You’re bleeding.

There was a long gash down the length of Finn’s forearm.

I’m not.

Your arm is bleeding.

I’m fine.

Finn, you’ve been steadily dropping [Lifeblood] since daybreak. You haven’t slept. At least let me heal your arm.

Leave it alone.

FINN

[Tethered]

[Nobleman]

[Level 7]

[Anchor Points]: 0

[Skills]: 3

METERS

[Lifeblood]: 153 / 170

[Chaos]: 170 / 170

The meters momentarily obscured his vision, drawing his attention away from the mountain of papers laid out in front of him—which was exactly what Omri had intended. Finn sighed, waved a hand, and the meters began to fade, infuriating in their slowness. He waved his hand a second time, more vigorously, and the candle on his table flickered and went out. He stared in mild surprise at the wispy trail of smoke emanating from the stick of wax. He’d forgotten about it. With a start, he realized it was nearly midday. The sun was bright, the sky clear, which felt somewhat inappropriate after the night they’d had.

Finn, Omri said again.

I’m not going to die from a lack of sleep, Finn snapped.

At least let me heal your arm. It’s going to be a long day.

Finn sighed again. And so it would be. And his arm was hurting. There was no point denying it, especially to his tether. Omri was in his head, knew exactly how much the wound burned, how much it throbbed around the torn skin.

Finn had had to make some difficult decisions—and make them quickly—last night, after they’d brought Ellsworth out from the pits. Lord Yoquin had disappeared, and the Illd’Orian carriages had later been seen withdrawing from the town by jubilant Aonens parading through the streets. There was no more immediate danger, but Finn assumed Yoquin was aboard those carriages, headed back to Illd’Or with the rest of the Illd’Orians. He couldn’t, he realized, blame the young lord for being cautious. And so Finn was left alone with the duty of dealing with the aftermath of all that had happened. And, up to a point, he felt he’d done an adequate job.

Up to a point.

The wound on his arm was a testament to the fact that he may have made some mistakes, if he let himself think about it. He tried his best not to let himself think about it. Besides, mistake or not, he hadn’t had a choice.

That isn’t, strictly speaking, true, a separate, traitorous part of himself said. You could have at least waited until morning.

No, he couldn’t have waited, he countered, once again drawn into the insistent wrangling with himself. Ellsworth had been in pain. Ellsworth had been untethered. That was not nothing.

The events replayed in his mind, distracting him even further from the work he had to do, the list of names he had to review—potential agitators, the list called them—, people who’d been involved in the almost-riot last night and who he’d have to seek out over the course of the day.

The arena had erupted into a deafening tumult after Capulet had fallen—no, after he’d disintegrated. The [Gladiator] had exploded into a sudden cloud, his very essence sheared and cut adrift, the dust of his bones all that remained to swirl in the breeze and then return and settle upon the very sand on which he’d fought. There’d been nothing left, nothing corporeal. Finn had never seen a strike like the one his cousin had swung at the other man, but he felt that, had Ellsworth been a [Gladiator], the strike would have been worthy of the [Sky Grade], perhaps even the [Moon Grade].

Capulet’s tether had fallen where he’d stood. His eyes had reverted back from white to their natural brown—hazelnut, someone had said—with his death. An Illd’Orian had been there to collect his remains. The tether would, at least, receive a burial, although doubtless in an unmarked grave. Tethers who died with their masters were buried with their masters, which was not possible in this case. Capulet would not be buried, could not. And neither could Rian.

There’d been four men in the pits to start the main event, and two more in the subsequent unorthodox post-main event. Three masters, three tethers. And only Ellsworth had walked out of there alive.

He’d stopped an almost-riot, yes, but he’d paid dearly for it. A sacrifice had been made. It seemed to Finn that people were forgetting that.

Rian had been, after all, just a tether. And a win was a win.

Faced with the revelry of the people, Finn had chosen to immediately separate Ellsworth from the crowd.

A euphoric throng of Aonens had seemed intent on following the noble procession all the way from the arena, along the flooded fields, into and across Aonenbridge proper and then up towards Aonen Keep. At first, Ellsworth had been able to dig deep within himself and smile, raising a hand in recognition at some of those who waved excitedly in his direction, but one looking for it would have been able to see through the facade and notice the storm of emotion within his eyes. Even after Finn had managed to lose the crowd—after he’d sent a conspicuous, curtained litter ahead of them which the people followed, for surely Lord Ellsworth was within there—, the singing and cheers and the chants of Ellsworth! Ellsworth! Ellsworth! seemed to follow them and could be heard through the city all night until long after the sun had risen.

Once the litter was gone, Finn, Ellsworth and Omri snuck out of the arena, circumvented the main pathways leading to the town and climbed up towards the rarely used and lesser-known back entrance of Aonen Keep. None of them had spoken, their footsteps squelching in the mud as they walked. That, Finn realized afterwards, had been the worst part. They’d taken this shortcut before, many times, but there’d always been four sets of footsteps as they walked. Sometimes six. Tonight they were three, and the absence of those who were not with them deepened the silence until it thundered in their ears.

