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002 | Views & Vistas
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After Zen got his System notification, eelshrooms—even the one secured in his belt pouch—were far from his mind. He was so preoccupied with his thoughts, in fact, that he ended up lagging behind Lawrence. For the first time in their three months outside Palladia’s walls, the older boy—stumbling along with Fresco on his shoulder and his assigned burdens beneath his arms—led the way back toward Regis’s cabin.
As they walked, the stillness of the swamp and the subtle tension at the back of Lawrence’s neck reminded Zen of countless nights spent skulking the city’s damp, dark alleys. Nights spent in silence, searching the violent streets for scraps of food or snippets of information to sell.
A similar, yet distinctly different silence stretched between them as they wormed their way through the bald cypress trees guarding the trail’s crumbling last legs. This silence wasn’t born out of fear or danger, but it carried the same weight, the same level of trust that conversation would come later; that questions should be held in reserve.
For all Zen liked to complain, he was comfortable with silence. It gave him time to figure things out. He had no issues with words, but finding the right ones—especially ones that helped bring up the subject of a third Skill—wasn’t easy.
I’ll talk it out with Law. He’s made of bricks and boulders, but he always gives good advice. We’ll mull it over together—I just need a few sane minutes for my brain to come back down to reality, first.
Glancing around, Zen realized his friend was almost out of sight. The older boy’s long strides carried him further and further ahead. For now, Zen decided it was more important to take it slow and give himself space to think than to try to catch up. Still, he couldn’t help the occasional glance over his shoulder, or the fact that he held onto a short, heavy branch like it was a club.
The old Zen refused to believe it was safe to travel alone.
Okay, I need to confirm that the possibility of a new Skill is real, and not some cosmic joke. After that, I can start to worry about the usefulness of my options… or about what a Path is and why it has to do with Fate.
As he stepped over a fallen log, Zen’s eyes drifted to his periphery, where a faint ghostly symbol danced and swayed. He focused on it, and the System message from before popped back into his field of view. With a little bit of testing, Zen was able to mentally dismiss and recall the message two more times. It flitted in and out of his vision with the same ease it took to open and close his hand.
Select a new Skill from the three options available. Concentrate on a Skill if you’d like to experience its description.
-= Cultivate
-= Duplicate
-= Animate
Zen wasn’t fully literate. Regis was still teaching him how to recognize letters, glyphs—and for some reason—runes. Yet, somehow, he could read the System’s message, as if a voice was guiding him through each word.
As he reread his options, Zen realized something else—he had an instinctual feeling for what each Skill was capable of. It wasn’t a specific sensation. It was vague, nebulous—almost like a sixth sense, akin to goosebumps tap dancing on his skin when he thought he was being followed. But it was enough see a glimpse of each choice’s potential.
[Cultivate] was related to growth and strength. [Duplicate] was connected to change—but also… similarity? [Animate] was all about movement, life, and purpose.
This is definitely real. No bored God or high-ranking Empire dirt-licker is messing with me (that I know of). But what’s it mean by ‘experience’ a Skill? Will the System give me some kind of test run, or—
Just as he began to consider his questions, Zen tripped over an exposed root and was snatched from his thoughts. His body lurched forward, and as he flailed in a desperate attempt to regain his balance, he berated himself for his lack of awareness.
In Palladia, a lapse like this would cost me my clothes and a kidney. This swamp’s making me soft.
Still, Zen hadn’t spent years of his life jumping across rooftops in the slums to fall prey to an oversized plant on the ground. He might’ve been fragile, delicate, and almost half the height he wished he was, but despite his size—despite lacking anything close to Lawrence’s strength—he was fast and flexible, quick as a lashing hydra. He needed to be—it wasn’t as if his Class provided him with a way to survive Palladia’s worst.
Maybe that’s changed. If something like [Cultivate] can be used in combat, there’s a chance I can draw on its growth and strength to flip the odds.
As he chided himself—again—for sticking his head into the clouds like a mark about to be conned, Zen lost his fight against momentum. His boots left the squishy, wet earth and his body was thrown into a tilting tumble. Forcing himself to focus, he fought to reclaim control before he fell face-down into the swamp.
After a millisecond of panic, while his heart sucker-punched his stomach, Zen managed to slightly twist his hips, extending his left leg just enough to brace himself. However, instead of the slick mud he was expecting, Zen was rewarded with a different terrain. He pulled out of his stumble—almost gracefully—in an easy slide, with his forward foot digging into smooth, water-worn stones and clacking, multicolored rocks.
