN

She could still feel the lingering pain of when the cultivator Lim Fortson grabbed her by the neck after that spar. Perhaps an indirect insult regarding poor mind was enough to snap him back. The young master had already gone inside, and this cultivator towered over her.

“I can snap your little neck in half like I would a twig.”

“I imagine you find sparring with a twig to be just as satisfying as breaking as girl’s neck,” she said. He tightened her grip, and she gasped.

Idiot, she told herself. Your words will be the death of you. But she couldn’t stop. “You act like a child, ought I treat you like one? Coddle you with sweet words and sing you a song before I tuck you back to sleep.”

“I will not be insulted by a mortal. Remember this—our transaction is the only division between my hand and your neck. I know where you live.”

“What gave it away?” She sneered.

He tightened, and she started clawing at his hand. “You talk too much.” His brother watched dully.

She flailed her legs, kicking at him, trying to push him away, until he let go, and she collapsed on the ground coughing and wheezing. “Cultivators,” she rasped. “And children. I fail to see the difference.”

“This senior cultivator will be delighted to teach you what separates us. Do wait for it, mortal.”

The merchant Murinn Kunnatse brought them with him, though they remained outside. Pria stood next to the exit, awaiting any sort of command. She listened to them passively.

The merchant was animated. “…and come every morning, I thank the heavens we have cultivators. They are our saving grace.”

“Are you religious, merchant Murinn? Do have some tea.”

“Just Murinn, please, honored cultivator,” he said. “I’m afraid here in the north is where religious folks dump the bodies of dead men on the side of the road. They are not keen on offering an honest prayer.” He pulled out a small symbolized talisman from his jacket. “Though I keep a god near my heart in case someone saw it fit to make my chest a worthy target.”

“We make practical use of any objects if we must,” the young master said. “I see even gods can’t remain in heaven.”

“And I am rewarded for my worship,” the merchant gestured at his expensive fur coat of some sort. “Ah, honored cultivator. We will have a bountiful relationship, I’m certain of it. You are a man of wisdom.”

The merchant was as subtle as a mud-splattered hound eating the bone scraps of a cultivator. He was sucking up to you, she wanted to say. But she held it in. The young master wasn’t taking the bait. Though in the end, this conversation was a dull affair. The merchant was dragging it out.

Pria stood there for a lengthy pause, then she promptly excused herself. The merchant had brought with him two crates—perhaps containing some pottery or glass objects, but why? That seemed entirely unnecessary. He was a merchant, but it felt as though he was forcing it. The topic of the merchandise never came up.

If she was a cultivator, standing guard outside, what would she do? What would likely happen if the cultivator had told the merchant about the young master’s “martial art”? She had never seen anything like it, and she was well traveled before ending up here.

She glanced outside the gate. The carriage was painted in a deep red, and the slave was hidden behind black curtains. The two cultivators weren’t there.

Pria smiled, taking careful steps along the hallway. The study? Too obvious. The young master’s bedroom was more likely.

She stopped by the door and listened. Their footsteps weren’t quiet, not for a hunter.

They must be looking for anything they could get their hands on these unknown martial arts of the Sarnasia.

She slid open the door.

There was no one here. But the footsteps were visible through moisture. They weren’t wearing sandals, no, that would be too loud. The window was open. And from the corner of her eye—sandal marks.

The bed was slightly out of order, which she never failed to clean. They were here. She looked around and spotted it-the wardrobe?

Pria was humming. She fixed the bed, stared at the wardrobe, and locked it at the top with an iron hook. It was used to prevent it from opening by itself if it ever came to that, but she found it could also be used to trap unimaginative thieves.

When she left the room, she leaned against the wall and listened.

There was a bang, then quiet.

Pria walked back to the parlor holding her laugh, and failing.