Finn turned to his cousin, intending to speak, to make some silly quip about something that did not matter, but then he was reminded why he’d been avoiding Ellsworth’s gaze. The storm was still there, had intensified, and seemed on the verge of overwhelming the man. He was broken. No, more than that. Sundered. Rent.

Untethered.

Finn made up his mind then. His cousin’s eyes had not yet been in danger of going white. They hadn’t even begun to pale. Due to his [Anchor Point], Ellsworth would be able to remain untethered for at least a day, perhaps more—then again, perhaps less. Only Master Wendell would be able to calculate the exact length of Ellsworth’s window. It didn’t matter to Finn. He did not intend to take the risk.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Once they’d gotten back to Aonen Keep, he’d given the order, and Ellsworth had a new tether within the hour.

Not every choice a [Nobleman] makes will be painless, but he must decide, for that is his burden. He must trust in his judgment and never look back, for in looking forward lies his only shield.

Finn had gone along to secure the boy, to explain to the mother. And now, six hours later, his arm still hadn’t stopped bleeding from where the shrieking woman had torn at his skin. The image kept replaying in his mind on a loop. The distraught mother, the wide-eyed son torn from his bed in the middle of the night. Finn had given the order. He’d done that. He hadn’t had a choice, he tried to remind himself. Ellsworth had needed a tether. Quickly. Finn had made a decision. It was the right one. It was.

He must trust in his judgment and never look back, for in looking forward lies his only shield.

His father had repeated this to him, the very day after Zendar had disappeared.

Finn rubbed at his eyes with a cuff and sighed.

Things had been easier when he’d simply been the second son of Aonenbridge, when all he’d had to do was trust in Zendar’s decisions rather than make his own. Wherever others had struggled, the eldest son of the Warden had been able to effortlessly see through the haze of complex issues and pave a way forward. They, all of Aonenbridge, could trust in his judgment. He was all they needed.

And they no longer had him.

They had Finn. And all he had was Ellsworth. He hadn’t had a choice.

Finn looked down at his arm, and noticed the bleeding had stopped. The skin had slowly begun to scar. He turned and glared at Omri.

I won’t apologize, Omri thought to him, a growing red stain now soaking his own sleeve. I’m not going to let you torture yourself. I don’t need permission to help you.

Finn felt the sharp edge to his tether’s words, but also the sincerity. He stared out of his window, across the winding, narrow streets of Aonenbridge. He heard the distant clang of a [Blacksmith] at work, caught the far-off scent of baking bread, the laughter of children.

He had to admit that, despite himself, he was grateful that his arm no longer burned. And that irked him. Why shouldn’t he experience pain, after the pain he’d caused that night? What gave him the right to try to forget? The image of the howling mother replayed in his head again, the way she’d crumpled to the floor as they’d dragged her only son away.

His eyes had gone white, Finn told himself. It was just a matter of time. If it had not been Ellsworth, somebody else would have come along and claimed him. And they’d have had every right to do so.

He realized that his knuckles had whitened as his fists were clenched. He relaxed them.

I don’t need permission to help you, Omri had said.

“If you want to help, help me get this done,” Finn said. He spoke out loud, where it was easier to hide. “I need to get this done today.”

The [Guardsman] at Finn’s door stepped forward, thinking he’d been addressed. “Yes, my lord. I could, perhaps, send for Lord Ellsworth, and let him know that you require—”

“No,” Finn said quickly. “Not Ellsworth. He needs… time alone.”

The [Guardsman] thought for a moment. “Lady Arabella, my lord?”

“No.” The harshness in Finn’s voice surprised even him. The [Guardsman], who had at least three levels on Finn, shrank back as if whipped.

Finn closed his eyes. He sighed. He turned and took a closer look at the [Guardsman]. He was young—not much older than Finn—, clad in a short, weathered cloak, and his eyes carried the slightly disoriented look of somebody who has ascended too high too fast. “My apologies,” Finn said. “What is your name?”

“Tarik, my lord.”

“Alright, Tarik. Bring me… Lord Quintin.”

Tarik frowned. “My lord, I believe Lord Quintin is away with the Warden… in Illd’Or.”

Finn cursed under his breath. That was right. “Fine,” he said. “Who is your superior?”

Tarik paused. “I suppose that, officially, that would still be… Captain Ophelia, my lord.”

You suppose? Finn wanted to ask. But it didn’t matter. “Bring me Captain Ophelia, then,” he said.

The [Guardsman] went pale. “What I meant to say is… My… my lord. Captain Ophelia was taken. Nobody else has been appointed in her place as of yet. She was taken a few months after Lord Zendarus.” His eyes suddenly widened. “My apologies, my lord, I didn't mean to—”

“It’s fine,” Finn said. “You will come with me, Tarik. And… Master Wendell. Bring me Master Wendell. Do you know how to find him?”