Realizing where he was—that he’d reached the end of the trail—a small knife of a small lit up Zen’s face, and he didn’t bother hiding it. Ike’s Lake stretched out before him, breathtaking and brilliant in the setting afternoon sun.
If we ever we end up leaving Gale Swamp, I’m going to miss this place. The mosquitoes, the mud, the mushrooms—they can all burn in the hells. But I’ll never forget this view.
Zen wasn’t quite ready to say that he preferred the world’s natural beauty to its man-made wonders, but he was close. Palladia had left a strong impression on him, good and bad. Even though he hadn’t visited half of its districts, there’d been hundreds of buildings and structures that’d left his mouth hanging open in awe. But nothing in the city held a candle to Ike’s Lake.
Not the carved marble fountain, depicting heroes of old dressed for battle, in the courtyard in front of the Grand Hollow Library. People flocked to it for good luck, as if it were a shrine, asking the remnants of warriors and mages for blessings. To Zen, it wasn’t inspiring. It was a reminder of everything he wasn’t, of everything that he wouldn’t be.
Not the imposing, golden gates of the Delver’s Guild, either. Thinking about them made Zen want to spit into the rocks at his feet. Despite their incredible size and nigh-indestructibility, they were nothing more than a false promise of hope, stoking the riotous rage coiled around Zen’s heart. The Guild bragged about its strength, claimed its members were righteous and good—but Zen knew better. It was all an act, a facade, highlighted by the symbol of a shield engraved in adamantine on the organization’s big, gaudy doors.
Not even the crystalline, rune-engraved archways leading to the Lower-Magistrate’s Palace of Stone compared to Ike’s Lake. While they were ancient and imposing, relics of power no one alive fully understood, they were also unnerving. Zen only saw them once, out of curiosity, and they’d filled him with a needling, foreboding fear he still couldn’t shake.
Ike’s Lake was different. When Zen had first seen it, it’d filled him with a sparking buoyancy of excitement and a surging desire to live. Not in a you-might-want-to-start-running kind of way, but more akin to a reminder, a remembrance, that life—whether or not it was miserable and joyless—was still wonderful. A quarter of a year ago, he’d really needed that reminder.
Even now, as he walked along the ridge bordering the rocky, polychromatic beach, Zen’s worry and dread ebbed away. It was a slow effect—one he knew took days to take hold—but once it did, poof, no more anxiety. Just a warm, welcoming blanket of security.
While he lived in Palladia, Zen never knew or understood what it was like to feel safe. He and Lawrence were always running, always moving from one hideout to the next, mere steps away from starvation or danger.
But here, it was different.
That’s why Ike’s Lake was special.
Raising a hand to block the sun from his eyes, Zen searched for Lawrence. The older boy was knee-deep in the shallows, in the midst of taking his boots off, several hundred yards away at the base of the gently-sloping beach. Fresco was there, too. From Zen’s vantage point, the little kitten was nothing more than a tiny orange speck near the shoreline.
Before heading down to join them, Zen stood up on his tiptoes and squinted out at the scattering of trees on the horizon. There, past the edge of Gale Swamp’s eastern boundary, he saw what he was looking for: a maze of forests and rock formations rushing aggressively upward toward a jagged, sundered peak—and the massive, rusted, iconic sword embedded in its center.
Graver’s Mountain.
If Ike’s Lake would always remind Zen of safety, then Graver’s Mountain—and the monstrous blade jammed halfway to its hilt in its peak—was its opposite. It was a cold reminder that greatness came with a cost—a cost hidden inside a tangled snarl of horrible danger and unimaginable impossibility.
Zen didn’t believe in himself. He was short, weak, and couldn’t even read a book, cover-to-cover. Ike’s Lake was a haven, and he appreciated—cherished—the security and stability it offered. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew he needed to convince Regis to let him and Lawrence stay at the cabin for as long as possible. Yet, despite all of his shortcomings and insecurities, despite how he’d lived the past sixteen years of his life—Ike’s Lake wasn’t what Zen wanted. He hungered for something more.
Zen hungered for the destructive and brutal greatness required to split a mountain with a sword. It was an unattainable dream. But, like the boy he pretended he wasn’t, he still dreamed of greatness.
With one last look at Graver’s Mountain, Zen scrambled down the ridgeline toward the beach.
