Myrrir had almost become so absorbed with watching Nasyme he didn’t hear the creaking floorboards and shifting ceiling until it was too late.

He had been watching Nasyme for the whole afternoon without the God-heir knowing—or so he hoped. He’d followed the bald man through the fields at a healthy distance, watching him train some of the younger Moro-ka with their Jai swords. He’d followed the man along a path to the stables and watched him feed the horses. He’d followed the man back to his personal house on the opposite side of the valley.

It was at Nasyme’s house when Myrrir thought he could feel someone else following them.

The house was a plain, broad complex with thin walls and lattice windows, but its roof was steeper than most. As far as Myrrir could tell, Nasyme only lived there with his great granddaughter. They sat on the porch, practicing and refining a style of runic calligraphy side-by side.

Myrrir had never taken the time to learn runes, nor had his upbringing ever included writing beyond what was absolutely necessary, but he could appreciate the beauty of the brush strokes and swathes of black ink. The strokes glittered with flecks of starsteel, and when Nasyme dipped the sheets in a pitcher of Stream water, they glowed vibrant colours before bursting apart into a puff of sparks.

Nasyme patted his granddaughter—a young woman about twenty years old—on the back. She didn’t seem to have much spirit potential, but she used what little she had for runes.

But the two were chattering aimlessly, and they didn’t hear the creaking wood like Myrrir did. They didn’t notice someone else approaching like Myrrir did.

Myrrir backed away from the edge of the porch, slipping back into the shadows. He was about to try climbing to the roof to seek a better vantage point, but a black-gloved hand clasped over his mouth.

He had gotten used to not cycling Arcara, but he still tried. Nothing happened.

He drove his elbow back, smashing his attacker in the gut with blunt force, then grabbed the arm and threw the man down to the ground.

The attacker wore all black. Black leather armour, black coat, black mask. He blended in perfectly with the twilight sky and deep shadows.

Myrrir lunged and planted his elbow down on the man’s neck.

If the attacker was a God-heir, he’d used magic. He’d use his enhanced strength to throw Myrrir off. But he didn’t. Myrrir kept pressing, and the man—a mortal—gurgled until he died.

Myrrir leapt to his feet and pressed his back against the outside wall of Nasyme’s housing complex. He heard a soft leathery creak, then a faint metallic ting. There were other attackers, and they were drawing weapons.

He wanted to do nothing. It’d be the easiest.

But there were logistical concerns. These had to be assassins—the Moro-ka didn’t dress like this, and who else would? Chances are, they were of Elderworld origin. If they killed Nasyme, then the First Lieutenant God-heirs wouldn’t ever leave the port, and Myrrir wouldn’t be able to return to his ship without a fight.

He peered around the corner, glancing at Nasyme and his granddaughter. The both of them looked so serene and peaceful, and a pang of aimless longing skewered through Myrrir’s gut.

He scrambled up the vines on the side of the house, then crawled up the side of the thatched roof. There were five assassins on the front eave, ninety degrees from him, and each of them carried a small crossbow—firearms would be too loud. The bolt-heads glistened a pustulent shade of green; there were runes carved along them. One assassin was still pouring a vial of Stream water over the tip of the bolt, charging the runes.

He didn’t want to know what would happen if one of those hit him. The green had to be a poison aspect of some kind.

He lodged his feet in the gutter and inched along the edge of the ceiling. The assassins bent down, pointing their weapons.

The time for subtlety was over. With a shout, Myrrir charged along the roof. An assassin whirled around and fired his crossbow. Myrrir ducked to the side, and the bolt whistled over his shoulder with a trail of green sparks.

He tackled the assassin at the hips. The force of the blow carried them both over the edge of the roof. Myrrir landed hard atop the assassin, cushioning the fall and incapacitating the man.

Before the rest of the bolts fired, Myrrir spun around a pillar supporting the front eave. It put him right on the front porch, facing Nasyme and his granddaughter.

“Myrrir?” Nasyme asked softly. He leapt to his feet and drew his Jai. His granddaughter stared at Myrrir, her big brown eyes inquisitive.

Myrrir pointed up at the eave above, and suddenly, he realized the genius of using mortal assassins. No spiritual presence meant no alerting tingle and a harder spirit to scan.

“Assassins,” Nasyme whispered. “Tame, get inside please.”

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The granddaughter—Tame—obeyed quickly. She rose to her feet and retreated through the house’s open door.

The four assassins swung down off the eave, landing in the lawn in front of the porch in crouches. They fired their crossbows. Nasyme dove behind the short calligraphy table, flipping it up and dumping the ink. The bolts thudded into the table.

The assassins threw away their crossbows and drew short daggers or Elderworld straight sabers. Three converged on Nasyme, and one approached Myrrir. With the element of surprise gone, they stood no chance against Nasyme. Lightning crackled down the edge of his ruby Jai.

But Myrrir was unarmed, and his assassin wielded a saber.

Myrrir dove for the pot of Stream water that Nasyme had been testing his runes in earlier, but the assassins advancing on Nasyme kicked it away. Nasyme blasted the man with a bolt of lightning, but the Stream water was gone.

