14 Years Ago…

It was only one evening, but to Perelor it felt half an eternity, his muscles sore, his breathing shallow and quick. He knew he should have long since risen. He knew the only way to find out what change lay ahead of him was to go and ask. Yet, as much as a part of him desired to know, desired above all else to try to fix it all, another part was afraid of the knowledge. And so, the two parts melded, and he sat there, afraid, unknowing, yet completely idle.

He finally let his hands slip away from his ears; the noise still bothered him, but his heartbeat was slowing. Anxiety could only be sustained so long, it seemed, before weariness took its place. So he heard the footsteps behind him, and tensed as he did, but he could not bring himself to turn around.

“You alright, kid?” The voice was a heavily accented drawl. Dromidius’ voice. Perelor turned, to find not just Dromidius but Yaenke as well. Dromidius had his hands in the pockets of his robes, and actually looked a little nervous. Yaenke had his arms folded in that usual stern fashion of his, though concern and pity creased his face as he gazed at Perelor.

“We’ve been looking for you for forever,” Yaenke said. “You should not have left so suddenly. Your father was so worried he almost left the ceremony, and that would have been disastrous. Your sister has already proven she is no diplomat.”

“We understand how it feels, though,” Dromidius cut in. “Torment, I remember when I was first…” he blinked suddenly, and Perelor realized Yaenke was glaring at him. “Well, I shouldn’t talk about that. Still, we get it. We really do.”

Perelor said nothing. Get it? How could they possibly understand this sinking feeling in his stomach? He turned away, the anxiety rising again. He did not want to talk to them. They were the last people he wanted to talk to. He wanted…. wanted….

He wanted his father to be here.

Slowly, he turned back. “Where’s my dad?”

“He is busy,” Yaenke said. “That is why he sent us.”

“You were sent. I chose.” Dromidius sighed. “Sorry. E’vin here has no tact.” He met the other man’s eyes. “Care to leave me alone with him for a moment?”

Yaenke bristled at the suggestion, but nodded. “Fine.” He leaned in close, and Perelor knew somehow he was not meant to hear the next thing the man said. “But do not do anything outside the plan. No matter how small.”

He stalked away, arms still folded, his expression hawkish, the bun atop the back of his head seeming to stick up too proudly into the air. Dromidius watched him go, then shook his head, snorting.

“What a prude.” A mischievous grin crossed his face. “What do you think we can get away with now he’s gone?”

The grin quickly faded as Perelor retreated backward. “Where’s my dad?” he muttered again. He felt on the verge of tears. That made him feel pathetic, which in turn made the tears come even closer to spilling. Okron, he was fourteen. He shouldn’t be crying, let alone hiding in a corner.

Yet, here he was.

“Yaenke’s right on that,” Dromidius said. “He is busy, least for now. But…”

“I want to see him,” Perelor insisted. “Even if I can’t talk to him. Please?”

Dromidius hesitated, then nodded. “Alright. We can talk on the way.”

I still don’t want to, Perelor thought. But, breathing in sharply, he rose to his feet, then followed Dromidius as the old soldier began striding through the streets toward a hovercar stop.

The streets were mostly empty by now; though light still streamed from that sunset ever frozen in the sky, most had now retired to beds in shaded rooms. Those who still strode on the walkways were bleary-eyed, most looking at nothing as they went on their way, though an unusual amount walked with holoscreens in hand, distracted, barely avoiding tripping and falling. Perelor caught a look at what one of them was watching: a projection of his father, arguing with a blue-clad government official.

“Have I ever told you about the first time I killed a man?”

Dromidius’ voice was uncharacteristically solemn, the drawl gone completely. His eyes grew distant for a moment, especially as Perelor shrunk away, taken aback by the question. Then Dromidius suddenly shook his head, snapping back into focus.

“You remind me a little of what I felt like that day. Your expression, at least. That’s why I ask.”

“I would never kill anyone,” Perelor hissed.

Dromidius only smiled sadly. “I said that once, too. Then I became a soldier.”

“Father says war is wasteful.”

