AKI:

I was going home.

The notion felt… dissonant, untrue—not in the strictest sense, but in essence. Or perhaps not; despite not knowing what a home was, I knew with unreasonable certainty what it was not.

What is a home? A place where one lays their head at night? By that definition, The Academy ought to have felt like home. It did not. Familiar, sure, but not like home. Was it the focal scene of one’s past? Few can look upon The Muds and all its poverty with any fondness. I was not one of those few. Was it, then, the backdrop to one's memories? My memories possessed little worth except as tools that’d chiseled me into who I had become. Family? I had no family. None that I chose or wished to acknowledge as such. Was it, then, where the heart lay? No, that was a sentiment created at the behest of empires who sought willing soldiers, a handsome lie designed to make slaves of men and women and have them rush into battles they had no worthwhile reasons to join, all in the name of protecting whatever land they and their families happened to occupy. Not here in Evergreen, of course. Here, the Houses were more forthright in their enslavement of citizens. Lorail might have been the most honest in this, a truth steeped in irony, but the others, too, created slaves merely by wantonly pursuing whims petrified by their age and lofty superiorities. Bainan's reverence for strength reduced the weak to insignificance, Grono and Silas’ quests for discovery reduced lives into currency and souls into ingredients, and The Old Queen and Manar abandoned our well-being for the demise of others.

In the end, I was forced to admit I had no home, for I could not muster a hint of affection for either the land, the people, or the gods of Evergreen.

We stood in the courtyard of our dorms in the cold of a fresh winter morning. Carriages coiled around the broken statue of Knite. There I was at the entrance to our dorms, ready, my life’s possessions packed into a small bag and hanging off my back, watching the vehicles but only seeing where they’d take me.

“Are you sure?” Dako asked.

“I cannot fathom why you wish to return,” Wiltos said. He had chosen to stay behind. I knew his family missed him; they had sent many letters, all of which he’d hidden away unopened. Wiltos’ guilt and fear had grown with each passing day, and he bolted from any conversation where they were mentioned or hinted at. He was not ready to face them.

“Unfinished business,” I said. I had my own fears to face, and I was ready.

“Alone?” Dako asked.

“Alone.”

“And the assassins? House Yabiskus?”

“I’ll be careful.”

“But—”

“Alone.” My expression drove away further objections. My decision was final, my mission mine and mine alone. “I appreciate the concern, Dako, as I do the dangers.”

“Can we move on to a less exhausted subject,” Malorey said. “You’ve already talked this subject to death, and I tire of your perpetual back and forth.” She prompted Sil with a nod. “Onto better news.”

Sil stepped forward and handed me the long, black case she carried. It stood nearly as tall as she did, the surface gleaming and untarnished by nary a scratch.

“A present,” she said. “From all of us.”

“I was wondering what that was.” I took it in hand and felt its weight. “What is it?”

“You’d know if you opened it instead of asking questions.”

“A question,” I corrected. “Singular.”

Sil giggled a little, and the sound was all too pure to come from someone as dangerous and broken as she was. “Be quiet and open it already.”

I released the latch and pulled the halves apart on well-oiled hinges. Inside lay a double-edged longsword the silver of moonlight. The ivory ball of its pommel led to a grip wrapped in leather. From the color and touch, I knew the hide came from an evolved beast—no mundane creature possessed such a coat so stout. Zephyr engravings ran along the flat of the blade, rosy, clean-cut, and humming. The tips of my fingers ran down its length. The metal was a wonder, warm to the touch and, where it was free of matrix etchings, so smooth as to provide no discernable friction as if my touch skid across the surface of still water. Beside it lay the scabbard, its body wrapped in the same leather of the grip, its throat made of the same ivory as the pommel.

“Ho-how did you afford this?” I asked.

“We didn’t,” Wiltos said. “Well, we did buy the materials, but the work is ours, and as such, it is not nearly as costly as you might imagine.”

“Moreso, for time is not a currency we are rich in,” I said. “I know the Zephyr matrixes are Sil’s.” I flashed her a smile before returning my attention to Wiltos. “Did you do the blade itself?”

Wiltos smiled proudly. “I had planned to concentrate on Golem Arts. Dako convinced me otherwise. That there is the fruits of my labor—all of our labor, I should say.”

I curled my fingers around the hilt and lifted the sword so the point faced the morning sky. The scabbard I clipped to my travel belt. “Who?”

“The blade is Wiltos,” Dako explained. The distraction had momentarily wiped away his concerns. “I treated the leather for the grip and scabbard, Sil carved the Zephyr matrixes, and Malorey added the ivory, bestowing the natural regeneration of an evolved Af’titalan mammoth. The sword will serve you well and long.”

This was a gift like no other. The effort it must’ve taken them, all the turns they could’ve spent training or preparing for their bouts. Maybe The Academy is my home, I thought as I looked up at them in turn. Maybe they are.

“Climb aboard,” Lokos shouted from atop the head carriage. “And be quick about it!”

