When Jerome Fodder, Lemure 16, was just a child, he saw a man putting up a sign. The man was quite nervous as he did this, looking left and right as he did so, flinching every time someone walked past.

Jerome didn’t know why the man was so paranoid. He asked a member of Lemure’s Legacy who happened to be nearby, a shockingly tall woman lacking a left arm. Behind her mask, the woman’s expression was unknowable. Then she produced her Remark, a golden arm twice as big as her organic one, and killed the man with a single slash. The blood made the poster illegible, and Jerome never learned what was on it or what it meant. From that moment, he understood this world and knew what side was right.

After earning entry by killing his brother, he moved quickly up the ranks of Lemure’s Legacy. A willingness to backstab others was one of the most prized traits in the Legacy. He bloodied his hands daily and left opponents with wounds that couldn't heal. Entering as Lemure 2, with each death above him, his Number rose, and with it rose his strength: power begat status, and vice versa.

One could consider him a lieutenant at his peak, reaching the rank of Lemure 16. Someone confident, dependable, and on track to transcend the Numbers entirely, becoming part of Morgan’s inner circle, The Constants.

But even lieutenants get stuck with the shit positions.

The floatrat circled the flickering lamppost. It had done this long enough to become a nuisance. Jerome Fodder had had enough.

They had been stationed at the Sliver Bridge for two days, free to do what they pleased with any travelers who tried to cross. None of them expected to see strangers on such a rarely traveled route. Since their arrival, a floatrat this far out from Gutworth was the first thing of note to occur.

The novelty had become a distraction. Jerome's inferiors preferred watching the lazy circles of the overgrown insect far more than they did the bridge. He nudged Tremble, the only one focused on the bridge and not the bug. "Get rid of that."

She summoned her Remark. It birthed itself from nothing and screamed into her grip. A sensible shortsword that rippled like water.

He grimaced, annoyed at the showboating. "No need for that, just use this." He tossed her a piece of title he had scratched out from the floor.

Her throw was eager but off-target, whizzing right past the lamp and only succeeding in getting the other's attention. They joined in. Many of the rocks missed the target and landed in the rapids below.

Lemure 3, their newest member, came the closest. Unfortunately, he hit the flame of the lamppost straight on. Without the lamppost's flame, the only light was provided piecemeal from the sky far above. Obscured by collages of rock and mountain peaks, it filtered down as small cracks of radiance that drifted along the floor.

"Oh, good going, 3," Tremble said. Despite the poor lighting, Jerome could easily recognize 3 by his small stature and awkward gait. The man was anxiety personified.

3 conveyed bewilderment (impressive considering the mask he wore). He looked around in a confused daze, "What? But I did it, didn't I?"

"You got rid of the floatrat, yes," Jerome said, leaning against a broken pillar. "But I never told you to turn off the light!" He preferred the erratic flickering of the lampost to this bland darkness. "Now I can't read any of your veins.”

"Our Superior is right," 8 said in an awkward falsetto. "Let's make it clear now, I'm Lemure 12."

”Hey, wait a minute, no, you’re not!” Tremble said, protective of her relatively meager ranking. “16! Make her stop! 16!”

"I can recognize 12 by voice, 8, as I can yours. Come off it," Jerome said, knowing exactly how the next few minutes would go. He was in charge of four of them all together. 3, 5, 8, and 12. Of them, 12 was the only one he had any hope for. The others would probably die by the end of the season. There were many reserves happy to take their place.

Jerome took out his spyglass, which possessed its own internal lighting, and looked through it to the end of the bridge.

The spyglass inverted the world's color as he gazed at the bridge, turning green to purple. With its supports and spindly shape, the bridge resembled a giant snake with monstrous limbs drifting off into a purple nothingness, the edges glowing a faint orange.

After a quarter mile of random twists and turns that no competent bridge maker would have designed, it ended, or more accurately, shifted into a large mountain wall. A tiny crack in the wall, the sliver, was where strangers appeared as if birthed. The few times one did appear, they were easily herded into the city or killed if they weren't worth keeping.

It wasn't just humans who appeared. There were Aberrations, Runner-Ups, and creatures that had no name but were still separate from men: terrible things, all of them. Fit only to die.

There were many cracks in the dark red mountains, but this was the only one with a habit of creating strangers. Perhaps because it was no mountain at all.