“It is. I’m not arguing against that. But we’re mortals, we’re excellent at being wasteful. And sometimes… well, you can’t possibly tell me you haven’t felt it, in the arena, swinging that sword of yours.”

“That’s just because it’s fun to compete,” Perelor said, folding his arms. He was not a killer. Why were they even having this conversation? He needed to get to father. To figure out how to process… well, everything.

“No, it’s not,” Dromidius said. “Everyone says that’s what it is, and maybe that’s true for lesser men. But it’s not the competition for us. It’s the knowledge. The burden that comes from the truth that, if you miss that parry, if you can’t finish your opponent with a clever riposte, if you’re just one millisecond too slow or one centimeter off, you die. Your friends die. Contest over. Your life over. You can’t tell me you haven’t felt that, kid. You don’t get as good at swordplay as you are without feeling that.”

Perelor shivered. Not because Dromidius was wrong. Because he was right. To most kids, the arena really was just a game. But for Perelor….

His father talked little about how Perelor’s mother had died, but Perelor knew. No one had ever told him outright, but he knew. Rion had been too slow. And though it wasn’t his fault, he’d paid a price for his mistake as surely as his wife had. People sometimes asked Perelor if he missed his mother. He didn’t; he’d been two when she’d died. But he still felt her loss, every time his father locked himself in his room and unnerving silence overtook their apartment.

“It took me several tries,” Dromidius continued. “The first time, I mean. I had him beat easy. Got him disarmed, kicked him to the floor. Told him to surrender.

“He didn’t. Just drew in more Void and attacked again. I beat him again. I think I knew I had to kill him then. Didn’t want to, though. Not at all. I beat him six times, if I remember right, before I finally ran him through. Cried all night after that. Everyone kept telling me to wash the blood from my clothes, but I didn’t want to. Thought they deserved to be ruined. I did clean them eventually, though.”

He turned, forcefully meeting Perelor’s eyes even as he tried to avoid the old soldier’s gaze. “It gets easier, kid. That’s what I’m trying to say. It’s hard, searing hard, at first. But it gets easier. The guilt, and the killing. The real trick is remembering balance, as it all starts feeling natural.”

“I’m not a killer,” Perelor repeated. “I’m not a warrior, either.” Yet… if Eliel was the Endowed…

“You’re not. But you will be. There’s no way out of it, after what your sister just did.” Dromidius’ voice was soft, full of high-pitched pity. Perelor growled. He hardly even knew Dromidius, why was the man lecturing him all of a sudden?

“I told you I didn’t want to talk. Can we just go find my father?”

Dromidius smiled ruefully. “I’ve learned when people say they don’t want to talk, that’s when they need it the most. But I’ve preached enough. We can find your father, though I make no promises he won’t be busy.”

They walked in silence, arriving at the hovercar stop a few minutes later. A few seconds after that Captain Yaenke descended from above, holding his Surgeblade in his hand. He didn’t seem to think it was a big deal, his expression contemplative, but people in the surrounding streets stopped to gawk. Most had seen Surgeblades before, but seeing Ever used in careful, controlled situations and seeing someone use it to casually fly were two very different experiences. Dromidius rolled his eyes.

“You’re always too casual with that thing.”

“It’s just a blade,” Yaenke muttered. “The people here will see more, by the time this is all done. Much, much more I fear.”

Dromidius pursed his lips, and Perelor idly wondered what their cryptic conversation meant. For that matter, Dromidius had just insinuated that the first man he’d killed had been a Voidburner. A common soldier might kill one by chance, but disarming him? Strange talk.

But it was a strange day, and he was growing tired. Still, he kept his limbs moving as they hopped into a large hovercar, designed to fit several dozen people, one of the public transit models. It was empty except for them, and Yaenke tossed the woman driving it a winged silver mark as he stepped inside.

“That’s for not letting anyone else in,” he said as she gave him a puzzled look. “And for keeping your ears shut.” He settled down beside Dromidius, though his gaze fixed on Perelor and never moved away as the doors to the hovercar slid closed, and they took off. Dromidius shifted uncomfortably beside him.