* * * * * *
Lawrence was waiting for him, barefoot, with his boots marinating in the shallows. The older boy sat on a smooth, massive husk of driftwood—a once-ancient tree now weathered by waves and time. His eyes were locked on the still waters of Ike’s Lake, where dragonflies darted in and out of iridescent clouds of mist, or raced amongst dense reed metropolises. As Zen approached, however, he turned and held out a wooden scrubber.
With the barest hint of a grin, Zen groaned and accepted the too-familiar tool.
“It looks like we’ve survived another day,” said Lawrence. He reached for his own scrubber, which was nestled inside a storage hollow carved into the driftwood. With a practiced motion, he picked up one of his boots and struck its heel with the back of the scrubber’s curved head, sending a clump of mud splashing into the lake.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Fresco, who was in the middle of stalking a helpless black-shelled crab, hissed in annoyance and ducked for cover behind Lawrence’s bundle of banana squashes.
“Looks like it,” Zen smirked, stepping around the prowling kitten. He took a seat and, with a grunt, yanked off his boots and set them down in the water. For a moment, Zen reveled in the cool chill of the breeze between his toes as he waited for the muck covering every inch of his loaned leather and lace to weaken. Then, the moment passed, and it was time to clean.
They worked like that for a while. Late afternoon turned into early evening, and the rough sound of their scrubbing brushes mixed with the calls of rails and ducks and the soft lull of waves lapping against the shore. Nearby, fireflies flicked on and off in spits and spats.
Eventually, Lawrence cleared his throat. Zen tensed, almost done with his boots, but no questions came about his fourth eelshroom or why he’d been acting distant.
I’m sure he has his suspicions, anyway.
“Earlier in the clearing, when I… snapped,” Lawrence said, hesitating. “I never apologized. That wasn’t right.”
“I get it,” Zen shrugged. He figured that sometimes apologies didn’t need to be said.
“You do and you don’t,” Lawrence shook his head. His gaze fell to his hands. He sat and stared at each one as if they were pages in a book telling an epic story.
The callouses of a child [Laborer]. The scars of a teenage fighter that went too far, too often. Splotches of discolored skin. Burn marks, from acid or fire or both, that hinted at something worse, something kept secret even from Zen.
After a minute, Lawrence scratched at the line of dark stubble on his chin, where flecks of red mixed with brown. “I’m not good at this.”
“Neither am I—I don’t think anyone is. I meant it, though. It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” Lawrence growled. “In the slums, no one ever says sorry. You think that’s right?”
“That’s because apologies leave you open, and people see that as weakness.”
“I spent all of my time in Palladia worried about whether or not I was seen as weak,” Lawrence said. His eyes dropped to his hands again, which were curled into fists. “Where did that get me? Where does it get anyone?”
A gust of wind danced over the trees, rustling leaves, disturbing the lake’s still water.
“Your reputation kept us alive,” Zen said, voice firm.
“Did it?” Lawrence asked. “Wasn’t there another way? Something we missed, because we were either too scared or too used to what Skull Street taught us?”
“Maybe. But we had to make choices, and few of them were easy. You were the muscle, I was the thief.”
“I’m trying to be better than that,” Lawrence said, emphasizing his words. A chill ran down Zen’s spine, as if his friend was speaking an Oath. “I’m more than my anger. I’m more than a hired thug.”
“I know.”
Fresco walked between the older boy’s legs and curled into a tiny ball.
“I’m seventeen. That puts me at less than a year out from conscription into the Empire’s Infantry Corps. I was fine with that, until we came here. Now, I don’t want to be a soldier, grinding up the ranks, thrown at one threat or another. I want to be something more, Zen.”
As Zen quietly scraped the last of the mud from his boots, he thought back to the sword scarring the peak of Graver’s Mountain’s.
“Me too.”
“I’ve got problems,” Lawrence said, gritting his teeth. A hint of caged anger flashed inside his cold eyes, as if he was remembering something he normally kept locked away. Then, he laughed—and the anger disappeared as he held out a hand twice the size of Zen’s.
Zen hesitated to shake it, and the older boy laughed again. “Not with you, Zen. With myself. But I’m listening, learning, trying to figure things out. That’s why I’m taking Regis’s advice here—to apologize more, rather than let things fester. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I’ll try not to snap like that again.”
Zen grinned. He tied the laces of his boots together, tossed them over his shoulder, and shook his friend’s hand—trying not to think about how Lawrence could probably squeeze his finger bones to paste if he wanted to. “Don’t worry about it. Besides, I’m beginning to believe the old man knows what he’s talking about.”