“Take care of yourselves,” I said. “I’ll see you all upon my return.”

I hugged my friends goodbye. Dako’s was firm and lingered as if the strength of his farewell might convince me to stay. Sil’s had me once more appreciating her closeness, the smell and heat of her speaking to primal parts of me who entertained no other. Wiltos’ was brief. This whole affair had him thinking about matters he’d rather have kept locked away. Malorey’s was awkward and unfamiliar, not because it was me she was hugging, but because she was hugging someone at all.

And with a final wave, we parted ways.

I ran over to the carriages. Where once there were twenty, there were now only six, and I’d heard there were a few students not from the capital who were catching a ride. Thirty-four students bustled, the chaos of placement yet undecided. My appearance only added to the confusion. Of the six Leaves who had taken the foremost carriage the day we first left the capital, only three remained. Two of those who’d not survived had been felled by my hand. And so it was that all of the students came to a standstill, waiting to see what position I’d claim. Someone made the decision for me.

“Aki!” Samiel waved at me, grinning ear to ear. “Come!” He was already inside the foremost carriage, half of him hanging out of the window.

I approached. The few godlings vying for the open seats parted silently, their gazes held low. Pride rushed through my blood. There was a time these people had made baggage out of me.

I leaped the three steps up to the carriage door in one, ducked low, and entered. Four students occupied the space—Samiel, two Leaves I knew only by reputation, and Edon. My old friend glared, his anger as hot and hungry as it had been the day I tore apart our bond. Wiltos, who remained friendly with many of the Roots, had told me that Edon had made himself a reputation, proving himself more powerful than anyone knew. I, of course, had suspected ever since that fateful day I dared breach his soul.

Samiel took my wrist and drew me into the seat between him and a Manar godling by the name of Frida.

“Delightful to have you along,” he said. “Frida and Crilt can be such bores.” He did not deign to mention Edon.

“If you’ll be so kind as to keep his attention,” Frida said to me, “you’re welcome to join us.”

“I do not need your permission,” I said, the words unbidden. But they came calm, not angry. Confident, not combative.

Frida glowered. “I only meant to say—” She shook her head. “Never mind.”

“Ah, see,” Samiel cried. “You’re entertaining me already. Oh, this is going to be so much more fun than the last trip home.”

Crilt, the other Leaf, a Grono Seculor with long, flat hair reaching to his back, sharp cheekbones, a narrow mouth, and unusually thick eyelashes that had the unnerving ability to catch sunlight, sighed.

Bund, another Grono, won the war of words and took his prize as the last person to join our carriage. Soon, the coaches began to move. They moved with the fluidity I remembered, though it seemed far less impressive now that I knew what powers were being employed.

Samiel’s chatter continued interminably. I drowned out his voice, lay my head back, and closed my eyes.

The first day of the journey was uneventful and might’ve been quiet except for Samiel’s constant droning. Surprisingly, I had come to find him less annoying as time went on. As we crossed rolling hills, farmland, and forests, always in view of the sea, always given a healthy berth by animals, evolved beasts, marauders, and merchant caravans alike, Samiel’s sharp mind and raving gaiety had hacked away at my reticence, pulling me deeper and deeper into debates and discussions I engaged in with growing interest.

On our first night, I found myself in Samiel’s spacious tent, where we shared wines, desserts, and opinions.

“If you think our parents are flawed, you must accept that Merkusian, too, was susceptible to errors,” he was saying.

“‘Our,’ you say?” I asked, an eyebrow raised.

He laughed—which for him came as a mad crow—and shifted on the silken cushion he sat upon. “We both know you’re no commoner.”

I waved his comment away. “In any case, I accept that Merkusian is flawed. His very death proves that to be the case.”

“So how are you to know that his prescriptions were any more right than those of The Old Queen? Or Lorail? Or my father?”

I swallowed a bite of my dessert—an apple-based dish covered in flaky bread and heated sugar. I’d never consumed anything near so delightful. “Because he achieved the best results.”

“According to who?”

“Collectively.”

“And is that the prime aim?”

“What else?”

“What of personal goals?”

“Two is more than one as three is more than two.”

“But you, in this ideal world you extracted from our grandfather’s writings and fermented in your mind’s imagination, would have us—and by us, I mean gods and godlings—carry the weight of their collective desires. What of that imbalance?”

“As Merkusian said, ‘The world is unfair, and it is the strong who must carry the burden.’ Those were words of wisdom.”

“And you think them fair. I say he made slaves of us.”

I shook my head, but the audacity of his claim had me smiling. “He said ‘must’ as a matter of need, not of compulsion.”

“And that may very well be, but the ambiguity of his wording could just as well be one of many errors.”