“Do we really need to…” he started to say, but Yaenke raised a hand, and Dromidius fell silent.

“So,” Yaenke said. “Your sister is the Endowed. Or so your father claims. Do you believe that claim?”

Perelor bristled. “I… my father never lies, but I… well…” his thoughts swam. Too much. Too much was happening. He felt a sudden nausea, and he gripped the handles of his seat tighter, though he did not think the sensation had come from being in the air.

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“You’re too direct,” Dromidius muttered. “He’s still processing all this, now isn’t the time…”

“This is exactly the time,” Yaenke snapped. “I need to know how he is under pressure.” He leaned forward. “So, boy. Do you believe your father’s claims? Give me a straight answer this time. People will not listen to you if you stutter, no matter how sincere you are.”

“I don’t know,” Perelor said, his own voice growing irritated. “Can you leave me alone? I want to be left alone!” The last part came out as a shout, and he winced. He was losing control. He needed to see his father, and then he needed to sleep.

Yaenke just snorted in reply. “Trust me, we know you want your privacy. That’s why we’re here. We’re trying to prepare you, because you won’t be getting it anymore.”

Dromidius cleared his throat. “What Yaenke is trying to say is, your father has just stepped into the political spotlight. He’s been there before, yes, but this is far more significant. It’s not just Ethea that will be looking at him now, and those who watch him will be looking far harder. You know those kids at school? The ones like Sekhen, who hate you?”

Perelor swallowed. “Yeah?”

“It’s going to get worse. A lot worse, I’m sorry to say.”

“I guarantee you an ambassador has already been sent,” Yaenke interjected. “They will interview everyone, as they decide whether or not to condemn your sister. He seemed a little calmer now, and for the first time, Perelor noticed that the man wasn’t just looking at Perelor with the usual anger — he actually seemed afraid, his hand shaking just slightly, his eyes constantly flickering down toward Perelor’s hand. Apparently, today’s announcement had shaken him as much as Perelor himself.

“To condemn her?” Perelor asked, suddenly realizing what Yaenke had just said. “What does that mean?” He suspected it couldn’t mean anything good.

He was right. “If a Prospect for the Prophecy has a legitimate claim,” Dromidius said, “the Confederacy will usually leave them alone, as long as they submit to the Testing eventually. But if the Confederacy thinks they have no chance, they’ll order the Prospect executed. Claiming the right of Prophecy is… well, it’s serious business.”

“They don’t do it fairly, either,” Yaenke said bitterly. “Not the way it’s supposed to be done. Half the time they condemn someone, it’s just because they’re scared it’ll disrupt their plans.”

Dromidius winced. “He’s not wrong, sad to say. Not wrong at all.” He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and idly began puffing on it.

Perelor’s heart pounded. “So… they could kill Eliel?”

“Yes,” Yaenke said. “And anyone they think is involved in her plans.” He gave Perelor a meaningful glance. “And they will ask questions, boy. Many questions. You will not be alone for a few weeks at least. A very stressful few weeks.”

Perelor shivered, but to his surprise, he felt mostly numb to the news. Just another thing falling apart. “I really need to talk to my father.”

“You will,” Dromidius said. “He just might be busy. He wanted us to take care of you, while he’s busy taking care of Eliel. He… wanted us to tell you that though this is hard on you, it will be even harder on her.”

Eliel. Perelor felt a warm wash of shame as he thought of his sister. He’d hardly even considered how this would be for her. She got anxious enough over simple tests at school. She was the kindest person he knew — and the most vulnerable. The one thing he did know for certain, he realized, was that she would have no idea what she was doing.

And they might kill her if they don’t think she’s a real Prospect. He felt the shame increase. He should be trying to help her, not sitting in an alley in a pool of his own self pity.

Yet, there was still that fear. That nauseating dizziness as everything spun and changed.

“I need to talk to my father,” he repeated. He just needed a few minutes, anyway. His father always knew exactly what to say.