“I do, my lord. Right away, my lord.” He left the room in a hurry. His own tether was waiting just outside the door, similarly clad.

Finn waited a moment until their footsteps had fully receded and then swore loudly. Omri frowned.

Captain Ophelia. Of course. He knew her face. She was a [Warrior]. She hadn't fought in Ortomalle with Zendar and Ellsworth, had instead chosen to stay behind and defend Aonenbridge against the looming threat of an Illd’Orian attack, which, days later, came precisely as feared. Against all odds, she’d held the Fork for days—far longer than anyone had thought possible with only a handful of [Warriors]—and even when overrun, had orchestrated the small raids that had delayed the Illd’Orian advance almost tenfold. Now she was married to the [Innkeeper] of the Boggy Bastion. They had two children together—Poppy and Seb, if Finn remembered correctly.

How had he forgotten that she’d been abducted as well? Just a few months after Zendar… Had he even known?

You can’t be expected to remember all their names at all times, a part of himself said.

Zendar would have, another part of him said, a truer part. Zendar would have remembered every single one. And you should, too.

Instead, he was here, ruminating in his chambers, bleeding onto his carpet, staring at a different list, a list of potential agitators. When had he become… this? Whatever this was? And what was he meant to do today if somebody struck him as more than a potential agitator? Would he order them locked up? Whipped in the square for everyone to see? And then what? Would he come back here and tell himself that he’d done what a [Nobleman] had to do, that it was his burden, and that he had to trust in his judgment and look forward?

He looked down again and sighed. The list was mocking him now. Captain Ophelia’s husband had been identified as a potential agitator. The [Innkeeper] Ronnie. Finn knew the man. He was eccentric, but docile. Had always been docile. Of course, that was until he’d punched a [Guardsman] in the mouth and tried to jump into the pits after Ellsworth.

There was a light knock at his door.

“Enter,” Finn said.

Master Wendell shuffled in. His long gray robe trailed behind him. Tarik followed.

“My Lord Finric,” Wendell said, and bowed.

Finn narrowed his eyes and stared. The old man had delivered him as a baby, had been his tutor all his life and had never shied away from pulling Finn by the ear or rapping him on the knuckles with a stick whenever he’d misbehaved as a child. Wendell smiled quietly and inclined his head towards Tarik, who had resumed his spot at the door.

Fine, Finn thought. Lord Finric it is.

“Have you seen Lord Ellsworth this morning?” Wendell asked.

Finn nodded. “I was with him earlier.”

“I saw him, too,” Wendell said. “I visited his chambers this morning. He was with… the new tether.”

Finn pursed his lips. “Ah.”

“Ah,” Wendell repeated.

Finn avoided his tutor’s eyes for a moment. He noticed Tarik was looking uncertain. Finn nodded towards the door, ordering him outside, and the [Guardsman] seemed only too happy to oblige. When he and Wendell were alone, Finn spoke. “Was I wrong?” he asked.

“I cannot make a judgment on that, my lord,” Wendell said.

“Finn. We’re alone. And I’m asking you to,” Finn said. “Please.”

Wendell hardened his stare. “I’ll tell you what I think,” he said, “if you use [Command].”

Finn ground his teeth. He wasn’t in the mood for this. There was a time, not long ago, when he would have refused outright, when he’d vowed to never use [Command] again. Besides, all he wanted was a simple answer. But it was Wendell’s exhausting view that every moment had didactic value. Over the years, Finn had learned that, rather than fight it, it was better to give the old man what he wanted. At Finn’s side, Omri stiffened. He stared into Wendell’s eyes. They were dark, profoundly powerful, but he didn’t expect Wendell to resist as hard as he could. He focused, and said each word slowly, with care. “Wendell, now that you have seen Ellsworth, I [command] you to tell me, truthfully, if you think I did the right thing.”

Wendell’s eyes seemed to mist over for a second. Then they cleared. He smiled. “You’re improving,” he said. “You’re almost as good as you used to be. Fine, I will answer. As a [Nobleman], as Lord Finric of Aonenbridge, you were not wrong in procuring a new tether for Lord Ellsworth of Aonenbridge as quickly as possible.”

Finn breathed a sigh of relief. “Very well,” he said. “Then—”

“But as Finn… as Finn… only you can decide.”

Wendell’s eyes were direct, probing. Suddenly Finn wished he hadn’t called the man. He’d wanted a straight answer. Had it been a mistake, or hadn’t it? After a moment the old man smiled again. He knew exactly what he was doing. The struggle, the debate, was necessary. Vital.

Finn rose to his feet. He’d had enough of this.

“Let’s go and see if we can expect another riot anytime soon,” he growled.