“Likely true, which brings me to my next point. How can a god be flawed? A god is perfect. So when—”

“To who, as what, and on what scale? A perfect diamond can only be that. You cannot ask a diamond to rule. A perfect sword knows only to cut, a slave to obey, a seamstress to seam, and so on and so forth. Then tell me what exactly you mean by a perfect god? To me, a god is a being of power, their measure of perfection in how absolute their authority is. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Then any child with the strength to crush an ant is a god.”

Samiel cackled. “They would be if nothing else existed. Power is a grand pyramid of authority, and we, my good friend, are near the pinnacle. Crushing an ant does not release a child from their parent’s influence—nor ours—just as a stone near the base of the pyramid cannot free itself from the weight of the stones placed above them.”

“Then there is our divergence!” My ears were deaf to the intensity of my exclamation. “I believe we are all ants under an invisible stone so powerful as to be unfathomable. And imagine for a moment if this being turned the pyramid upside down. What if we lost our sensus tomorrow? Would we survive the crushing weight? Would you not wish for the new gods to reconsider bearing down on your new insignificance, lay down their righteous anger, and spare you?”

Samiel was primed to refute my claims when we heard the howls and screams of students.

“Trouble,” he said.

Outside, underneath the frozen rain of stars, was a circle of students shouting encouragement. They surrounded two figures I could not see but for the blonde of their hair peaking above or between gaps in the crowd as they fought.

“Oh, how boring,” Samiel said. “Come, let us return to our discussion. It is, I’m sure, a far more engaging use of our time.”

A familiar shout stole my pending agreement.

“I will not listen! A bargain was struck. They shall not renege! I will not let them!”

“That’s Edon,” I said.

“And?” Samiel was already heading back to the island of comfort he’d assembled for our evening, the desserts steaming under Ignis plates, plump cushions so supple as to induce lethargy piled invitingly, and jugs of sweet wine made by a Named Alchemist shining with the deep red of a good brew. It was not enough to deter me.

I drove through the encirclement. One or two of the students turned, ready for violence. The sight of me stripped them of their initial reactions, and they stood aside, warning their friends to make way.

Edon was in the midst of battering another godling into submission—except the boy had long ago submitted, and no one seemed particularly willing to let Edon know. The slab that was Edon’s right hand rained down a pouring of blows. The godling’s broken nose was bent sideways and plastered to his face. His arms hung limp. Blood leaked from multiple cuts. His left eye was swollen shut. Unconsciousness had closed the right.

“They will acknowledge me,” Edon screamed. I had never seen him so unhinged. “I will leave them no other choice! Fuck them! Fuck them all!”

“Edon!” I shouted over him. I was by his side, my arm looped around his. He fought me, and his strength had me wondering if he was a Leaf. “Edon!” I tried again.

He spun and shoved me back. “What do you want?”

“That’s your uncle,” I said, and I knew my words were useless the moment they left my lips; family meant nothing but competition to a godling.

“So?” he snarled.

“You’ve beaten him half to death,” I said. Better. Rules meant a great deal to those of House Bainan. Tradition. Etiquette. It meant a lot to all the Houses. It was the only barrier holding back the anarchy of a civil war. “Are you allowed to kill him?”

“What’s it to you?” His madness receded. The anger remained, his tone a growl, his face a picture of rage, but the mindless bloodlust had left his eyes.

I held up my hands. “I say you ought to ask yourself what it is to you.”

He spat at the huddled mess that was his victim, snorted, and walked past me, bumping his shoulder into mine as he did. “Stay out of my affairs, Aki, until the day we both stand ready to face our enmity.”

I knelt over the injured boy—a slight man two cycles my senior in actuality, with the sides of his head shaved and sharp nails filed to points. His pulse was thready. Weak. As was his breathing. The crowd was already in the midst of dispersing. I risked a slow burst of Surgeon Arts.

“He’ll live,” Samiel said.

My sensus shut down. I had not sensed his approach.

“No point,” he said. “If you thought the barriers of the arenas at The Academy were enough to hide the signature of Duros Arts when you defeated Froxil, you’d be wrong. Well, not completely—not many have my particular set of skills, after all. Now, move aside. If you want little Spenten healed, I shall do you the favor of doing it well.”

Samiel made short work of dragging Spenten back from the brink of death. But for all the blood he shed, the Fiora had returned to a picture of health. His eyes soon fluttered open, and he shot to a sitting position.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Your nephew beat you like you were a slave who caused more damage than he was worth,” Samiel said, laughed, and then had the gall to look offended when Spenten didn’t join in. “Retrieve your spirits, boy. I’m half certain Edon is strong enough to be a Leaf. A low-tiered Leaf, but a Leaf nonetheless.”

Spenten lashed out. He twisted, got to his knees, then punched the ground much the same way Edon had struck his face. “That obscenity dared attack me! Me!”

“Why?” I found myself asking.

Spenten looked up. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but whatever insult, rebuke, or threat his mind had conjured never took up his voice. Twice more, his face and lips puckered as if to speak. Twice more, he failed to utter a word.