As if on cue, the hovercar landed. The driver, looking pale, stood up, waving them out, trembling. Evidently she had heard their conversation. She slammed the door shut and sped off as soon as they were out.

“How much coin did you give her?” Dromidius asked dryly. “Cause if I were a betting man, I’d say we have maybe a few hours before word gets out you were talking with the Endowed’s brother.”

“I gave her as much as I dared,” Yaenke replied. He frowned. “I thought you gambled?”

“I did. Got bored of it.” Dromidius sucked in a deep breath from his Adrellian gas tube, then folded it and stuffed it into his pocket. “Blasted things are smaller than they used to be,” he muttered.

Perelor tried his best to ignore their conversation, sweeping his eyes over the garden of the Grand Shrine. The crowds were gone, replaced by stoic soldiers in Palace Guard uniforms. They gave Yaenke — their commanding officer — curt nods as the trio walked by, though Perelor did not miss the disgusted glances they shot Dromidius behind the other man’s back. He didn’t miss the sleek, chrome ships on the landing pads nearest the Shrine, either. Emblazoned on them was a large, ornate glyph, a burning star with three intersecting rings inscribed within. A symbol of the Three Powers, and the Church — and twisting, flowery marks in the center of the rings on the glyph told Perelor that this vehicle belonged to the highest ranking Church official in the nation.

“Cherria,” he hissed under his breath. He vaguely remembered someone saying before the chaos that she was at another person’s ceremony. Deliberately snubbing them, he guessed, even after they’d tried to extend a peaceful hand by doing the Naming at her Shrine. Not unsurprising, not for her. Perelor could hardly imagine her fury at what had just transpired.

He didn’t have to imagine, though. For as they stepped inside the Shrine, flanked by two guards Yaenke had ordered to follow them, they immediately heard shouting.

“Okron? You, quoting Okron? I haven’t seen you in a cathedral for decades! You have no right to invoke her name.”

Rion just snorted. “Are you actually willing to have a conversation, priestess? You seem to have come only to scream, and I have had more than enough of that today.”

They stood near the Naming altar, Priestess Cherria with her arms folded, a posse of other priests behind her. Rion leaned one hand against the altar, fingers tapping against its surface pensively. Eliel cowered behind him, hands folded behind her back, eyes wide.

“Well, that would be because there is more than enough to scream about,” Cherria continued. She was a short, plump woman, hardly intimidating physically. Perelor could’ve fought her swordless when he was ten years old. Yet there was something in the way she gazed at Rion, not just angry but also hungry, waiting for him to make a misstep. The two other priests behind her bore no weapons, either, yet the way they held themselves was almost like that of soldiers waiting for an ambush.

Cherria has a chance to get rid of us now, Perelor realized, the nausea growing, the room swimming. She would take that chance. She was more orthodox than anyone Perelor knew; she made Sekhen look casual in his beliefs. And she’d always hated the Krots most of all, the foolish politicians who refused to acknowledge their ancestor’s crimes.

Though his father must have realized this long ago — Perelor was far worse than his father at reading people — he only cocked an eyebrow at Cherria’s outrage, his face otherwise stony calm. “I didn’t say there wasn’t. The Endowed has been found, Priestess. There will be much to debate, I fear, in the coming days, and far too little time to do it properly. Which is why I ask that you leave, if you have nothing more productive to say. I have matters to attend to.”

“Are you dismissing me?” Cherria snapped. “In my own Shrine?”

“Merely dismissing myself,” Rion said coolly, stepping away from the altar. “I think we can both agree this conversation has gone nowhere.” He walked away, and Cherria turned, sneering.

“Running away from your betters? Heretic.”

“At least I’m not a coward,” Perelor heard Rion mutter. Cherria stiffened, waving to the other priests behind her. They, too, straightened.

“Rion Krot,” Cherria said. “We are placing you under official Church discipline. Our orders come from the Trett herself. From now on, your entire family will be noted as heretics in our records, and Confederacy soldiers will accompany them.” Her voice grew deadly soft. “Unless you recount this nonsense?”