Lawrence let go of Zen’s hand, brushed off his pants, and picked Fresco up. She nestled into her spot on his shoulder, tail twitching against his chin, one of the black-shelled crab’s claws hidden between her paws. “So, I don’t need to listen to your theories anymore?”
“I never said that,” Zen snickered. “I still think there’s a chance he’s an evil wizard, fattening us up for a blood ritual.”
“No, you don’t,” Lawrence scoffed. He bent over, reaching for his water-filled bucket.
Time to come clean.
Zen fiddled with the hem of his tunic, at a patch of fabric not covered in dried mud. “I got a System message.”
“What?” Lawrence asked, fumbling the bucket’s handle.
“The old man—he was right. I was offered a third Skill.”
The [Laborer] let go of the handle and fell back onto the driftwood log. “You’re not messing with me? If you are, Zen, I’ll rip your arm off. I could probably do it.”
Zen laughed, enjoying the look of disbelief on his big friend’s face. “On my honor as a thief, I’m telling the truth.”
Lawrence leaned forward. He stared at Zen: intent, intense, invested.
“Tell me about it.”
* * * * * *
Regis’s cabin was nestled in a tranquil clearing, sheltered by a grove of willow trees, just a whisper away from where the boys had cleaned their boots. It was easy to spot its chimney—a wide pillar of weathered stone, aged mortar, and clinging moss, peeking out from between hanging branches—if you knew where to look. And though Zen was reluctant to admit it, he did. Three months of trekking in and out of the swamp, sleeping in the same bunk each night, and eating the old man’s cooking had broken down his guard—the cabin was starting to feel like home.
To Zen, that meant it was a chink in his already-fragile armor, a brittleness that would crack—a sharp blade waiting to split his skin and sinew, muscle and mind, and leave another scar. Yet, he kept coming back, time and time again.
That’s the danger of safety and comfort, Zen thought. You get too used to a good thing. All that does is set you up for pain and heartbreak when its gone. I know that, but here I am, waiting with open arms and a big smile for the axe to fall.
Even now, as he approached the stream curling around the old man’s garden, sharing the rest of the details of his System message with Lawrence, Zen’s heart beat a little faster. He wasn’t sure if it was because of apprehension, or anticipation.
“Three options, huh?” Lawrence mused, pausing as they arrived at the edge of the small tributary, where it cut down from the swamp and fed into Ike’s Lake. Their long shadows darkened the stream’s clear waters, sending a duo of colorful sunfish swimming for cover behind a trio of algae-covered boulders. “Think it’s always three? Maybe the System offers you more or less choices, depending on your qualifications. Whatever those are.”
“No idea. I never heard a lick about any of this back on Skull Street. Either people knew—and knew better than to share—or it’s some kind of bigger secret,” Zen said. He hopped to the first boulder, then the next, using them as stepping stones. When he reached the other side, he cast an anxious glance back at the [Laborer], who was halfway across, focusing on his balance to avoid spilling the bucket in his hand or jarring Fresco off his shoulder. “You’re not upset, right? That I got offered a Skill and you didn’t?”
“Do I look upset?” Lawrence asked, landing in the grass beside Zen. Then, realizing that the difference in their height—despite a year’s difference in their age—made it look like he was looming over his friend, he reconsidered his words. “That was a bad question. Don’t answer that. That’s another thing I’m working on, you know. I’m trying to learn how to smile better.”
Zen thought he saw the older boy’s facial muscles twitch. It wasn’t a good attempt. “You should practice in front of a mirror.”
“I do,” the larger boy said. “Every morning. Most mornings. Someday, people will call me a gentle giant.”
“Today is not that day, Law,” Zen grinned.
As they ducked beneath the boughs of the willow trees, the cabin came into view. The air around it was thick with the smell of garlic, onions, and fish—all frying in butter—along with the sound of the old man belting an off-key show-tune. He liked to sing while he cooked, especially if little Cressida was at the table.
“Gods, that song always sticks in my head,” Lawrence groaned, before chuckling. “But if it wasn’t for Regis’s singing, I’d think this was all one, long, drowning trip on silkblood.”
Zen couldn’t help but agree, nodding as he passed between a pair of blooming flower bushes and stepped onto the cabin’s porch. He made his way over to a wooden picnic table, where a set of clean clothes and a towel waited for each of them. He pulled off his mud-covered tunic, grimaced, and set it down. He’d scrub that after dinner.