The surface was too smooth, and the color was a strange white that, even under centuries of grime, was only artifice (the same shade as the bridge, come to think). The top of it bizarrely jutted out toward the bridge, creating a pseudo roof. The bridge and wall the same structure, what remained of a massive chamber. An artifact from before the Great Deluge, though why it was here of all places he couldn’t fathom. Thinking those things wasn’t the forte of a Lemure.

Next to the outline of what seemed to be a door, a stranger emerged from the sliver. It was a welcome distraction from such pointless ruminations. They were Human from the proportions. Thankfully as different from Jerome as they come.

It was challenging to discern gender from such a distance. They were so tall they had to stoop to leave the crack, with black hair shaved off on one side that hung limp from the other. It looked like it had been washed in rain and had dried all wrong. They were unarmed, wearing a black shawl above their waist and white wraps that covered their lower third. Remarkably skinny. Remarkably pale, too. Lips and extremities a light shade of gray.

No one else noticed them; they were still arguing over who was who. With a cough, Jerome snapped his fingers. They got into formation, a diamond shape behind him. Remarkably, they refused to drop the identities argument until the stranger was in shouting distance.

"State your reason for passage!" Jerome yelled, the others now behind him in the standard diamond formation. He waited until now to summon his Remark; it always worked in asserting his authority.

The stranger glanced at it with what seemed to be confusion. His stride across the Sliver Bridge slow to a crawl.

"I'll be starting with a name if that's alright." The man, for he was a man, said. "You're the first people I've seen in quite some time." His earnest smile disgusted Jerome. Show some damned self respect.

"Names? Why bother? We won't be seeing you again." Jerome said.

"Names are sacred," 3 added, unnecessarily. There was some personal obsession he had with nom de plumes that Jerome and the others tolerated at best. "Be careful who you share yours with."

The stranger held up his hands and continued forward, moving sideways to avoid the waters below. The erosion over time had withered away portions of the floor to small splinters, which made guard duty all the easier; with luck, the stranger would fall in.

"As my assistant, Petrov was saying," Jerome said, chewing on the lower Number's name. "Names aren't necessary; we only have one- woah there!"

Completely ignoring Jerome's significant authority, the man audaciously pushed past him. The lower numbers were no help; none of them selflessly sacrificed themselves by tackling the stranger and sending them both into the sea (the correct procedure in this sort of scenario). Jerome jumped onto a half-collapsed wall to the stranger's left and intercepted him at a point as narrow as the man's stride. "Now that isn't very considerate."

"What is there to consider? I arrived. Now I'm departing."

"You know you'll need permission for that," Tremble said in a sing-song voice, wagging her Remark.

"Just a simple question, then you're free to go." Jerome looked at his men. Who to pick, who to pick. “Petrov! Ask the man for Grand sake."

The lowest Number shuffled forward, his head hanging down to Jerome's side. "You know I haven't done this before," Petrov whispered, scratching nervously at the pulsing three on his neck.

"You pledge daily in private. It should be no issue to ask another." He patted Petrov to make the rough push that followed all the more meaningful. For his part the stranger waited patiently. He seemed bemused by the whole situation.

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After recovering from the push, 3 spoke. "When you are in the territory of Gutworth, do you promise to uphold a pledge to Morgan Lemure, champion of the Deluge, slayer of the fifth to last Deluge Wyrm, and lay down your life in a duel if Morgan or one of his Legacy commands it?"

An adequate job. The pauses were awkward and unconvincing, but it could be forgiven considering the situation. Now, all he had to do was wait for the stranger to accept and give away the luxury of his mortal security. A small price to pay for the moral security one gained while under such an oath.

The stranger looked off to the side as if lost in thought. "I do not agree to something so predatory."

"Why not? It's just common sense. This is Lemure's domain; all we ask is a verbal acknowledgment." Jerome leaned in, breathing heavily. "We'll kill you where you stand if you don't."

The stranger smiled sadly and patted him on the shoulder. The others gasped.

Jerome was not worried. This bravado was all a bluff. His trick had been locked on the stranger since his appearance, and his Remark remained a dull gray, the default state. This man was less of a threat than even Petrov!

"Well then," the stranger said. His breath was rancid. Jerome could smell it even through the mask. Like death, like death. "It seems we're at an impasse." He moved his hand, so pale, so cold, down slowly to Jerome's breast pocket.