Samiel pulled the boy to his feet and good-naturedly smacked his back. “Get a hold of yourself, man. You’re a second-cycle graduate of The Academy. If you were of my house, I’d have strung you up and left you to be plucked to death by vultures. There you go—another thing to be thankful for.”

Spenten got to his feet, leaned forward, licked the blood from his lips, and spat it on the ground. “He will pay this.”

“What was it that set his actions in motion?” I tried. Edon had morphed since our time in the preparatory academy. First to be cut away was his affable nature. For that, I was to blame. Then this boy, this godling who fancied himself Edon’s better, using whatever scheme or truth he wielded that was so sharp against Edon’s soul had evoked in my old friend a seething maelstrom of madness. But then again, I had seen this sinister side of Edon when I peaked past his disguise, deep in the recesses of his mind and soul, hidden around a mess of deceit and ambition. So perhaps we—this Spenten and I—did nothing more than peal back the layers Edon had erected about himself. Perhaps…

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“Are you an enemy of house Yabiskus?” Spenten asked.

“I am an enemy to no one,” I said. A trick of words. Merkus would be proud.

“You killed Froxil and Vignil.”

“They died pursuing my death. I just made sure they found theirs first.”

Spenten looked off into the distance and sneered like he was sneering at the memory of his dead kin. “And you have no ill intent towards House Bainan?”

“I count one of their number as a friend. Perhaps two.”

Samiel hopped in place with a petulance native to his childlike eccentricities. “Tell me I’m the second. Go on. Tell me. Oh, tell me, tell me, tell me.”

“Although I’m quickly being dissuaded,” I added without looking over at the bouncing Leaf.

Spenten schooled his expression of scorn, pointedly ignoring Samiel’s antics. “Nevertheless, I cannot tell you what you wish to know. I was not meant to be privy to the news.”

“But for the sake of being vindictive,” Samiel said, “you could not help but share the news with Edon.”

Irritation flashed across Spenten’s face, but once more, he was forced to rein in his hatred. “A mistake I shall not commit twice over.”

Samiel and I returned to his tent. Edon’s troubles had driven me into a pensive mood, and Samiel, try as he might, was unable to pull into conversation. And so the rest of our night was spent engorging ourselves on sweets and wines.

***

The capital mesmerized me, not only because I rarely had the opportunity to scope its size or because my time away had dimmed its glow or because the height of its plateaus reminded me of how far I had left to climb, but because its majesty did little to hide all its familiar parts. It had been nearly two cycles since I’d seen the place. Two cycles where I spent my days looking forward and onwards. Rare was it that my past was referenced by my thoughts, and such occasions grew more sporadic as time passed. No longer. This place would not allow me to forget. To bury. To let only the vaguest hints of my past hover in my subconscious mind as a gentle reminder of my purpose. The dip of The Muds, the mud itself, the macerated shacks of wood, and the small domed roofs of the libraries whose cleanliness stood them apart from their immediate surroundings flooded my mind with snippets of my past and imagery of my near future. This feeling only subsided when we had ascended partway up the thin road towards the southern gate, The Roots’ plateau blocking my view of The Muds.

Edon leaped out before we came to a stop, the carriage door flapping violently in the wake of his sudden and premature departure. Throughout the second leg of our trip, he’d imitated a statue, eyes closed, arms crossed, and stiff as a corpse, so his abrupt movement caught the rest of us off guard.

Soon, the carriage came to a stop, and the rest of us disembarked. Some of the Barks stationed at the garrison trained near the old but well-maintained two-story buildings surrounding the ample space before the exit. Groups of ornate carriages and Root servants stood near the only road leading deeper into the city, prepared to receive and greet their masters.

Samiel waved to a woman at the front of the waiting crowd, but before he went to join her, he turned to me. “I wish you a peaceful recess. If you find some time to spare, please visit me at my home in The Branches. I shall leave word at the gate.”

I nodded. “Your offer of hospitality is appreciated, Samiel. I have not yet had the chance to visit The Branches. Alas…”

Samiel pouted. “And here I thought you had come to appreciate my charming company.”

“You’d just as quickly dissect me as invite me to your home,” I said. “That somewhat disparages your charm.”

Samiel shrugged, doing nothing to refute my claim. “That’s as much your fault as mine. I can do nothing about my fascination, just as I suspect you can do nothing about inspiring it.”

I offered him a smile. Dangerous though he may have been, his forthright nature made him seem less so. This, I knew, made him more dangerous, but it was difficult to not find comfort in how transparent he made his intentions.

“Let me make this concession, then, Samiel,” I said. “You are as much a friend to me as you are an enemy.”

Samiel hooted and clapped my shoulder. “I fear you are far more a subject of intrigue than you are a friend to me, dear Aki. Let no one say I’ve ever spoken a smidgen of falsehood. In the vein of this truth, know that I will bear you no cause for concern while you enjoy my hospitality—that is if you so choose to accept my invitation.”

I held out my hand and clasped his forearm as he clasped mine. “If time allows.”