Rion turned, and Perelor actually shivered; he had never seen such raw anger in his father’s eyes. “You test my patience,” he said. “I did not enjoy my time as a warrior, but give me enough of a reason and I can remember it.”

“Then you do not back down?”

“Never.”

Cherria raised her voice. “Then Okron be our witness that the Church denounces you. May the Three Blades have mercy on your soul.”

Rion met her with defiant eyes. “And Okron be my witness,” he said, raising his own voice. “That the Three Blades will condemn you all.” He whipped around, gesturing for Perelor and the others to follow. “Come, all of you. We’ve all spent enough time in the presence of fools today.”

Perelor swallowed, but followed, as did Yaenke. Dromidius hung back, gently touching Eliel’s shoulder; she was shaking — likely on the verge of a Soulcursed episode. She responded to Dromidius’ touch, though, and together they all trailed behind Rion out of the room. Perelor did not miss the two green-clad Confederacy soldiers who stalked behind them as they walked out into the gardens.

Finally, Rion stopped, turning back, the anger gone, weariness replacing it. For the first time Perelor noticed the bags under Rion’s eyes, and the way those eyes darted about nervously.

“I think I went too far,” he heard his father mutter. “Too aggressive. The Confederacy will require boldness, but I still think I went too far.” He shook his head.

“I’m sorry. I’m getting distracted; this has been a long day.” He nodded to Dromidius and Eliel. “My daughter is tired, too, I think. If you could escort her back to the apartment?”

Dromidius saluted with a hand to his chest. “My pleasure, Rion.” Eliel gently let Dromidius lead her away.

Almost immediately, Yaenke turned to Rion. “This did not go as well as you planned.”

“I’m aware.”

“Are you truly?”

“As aware as I can be. Stop worrying, Yaenke. Believe me when I say I’m doing enough of that for all of us.”

Yaenke nodded slowly, his eyes drifting to Perelor suddenly. He stiffened. “Well, I hope that is true. Because there is plenty to worry about. I must leave now. But don’t tell the boy too much.”

He strode off, a dangerous glint in his eyes that made Perelor shiver. Perelor’s father stood still for a long moment, shoulders slumped. Then, finally, he turned to Perelor, frowning.

“I should have told you,” he said. “I’m sorry. Yaenke pressured me not to, but that’s no excuse.”

“It’s fine,” Perelor lied. “But Dad… what’s going to happen?”

There was a long pause, and Perelor felt his heart pound. He knows what to do. He has to.

“I don’t know,” Rion said eventually. “I barely know what I’m doing, son. All I know is that I have to keep going. The galaxy depends on it.”

There was a gravity to his voice. “She really is the Endowed,” Perelor whispered.

“As far as I can tell,” Rion said. “If I’m wrong… well, I can’t afford to think about that. I have to assume I’m right.” He met Perelor’s eyes. “You’ve been training with E’vin in the sword, yes?”

“Yeah, but…”

“I have a request for you, then. A selfish request. Your sister is… not the best with her powers, not yet. If something were to come for her…” Rion shivered. “I want you to promise me you’ll keep your sword with you from now on. Just in case your sister gets into trouble.”

Perelor paled. “You think someone’s going to try to kill her?”

“Yes, frankly, I do. It’s only a matter of when now.” He gave Perelor a sad smile. “I’m sorry to thrust you into this. I really am. But can you promise me?”

Perelor swallowed. “I… I don’t know, Dad. Honestly, I don’t know what to make of this.”

“I know. Can you promise me anyway?”

Perelor hesitated. “I can try,” he said finally.

“That’s good enough.” Rion rubbed his face with his hand. “There is so much to do… I had hoped the Confederacy would take to this with less fuss. I shouldn’t have expected Cherria to cooperate, though.” He shook his head. “But you needn’t worry yourself with that, and I need to sleep. Let’s go home.”

He turned and began walking away, gesturing for Perelor to follow. Perelor did, numb. Not just from the revelations about Eliel, but also from another revelation.

For once, his father didn’t know what to do. That, more than anything, terrified him.