Below, the water picked up speed. The tile Jerome stood on was suddenly less stable. Only the sudden movement of the stranger's hands to his pocket could explain the change. Jerome called his bluff and pushed him away. The stranger fell on his back, well-practiced, catching himself with his arms and landing on all fours. Cocking his legs, he jumped up from this position and held his empty hands up to each side. They all noticed the absence of a Remark. Strange, perhaps it was too weak for him to show. It would make the violence to follow more straightforward.

"I will only repeat what my lesser here has said," Jerome said. The words were pointed and harsh for 3's benefit. "Renounce any assumption that you have rights while in Lemure's domain. You are no better than a vassal within our borders and have no authority unless given it."

The stranger, paying no mind to the Remarks, shrugged. "I can't do that. Wish I could, but I made a promise that I cannot break.”

"Who gives a shit? Go back the way you came and stop wasting our time!” Despite Jerome’s commanding tone, the man did not budge.

Alright.

Jerome cleared his throat. "I shall read to you from the scriptures." Words appeared in his eyes that only he could see; all he had to do was think of Morgan Lemure and his greatness for a unique passage to appear. It was as new to him as it would be for the stranger. It was beautiful, infinite words of infinite wisdom provided by the floaters in his vitreous.

His thought was 'origin.', and this is what appeared.

"In the time of the Great Deluge, when the Remark was merely a suggestion and not the means to our end, Morgan Lemure took it upon himself to exercise that power. And exercise he did. Once a small nation of people had fallen to his Remark, the war for legitimacy came calling. Now known as the Great Deluge, contemporarily it was known as the Announcement. For what better name for struggles that made clear the current order? Lemure knew that to define himself through violence, one must sacrifice the security of certainty. But unlike others, Lemure did more than sacrifice. He-"

The reading was interrupted by the untrimmed stranger reaching for Jerome’s Remark. Letting out a yelp, Jerome stumbled backward, flailing in a wild fury till he hit what remained of a wall.

For shame. This stranger was bringing out the worst in them. He caught his breath while the stranger observed. The man was oddly sheepish despite the sudden movement. "I implore you to leave at once," Jerome said. "You are already marked by Her hands, do you think this is a good time to tempt Her?" He was referring to Death Herself, who we all know is a woman and a very fine one at that.

The silence that followed was refreshing. But it didn’t make the inevitable response any more bearable.

The stranger's manner sobered up suddenly. “Oh… I am marked, so utterly marked.” Jerome missed the drunken stranger of before. "She's left marks all over me." He then took something out from his overcoat: a small piece of glass. What Jerome mistook for rust was hundreds of cuts and scars on its gray surface. The man kept the weapon close to his chest as if to strike at any moment. Was this his Remark? He seemed to be displaying it, treating it like a prized heirloom or an urn.

What nonsense! The only thing clear was that the man had a death wish. "We can have a duel at any time now, stranger." He hit the back of his own head once, and the words flickered before fading from view. “But you’ve gotta be the one to set it. What’ll it be, huh?!?”

The stranger sighed and rolled his ponderous shoulders. "What you represent is vile and cruel to me. If the only way I can adequately express that is by killing you, so be it."

Covering his face with splayed fingers, he held out his weapon and pointed it at Jerome. It was an ancient dueling stance from a time when the act was frowned upon. He was wielding it like a Remark, but it had no telltale signs of one. Jerome glanced down on his own. Every Remark had a trick, his sensed hostility through hue. Perhaps this stranger’s trick was to disguise his Remark as a simple shard of glass? No matter. He had killed here before and he would kill again.

Once, when Jerome was a lower number and had been sent ahead first, he saw a man come out of the crack who looked exactly like him, except naked of any uniform. The thing was identical to him down to the warts. He had Jerome's short limbs, large stomach, and bulging eyes. To see the flaws in his features laid out so plainly... he killed the man quickly before anyone else saw him, and dumped his body into the water.

He gave that creature the luxury of a quick and painless death. The Stranger would not be so lucky.

A reminder. He was Lemure 16, and he brandished his Remark joyfully in the newer style; his pride expressed in jerky angles and complex footwork. "To show my gratitude for Lemure's name, I shall kill you through skewering. From stomach to groin, just as he did the Death Wyrm!" The others laughed at this. "I won’t even take your cloak as a trophy. You won't be worth the memory," that last comment was a lie; the cloak was a fine work of craftsmanship, and he would be a fool to leave it on the corpse.