Samiel left to join his waiting party.

“Why have you come back to the capital?” Lokos stood beside me. “Our mission remains in Discipulus. As do your allies.”

“The assassins and their employer are not my only enemies.” I looked off to the west, where the green spires rose above the clouds, then to the east, to the dirt that lay at the foot of the city.

“Why did you not bring your friends?” Lokos asked. I did not answer. “Illora is in the city. I know the two of you have become… companionable. Seek her. She may provide some safety after you’ve slain whoever you’ve come to slay.”

I waited for the crowds to disperse. It took more time than I’d anticipated. The godlings were eager to return to the comfort of their lavish homes and so were quick about their departure. The Roots were less so; many of them had only just found the funds needed to return home, and the long-awaited reunions they shared with their worried families and friends were extended by hugs and laughter and impatient tellings of the troubles and triumphs they’d experienced in their two cycles away. Eventually, they, too, left to return home.

A lone figure remained. Large. Familiar. The hints of a warrior’s physique hid under the fat of his retirement. The scars remained. Prominent. A badge of honor. I approached.

“I did not think you’d come to collect me,” I said. “I do not even know how you knew to do so.”

Bishol chuckled. “I am your sponsor. More importantly, you are my boy’s friend.”

***

Bishol was a solicitous host.

Three days passed. Three days of being smothered by his eagerness to keep my company. I had tried to slink out the first night, but he intercepted me by the front door, worried over what had brought me out of bed. Merkus’ bed. I lied and blamed my inflated thirst. He chose to believe my bald-faced lie—my heavy coat and thick boots refuted my claim, but he made no show of noticing.

The second and third were filled with luxuries of one sort or another: pastries, meats, and wines too costly for his wages served in establishments too refined for his sensibilities; entertainment—a play replaying epics of battle held in The Heartwood’s most prestigious theatre, a private performance by a famous bard at a high-ranking Heartwood’s estate, and a visit to a bathhouse run and maintained by well-trained Surgeons, Herbalists, and Tunnellers; and a trip to the tailoring district that saw me get new clothes so finely made as to match those worn by the loftiest of ascended Branches. The packed itinerary he’d scheduled and the novelty of the experiences had distracted me for a while, but the burning anticipation of what I had come to do would not relinquish its hold nor stray from my thoughts for too long.

And so, as I sat across from him in his dining room on the morning of the fourth day, eating a breakfast fit for gods, I voiced my intent to escape his polite imprisonment.

“I must attend to personal matters this day,” I said.

Bishol looked up from the mass of food piled on his plate. “Tell me what it is. I shall send a servant out to do your bidding so you might be free to enjoy your break. I am sure The Academy has not let your mind rest at ease while it had you within the grasp of its walls.”

I set down my cutlery in its proper places, wiped my mouth with my napkin, and pushed my half-eaten breakfast forward to indicate to the servant standing by the door that I was done. The portly girl ran over, bowed, and absconded with my leftovers as though she were a thief.

“The Academy and its influence on me is not so limited as to be restricted by distance,” I said. “But that is beside the point. As I’ve said, it is a personal matter to which I must attend, and it cannot be handled by a proxy.”

Downcast, Bishol wiped the grease from his lips off with the back of his hand, lay his large scarred arms on either side of his plate, and nodded his reluctant acceptance.

“Merkus and Addy?” I asked, my tone sympathetic.

“The aid of servants does not make up for an empty home,” he admitted.

“It is difficult to go without the comfort of true companionship for ones such as us. Only those who’ve ventured the depth of hunger know to fear its slow encroachment.”

“Indeed. Infuriating as they may have been”—he smiled as if to contradict his statement—“I have missed them greatly these past two cycles.”

I stood from my seat, spurred on by his sadness and how it brought forth the ache of my own. “I shall be quick about completing my errand and look forward to whatever delight you have planned next. My return shall pass before the sun reaches its zenith.”

Bishol’s forced smile was further lamed by the sad angle of his eyes. “Do not fret on my account, Aki. Go about your business. I am sorry for having forced upon you the burden of assuaging my loneliness.”

I approached him, laid a hand on his broad back, and said without the highbrow speech we’d conversed in since my return, “I tell you what, Bishol. Let us drink our worries away tonight. And none of that prissy shit you’ve been serving in those tiny glass cups.”

Bishol looked up and grinned at me. “Prissy, indeed. How they ever get good and drunk off that shite is a wonder for the ages.”

“Tonight, we drink like true Muds. Cheap ale by the bucket.”

Bisho nodded sharply. “By the bucket, then.”

“In the deepest shithole we can find and surrounded by the rowdiest crowd The Bark has to offer, we drink til we drop.”

“Tonight,” he said as I made to leave. I was nearly beyond the door when he spoke again. “You’ve changed.”

I looked over my shoulder at him. “Two years of good food and constant training can put an awful lot of weight on a newly arisen Mud, for which I have you to thank.”