Myrrir’s assassin sliced at him. The tip of the saber whistled past Myrrir’s nose, then cleaved back the other way. Myrrir dipped his head, but the blade still smashed off a peak of his glassy hair. It wrenched Myrrir’s neck to the side.

Then the assassin kicked him. Myrrir staggered back, falling through the house’s door and landing hard on his back.

He found himself in an open foyer of sorts, thin walls on all sides. Ink paintings hung from the walls, and a few spare Jai swords waited beneath them on racks. His old jade sword hung on the far wall—right above Tame. But she held a musket and was fumbling with the pan.

The assassin drove his saber down at Myrrir. Myrrir rolled to the side, then sprang back to his feet.

With a roundhouse kick, the assassin flung Myrrir to the other side of the room, sending him skidding along the wooden floorboards. He landed right at Tame’s side. She shouted something in their native language.

Myrrir grumbled, “Pardon me,” then reached up and grabbed his jade sword from the rack. It fit comfortably in his hands like an old shoe.

When the assassin charged him, Myrrir pushed the saber to the side, trapping it against the wall. The assassin punched, but Myrrir ducked.

The assassin had a second vial of Stream water clipped to his belt. Myrrir snatched it up and crushed it in his hand, glass and all. A wisp of mana rushed into his body, and he used it to cycle a brief pattern before it ran out.

It was just enough. He drew a wisp of gunpowder out of Tame’s musket’s pan. He thrust his hand out, guiding the gunpowder into a needle. It blasted straight through the assassin’s neck. Clutching his throat, the assassin fell back onto the floor, writhing and bleeding.

Myrrir slumped down in the middle of the foyer, panting.

After a few seconds, Nasyme marched in, pointing his Jai directly at Myrrir. But when his head swivelled towards the assassin’s body in the middle of the floor, he delivered a brief bow and said, “Thank you.”

Myrrir shook his hand out. He’d crushed a glass vial with it, and it was bleeding. “Yeah, you’re welcome.” He turned his sword over and stabbed it tip-first into the floorboards. “I guess you’ll want that back.”

“No.”

“Huh?”

“Tomorrow evening,” Nasyme said, “you will learn to use it properly.”

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“The Jai is heavy,” Nasyme said. “Once you get it moving, you cannot let it stop. You must let it flow.”

“A bunch of spiritualist, martial-artist rambling,” Myrrir grumbled. “Bunch of words that sound nice, but in the end, mean nothing.”

“They mean nothing to you because you refuse to listen,” Nasyme said, twirling his sword around him in a complex pattern. “Look at the mountains, taste the air. Look for the beauty around you, and find something to fight for.” Today, no lightning crackled on its edge. “I am not using my enhanced body.”

Myrrir hadn’t found any Stream water for the rest of the day. There might have been some in the village, somewhere, but he didn’t know where. The closest he could see was the hazy outline of the Stream itself rising above the edge of the mountains, but it was miles away.

“If I was using my enhanced body, I wouldn’t need your fancy fighting style,” Myrrir said.

“You are an excellent warrior, Myrrir,” Nasyme said. “Brave, bold, rushing into fights and giving it your all—that is something I respect very much about you. But there is more to life than fighting. You must also be an excellent person, and you may find that you fight better because of it.”

“I’m far from that.”

“I am aware, from what Tye tells me.” Nasyme tilted his head back to Myrrir’s shed higher up the hill, where Tye stood on the porch. The old man was watching them. “Myrrir, it has been three centuries since I advanced to Captain, and I will not advance any further. My body is decaying, and I am aging again. I am not afraid of death either, but I am afraid of dying without leaving a mark. The bluecoats are amassing an army in the pass. In three weeks’ time, the Moro-ka and I will attack. We will have every advantage, but there are not enough of us, and we will die.”

“Alright.” Myrrir shrugged.

“You could come with us. We would gladly have you. You could make a mark and fight for something.”

“And die with you?” Myrrir shook his head. “Not in the cards for me. Ever since I was old enough to know my name, I was promised my father’s Godhood. I will have my favoured position back.” He turned his jade sword down again and stuck it into the dirt. Then he sighed. “But…I’ll admit, the calmness here is pleasant. This is the first time…in my entire life that I’ve gone more than a week without cycling Arcara. Barring yesterday.”

“Then enjoy it while it lasts. Soon, there will be no more villages like these.”

“I presume you want me to tell you what happened to your grandson before you die?”

“God-heirs do not have a pleasant life,” Nasyme said. “I understand what it is like growing up without a father. I was conceived and then abandoned, and I regret doing the same to some of my own children, no matter how little spirit potential they end up with. I must know what happened.”

“If I tell you, you won’t kill me?” Myrrir asked.

“I pity you. I would not kill you for that. A mortal life lived to its fullest can be more rewarding than ten lives of God-heirs.”

Myrrir rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ll tell you what happened to the old captain of the Hyovao. But I will not fight alongside you.”