The stranger approached, and on reflex, Jerome glanced at his Remark for that tell-tale change. There was none. It stayed a sickly gray. Unprecedented. Bloody unprecedented.

"I don't understand."

"Nothing to understand. We're dueling." The man threw off his shawl to reveal rudimentary but durable combat armor complete with wrist wraps, all in deep purple. And then he lunged.

He didn't attack; he simply harassed, making fake out motions and shoulder shoves to put Jerome on the defensive. He could do no more than guard weakly, and deny the stranger an opening. His subordinates watched, disturbed. No one had the chance to commence the duel officially, all the pomp and circumstances had drowned in the river. Not that this stranger deserved any of the rites. Let Death take him with claws.

The stranger said nothing as he thrust his Remark (was it even a remark?) forward repeatedly. Always a threat worth dodging, but never close enough to parry. Jerome was in lockstep with his opponent, round and round in a circle that now governed the space of the duel. It was a dance with no set end. They could do this forever if they chose. According to his trick, there was no danger, and he could stab this man where he stood without worrying about any resistance. Yet why could his heart not stop beating so relentlessly? Why did it feel the only safe move was to stall, any other action doomed to fail?

Jerome couldn't take it anymore. He didn't care if it was a trap, a tactical error. He wanted to progress. To move on. Losing was better than this eternity of stathis.

With a pained yelp, he thrust his Remark directly at the stranger-

-Who dodged the clumsy attack with ease, and caught Jerome under the armpit, steadying him in a manner gentle but controlling. It saved the Lemure man the indignity of falling, but at the expense of the shame he felt at the strangers firm grip. The moment of failure hung in the air as the stranger smiled. The color of his Remark shifted rapidly to a burning red. His stomach sunk in on itself.

The Stranger's Remark, dull and unassuming, went straight for 16's open throat.

It was done.

Neck was severed, the head fell off.

A blade as battered as his couldn't have cut through a floatrat's hide, yet it cut through bone without difficulty. The stranger's weapon was a Remark, an exceptionally clever one, at that. Whatever the trick, a complex one. It could both deceive and dismember. Jerome died with that thought on loop. A mystery he would never solve.

. . .

The others could only watch as the head of their leader rolled lazily off the side of the bridge. None of them liked Lemure 16, known only to himself as Jerome, but to see him decapitated like that. Well…

One of their numbers, Lemure 13, Tremble to herself, who only seconds before was ranked 12, bolted past the stranger and hid. No one questioned this, or even noticed, they were still taking in the scene. Once they had spent exactly thirty five seconds gawking, they rushed at the stranger. He was walking away from them in no hurry.

"You Wyrm fucker, you’re so- GRRK!"

8 was killed first. The stranger used his opponent's swiftness to push her back into the range of 3, the low Number moving slowly but swinging wildly. The swings sliced 8 into ribbons. While 3 was comprehending his accidental murder, 5 was stabbed once in the heart and fell to the ground dead.

Turning to 3, the stranger's eyes lacked the malice that had only just animated him. He seemed very tired, barely able to stand. It was as if the sudden violence he had committed was nothing more than a fluke. The stranger motioned in the other direction, back through the sliver. 3 took off his mask and ran in the direction the stranger came. His tiny body fit the crack perfectly.

. . .

Hiding behind a pillar, the bio-enhanced veins on Tremble's neck shifted painfully to a 13. Jerome had died, so naturally, she benefited with a promotion, but it was cold comfort when her own life was still at risk.

Rushing him was suicide. As Lemure's Legacy, they had a duty to survive. Hiding wasn't cowardly; it was practical. Once the last of her compatriots fell silent, she allowed herself the luxury of breathing. She had not seen the fight; to see it would make her guilty, but the screams and sound of metal disconnecting flesh made it feel like she had.

Soft footsteps now, getting closer. She probably shouldn't have hidden further along the path. What was she thinking??

A tap on the shoulder, and 13 was face to face with the man who had killed four of her compatriots. He was covered in blood.

"Hey," he said, holding out empty hands. "I'm going to leave now. I have nothing against you."

"Sure... okay," 13 said.

A pause. The man turned away from her to look back at carnage she had yet to see. When he turned again, he turned back slow.

"I'm Adam Kadmon, by the way," he said to her, "could you perhaps help me dump the bodies?"

. . .