Bishol shook his head. “No, I don’t mean physically, though you certainly have put on quite a bit of height and width. No, I mean you’ve changed. You’re… less uncertain, more sure of yourself. More…”

“Godling,” I finished.

“Without all the pomposity, of course,” he hastily added.

“Of course.” My smile let him know I was unoffended. “Tonight, then.”

My heart beat like an army of galloping horses the moment I set foot outside and began my trek to The Muds. The confrontation was nigh. Two gates and a turn separated me and Kalin. He would die. One of my fundamental purposes would be complete. I would be half free of my past. One death. One act of vengeance. Of justice.

Familiar guards worked The Bark gate. I recognized them, for their cruelty had not diminished, and they badgered the folks who only wished to get on with their duties in peace. Their abuse scaled inversely with their victim’s standing. Far as I was from the gate, the long, unimpeded, and wide road leading up to it and my sufficient skill in Aedificator and Reaper Arts let me hear and see the proceedings long before I reached them.

The guards made space and bowed as a stubby Branch Tripler dressed in bright lavender robes walked past. A Root hung from the Branch’s arm, her attention suckling on every word of self-praise he uttered as if he were delivering a divine oration about matters of great import. More Roots followed in the Branch’s wake, carrying the load of his spending spree. They, too, went unassailed.

A Bark, whose early-morning entry revealed him to have a Root as a wife or mistress, was ridiculed for his coital proclivity. That was the extent of the mistreatment he suffered.

Then there were the Roots, who had stood aside until the few who outranked their station were let through. Servants. Or couriers. Others with better prospects knew to avoid crossing the gate. The delayed Roots jostled for any position but the first—any Root who came after a Branch suffered the irritation the guards felt at being reminded of their own subservience. A gangly Root with a cleft lip lost and was rewarded with a bombardment of abuse.

“Ugly one, ain't ya?” The first guard said. He had a lazy eye, wet lips, hashla seeds stuffed in his cheek, a receding hairline flowing into a braided tail, and an unkempt beard streaked with grey meant to hide his weak jawline and severe overbite. I knew him to be unsparing with insults. I also knew the ridicule he suffered for his unsightly appearance fermented his cruelty.

“A son of cousins.” A woman guard with a deep dimple on her chin.

“Nah, his mother probably fucked a horse. Look at those teeth of his.” Another man. Narrow shoulders. Thin. Droopy eyes. “Go on then, boy, don’t leave us in suspense. Did you spring from the coupling of cousins, or did a herd animal sire you into existence? If it’s the second, I’d surely like to see the cave that could house a horse’s member.”

The Root curled into himself, shivering because of the hounds nipping at the fragile strand of his health and livelihood. And he was right.

Lazy-eye kicked the Root’s shin. The blow drove the Root’s leg back and out from under him, and he fell to the ground face-first.

“I believe you were asked a question, boy.” The shape of the guard’s thick mustache ruffled into a new angle, and I knew the bastard was smiling.

The Root lay there, hands tucked beneath his chest, one cheek pressed to the cold stone cobbles, blood running down his split and whimpering lips.

Dimple-face yanked the bag strap around the courier's shoulder till she’d dragged him to his feet and shoved him past the gate and into The Bark. “Off with you, centaur. You bore me.”

A young girl—fifteen if I were to grant a few cycles to my highest estimate, her hair bound back and knotted by a glossy string—tried to pass by meekly, chin tucked, arms wrapped about herself, and fear-filled eyes hiding behind a fringe of black curls. But Droopy-eyes had not yet had his fill.

“Where ya hurryin’ off to, lass?” he asked.

I drew close enough for my voice to be heard and spoke over the dozen other Roots anxiously waiting their turn to cross. “Step aside.”

They did, shuffling out of my way.

Droopy-eyes fell back, pulling the maid girl with him. I approached and loomed before him, two heads taller and three times his weight. With my black leather breeches tucked into finely crafted high boots, blue tunic cut tight around my midriff by a black belt, and the sword my friends gifted me clipped to my side, I made a godling. Add in my pastel hair and my Academy mark, which hung over my tunic and in clear sight, and I looked the part of a modestly dressed Seculor.

“Has she committed an offense?” I asked.

Droopy-eyes kept his gaze low and his grip on the Root firm. “Um, I…”

I snatched his wrist, bent it towards his forearm, and pushed upwards so he had to turn and lean back to alleviate the pressure on his joints. He gasped and released The Root.

“Be on your way,” I told her, then turned my attention back to the wincing guard. “I asked you a question, Bark.”

“My apologies, sir,” he said.

I increased the pressure until he was standing on the very tips of his toes. “I did not ask for an apology.”

“She did not, sir.” The words came quick. Eager. As if driven by a hope that the speed of their delivery would reflect the end of his pain.

“Are you ascended from war?” I asked.

“From promotion.”

“Admin?”

He nodded frantically, red with the effort of holding in his whimpers of pain. “Yes, sir.”