“Just to clarify,” Zen asked, dipping a towel into Lawrence’s now-returned bucket of water and using it to wipe down his arms and face. “You’re not jealous?”
“No,” Lawrence said, placing Fresco on the floor so he could change. “I’m not jealous or upset. If anything, I’m excited. You’re right—I didn’t receive a notification today. But if that was the point of you spending months searching for eelshrooms, then there’s a reason for what I’m doing, too. I’ll get my message soon.”
The little kitten meowed and clawed at one of the sunflowers painted onto the blue front door.
“What if you don’t?”
The older boy shrugged. He folded his dirty clothes and set them next to Zen’s, finished washing off, and scooped the kitten back into his arms.
“Then I’ll keep trying. I’ll stay here and improve myself, for as long as I can. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”
Zen didn’t answer, but Lawrence’s question repeated itself in his head as he reached out and opened the door.
* * * * * *
Little Cressida sat cross-legged on a pile of stacked bearskin rugs in the entryway, staring intently at a page somewhere around halfway through one of her books. When Zen and Lawrence stepped inside, however, she slammed the book shut, bolted upright, and headed their way. Zen caught a brief glimpse of the book’s cover. While it was mainly decorated in a flowing, artistic calligraphy that he couldn’t read, there were three runes he recognized, drawn in strange patterns around the title: Fire, Chaos, and Plague.
That’s not normal reading material for a ten-year-old, is it? Zen thought, hiding a smile.
“You’re back,” Cressida said, emotionless. She stared up at them like they were insects, as her black bangs fell into her black eyes. Then, she whispered slowly, “He will not stop singing to me. I tried cursing him like you taught me. It did not work, so I hid in here.”
“Smart,” Zen whispered. “He’s loud today, isn’t he? We heard him singing The Knight and the Baker when we crossed the stream.”
“I hate that song,” Cressida deadpanned.
“Me too,” Lawrence whispered.
Cressida turned—almost mechanically—to face him. Reaching up on her tiptoes, she plucked the kitten from his arms. “Thank you for not letting Fresco die.”
The [Laborer] grunted, unsure of what to say, and Cressida tucked the yowling kitten beneath one arm and walked into the dining room. She paused to glare at the old man, who was out of sight and humming along as he worked at the stovetop. “They’re back.”
“You’re back!” Regis shouted, leaning over the kitchen counter to see them, nearly knocking off a set of carved woodland animals. He was balding, with more hair on his eyebrows and inside his ears than above them. He wore a pair of spectacles—fogged over with steam—and sported the same, wispy goatee he’d been trying to grow for the past month. “Lawrence—bring over those banana squashes. I’m thinking of slicing them really thin, dipping them in batter, and frying them until they crunch. Maybe a little salt, a little chili powder? We will see. Zen—any luck today? Did you manage to—oh. Wow. That changes things, doesn’t it?”
The old man snapped his fingers, then disappeared back into the kitchen. He popped into the dining room a moment later, in the middle of taking off his apron, muttering in excitement. “Should we eat first? Eat while we talk? Eat after? It’s always the little things that are so complicated, isn’t it?”
Zen, who’d gone pale at the look of recognition in Regis’s eyes, looked like he was in the middle of deciding whether to run out the front door.
“Hey,” Lawrence said, putting a heavy hand on Zen’s shoulder. He tried to give him a reassuring smile. It was closer to a squint. “Give him a chance. He’s here to help… I think.”
Zen nodded, stepped forward, and committed himself to the conversation. He used [Steady Hand], this time, to still his nerves.
“I found the fourth eelshroom. Afterward, I received a System message that said I qualified for a third Skill. I-I’d like to know more, about everything, if you’re willing to tell us.”
“Of course I am. Please, take a seat,” the [Guide] said, setting his apron on the table. While Zen and Lawrence pulled out their chairs, he took off his glasses and cleaned them on his shirt. When he put them back on and gave the teenagers a smile that wasn’t marred by mania, Zen thought—for maybe the first time—that the old man had a look of pure concentration, pure purpose, in his eyes. “Did you pick a Skill yet?”
“No,” Zen said, leaning forward in his seat and shaking his head. “Should I have?”
“Good. Excellent. Brilliant. You could’ve, if you’d wanted to. But this is better,” the spark in Regis’s eyes burned with excitement, secrets, and knowledge. “We will review your options second. Before that, I need to tell you about
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