I snorted. “Figures. Son of a merchant, are you?”

“My family are humble servants of the houses.”

I leaned in close to his ear, though my voice remained loud enough to be heard by the other guards, who stood deferentially to the side. “Your games have delayed me. I hereby forbid you from such activities. If you transgress my edict, you shall spend the rest of your life in The Bridge for your insubordination.”

I empowered my strength with Reaper Arts and thrust Droopy-eyes into his fellow guards. There were at least two broken bones between them when their collision came to a stop. I did not stay to check, strolling away as if the entire matter was a triviality.

More familiar guards met me at the gates to The Muds. Serg, the older and shorter of the two, went to his knees and bowed the moment he glimpsed my approach, only pausing in his protestation to prod Lekol into echoing his actions. The traffic here was far slower than the gates between the other sectors of the capital; few Muds had the right or reason to enter The Roots, and few of those on higher planes had the desire to bear the stink of Evergreen’s poorest region.

I walked past them without a word. A part of me wanted to ask after Diloni, to speak with her and know all she did of the machinations that had molded my childhood, to determine how willingly she did Lorail’s bidding, and to see if the sliver of fondness I still held for her deserved to live. Merkusian had said, ‘Do not judge a crime by the scope of its damage but by the maliciousness of intent and negligence of consequence.’ Surely, she had done me considerable damage. How much, I did not know. Was it her who set the children of The Muds on me? Had she known Kalin or the horrors I’d suffered by his hand? Was it she who instructed him to do so on behalf of Lorail?

But I was not supposed to know enough to question her, and so my target was set.

Kalin’s dwelling was much the same. The porch creaked under my weight. The wind whistled through the gaps. Green-tinged light, a mixture of that shone by the sun and those emitted by the spires, bathed the browns of wood and mud in a sickly color.

I approached the door. It stood ajar.

Not again, I thought. But resolve and accumulated strength drove me onwards. I pushed the door open.

The place was in disarray. The lone chair we kept in the front room lay in the corner, fragmented. The flattened bed of straw I used to sleep on had been scattered into clumps. I walked deeper into the room. Splinters broke beneath my sturdy boots.

A sharp intake of breath came from behind me! I spun.

A figure lay in the corner beneath the shutters, hooded. Dry blood stained their chest. A stagnant puddle of a more vibrant brown pooled below them. The wheezing continued.

I approached. Cautious. The stranger did not react, so I probed them with an outstretched foot, nudging them out of whatever stupor of sleep or injury or madness they drowned in. They groaned softly, then louder and longer. The hooded head rose. I saw more dry blood flaking their mouth and chin.

“Kalin?” I tried. “Is that you?”

The voice that answered me was tired. A croak of pain. “In my haste to escape, I’d forgotten you no longer called this place home.”

I frowned. “It never was my home. Who are you?”

“Easily forgotten, it seems.” The figure struggled into a sitting position. Fresher blood soaked the side they’d been lying on. “How desperate am I to seek aid from an enemy?”

I took a step back as you ought to when a stranger proclaims themselves an enemy.

He sighed, and whatever pain and weakness strained his voice lessened when next he spoke. “I’ve come to find that I have no one but enemies left.”

“Edon?” Shock pitched my voice.

He snorted and groaned in quick succession. “Must feel a victory to see me laid so low. Sweet, too, for I have come here to beg for help.”

“Where is Kalin?”

“You only told us the half of it when you spoke of him. Less, I suspect.” He pressed down on the injury on his chest, and his face cramped into a visage of pain. Blood flowed in trails of its own making, dry, cracked, and hardened beds and banks of blood feeding the stream of fresher blood down to the puddle beneath him. “The bastard’s gone, for now.”

“When did he leave?”

“Dawn, a little after I’d come knocking. He refused to let me wait for you inside. I busted the door open as soon as he’d left, the uppity Mud.”

I frowned at the derision he injected into the last word. But there were more important matters to attend to. “Why haven’t you healed yourself?”

“My well of sensus is as dry as a desert.” Edon’s hand pulled away from his wound. Strands of viscous blood bridged his hand and wound and fought the movement. He looked at the wetness on his hand, dismayed by how much blood still oozed out of him. “There’s only so much healing I could do, and I have never been the greatest of Reapers.”

“From what I hear, you are very much an excellent Reaper.”

“Enough pratteling.” Edon pulled down his hood, revealing more of his injuries: the chunk of flesh meant to cover his left cheekbone flapped down below his jaw, the open wound it left behind revealing glimpses of teeth and tongue; his left eye was an orb of blood, the lower half of his eyelid missing; his nose was gone. “I have come for your aid. Tell me what form of begging and favors you’ll trade for it. And be quick. I do not have time to spare.”

Without a word, I reached out and tried to heal him. He rebuffed my attempt.

“Let me in,” I said.

“Let us agree on terms,” he said. “I do not care to owe you without knowing what it is I owe.”

“My healing is free.” Frustration laced my tone with the heat of anger.

“Swear.”

“I swear.”

He risked a laugh and paid the cost in wet coughs. “I need more than words, son of House Lorail.”

I gritted my teeth but made no move to refute his claim. Instead, I let the sensus from my core lace my words in strict bondage. “I shall not request payment for the healing I am about to provide.”

He nodded. “Only Surgeon matrixes, if you please.”

I bit back my retort, placed my hands on his shoulders, closed my eyes, and began the work of lessening his injuries. Edon pulled me out of my task just after I had finished with his most life-threatening wounds.

“That is enough,” he said. He looked no better than he did when I started. Though many of the remaining injuries appeared gruesome and might hinder him some, none were imminently fatal any longer. “We must leave. It is not safe here.”

“We?”

Edon’s lips pressed into a line, and he struggled with himself. “I require more help. My offer to discuss terms stands, but we do not have the time to hold our negotiations here.”

“Then where?”

“Outside the city.”

“And risk the wilds?”

“If a score of Roots can manage, so can we—each of us could match a hundred.” He looked down at himself, the loose flesh of his cheek flapping as his head moved. He took out a dagger and cut it off. “Well, I suppose fifty for me, considering my current state.”

“Merchants fly House flags. We can’t. We don’t even have a means of transport.”

“I never took you for a coward.”

I looked towards the door to Kalin’s room—the actual reason I hesitated. “And I…”

“Then stay. I shall find some other means of survival.”

I turned back to him with a snap of my head. “What other means! By your own admittance, you think me an enemy. If I am not your final recourse, who is?”

“That is none of your concern. Now decide. Stay or leave?”

I held a hand out for him to take. “Let’s go.”

Edon refused my offer and lumbered to his feet. I shrugged, turned, and led the way outside.

Three figures stood in the quiet emptiness of midday—Muds were out tending to their survival, either working their sanctioned jobs, seeking a day's labor at the nearby farms, tending to their craft, or hustling some deal or other. The three did not hide themselves; the yellow of their house, the curved might of their physiques, and their ingrained disdain were on full display.

“Quite formidable for an abomination,” the central figure—and presumably the leader—said. He was Reaper, I was sure, for the broad sword strapped to his back required a Reaper's strength.

Edon walked out from behind me and spat in the man’s direction. “Fuck you, Killinon.”

“And as vulgar as a Mud. You’ve chosen a fitting grave.” Killinon turned his gaze on me. “And who do we have here? Which Leaf house do you hail from, cousin?”

“I am no cousin of yours.” I glanced at the other two, noting the daggers at the hip of the woman to his right. Speed is her forte, I concluded. To his right was a man without a weapon, and though he was not thin, he did not carry the weight of a brawler. Then I noticed the lines peeking out from under his sleeves—he was no godling; he was a Named.

“Are you a Leaf candidate?” Killinon asked the question without a hint of curiosity.

I moved. They did not notice, for a Painting stood where I had stood, glaring at them. I speared my hand into the chest of the Zephyr-carved Named, collapsing several ribs, pulverizing his heart, and snapping his spine.

Wind touched the back of my neck. I ducked. Killinon’s broad sword cut the air over my head. I dashed towards him. The woman tried to stop me. Edon got into the fight and tackled her. They tumbled away, limbs locked. The distraction cost me my opportunity, and Killinon stepped out of my range. Behind me, Kalin’s shack had been rendered a rubble of broken firewood.

Killinon tried an overhead swing. I dodged to the side and right into the kick he had prepared. But then I sucked the hardness from his shin, and the leg curled harmlessly around my arm. Before the power of his own sensus returned his limb to normal, I struck, digging a fist into the pit of his stomach. He fell back and away.

I picked up a fragment of wood from the ground and threw it at the female Reaper as she hunted an injured Edon. It struck true, knocking her head to the side and ruining her balance. Edon did not need another chance. He ripped out her throat.

I turned my attention in the direction Killinon had fallen. He was gone. All was silent.

Edon walked over. “He fled.”

“Do we give chase?”

“And risk an ambush. More might be on their way. No, best we dissapear.”

I looked over at the desolate shack I’d been raised in longingly. Kalin’s death could wait. Edon’s survival could not.

With every grain of sincerity I could muster, I gazed into Edon’s bloody eyes. “Whatever you may think of me, I’ll think you a friend until the day you prove yourself otherwise.” I held up a hand to waylay his interjection. “Your animosity towards me, which I have come to understand is warranted, does not constitute definitive proof—only a true act of malice will do. Thankfully, such an opportunity has not yet passed.”

“Not for a lack of trying.” His anger burned, and I knew his needing my help stoked the flames hotter.

“True. But still…”

“If you think words alone are enough for me to forgive you—”

I chuckled ruefully. “No, Edon, I do not mean to buy your forgiveness with words. I do, however, wish to buy back your trust with action. Come, let us leave for The Academy.”