KNITE:

“How are you getting in?” Roche asked. Naked as the day he was born, he slid a strigil over the lean muscles of his upper body, scraping scented oil off his skin. You’d never guess he’d barely slept—a testament to his vitality.

“Getting in will be simple.” I sat in the same chair he left me, a glass of watered wine in hand. “Guards have always been eager to send people to The Bridge.”

Roche shook his head, lips pressed into a hard line. “Paying them by the number is a vile practice.”

“It has its purpose.”

“It incentivizes corruption,” he growled, more an accusation than a statement.

“Paradoxical as it may seem, without criminals—or purported criminals—Evergreen would fall apart, triggering a collapse that would see The Islands lost to foreign enemies.”

Roche observed me for a long moment, then shrugged, coming to some conclusion that set him at ease. “It’s still wrong.”

“It is. But what would be left of our goals if vengeful armies, finding our defenses weakened, descended upon our unprotected borders, pillaging our homes, killing our citizens—men, women, and children alike—and in doing so, destroying the very bedrock of the empire we are trying to save?”

“But—”

“However,” I smiled, watching the wine tease the rim of my cup as I angled it in circles, “The bad practices of the current system will not always be in place. Not if we have anything to say about it. And we do have something to say, don’t we?”

Roche offered me a lopsided grin. “Are you sure you don’t want me with you?”

I shook my head. “You must keep watch of Aki and Farian.”

“What of Helena?”

“She’s to leave for Partum.”

Roche looked down. “Do you think that… maybe—”

“Yes.” I watched him until he gathered his courage and looked up. “She’s the strongest among you and the others.” A deceptive statement; she was the most powerful, yes, and an iron mind, but I doubted anyone had the strength of will, iron or not, to survive The Bridge for over a hundred cycles fully intact.

Roche nodded, then glanced away as if to hide his emotions. A worthless gesture, he knew. “The academy awaits.” He donned his shabby tunic, stooped into a hunch, and left, his invisible sensus whipping around him like wind-struck vines.

No sooner had the door closed than when Helena came in. She was dressed in travel gear: a loose, breathable, cotton tunic in black; a brown belt holding the tunic tight to her midriff; a second belt just above her wide hips; form-fitting breeches of dark green; and brown, knee-high boots with thick soles.

“How do I look?” she asked. I quirked a smile. She looked beautiful in that way only she did, all sharp and dangerous.

“You know I never lie,” I said.

“So?”

“So, are you sure you want my answer?”

She watched me, and I knew she saw more Merkus than Knite. He was always a little more playful, a little more likable. I didn’t mind the error. I, too, liked Merkus more than Knite.

Helena approached the seat to my left, moving with a fighter’s balance and a dancer’s grace, her footsteps the quiet of emptiness. “Have you decided?”

“Mostly.”

“Today’s plan or the plan?”

I ignored the question. “You know what to do once you have the boy.”

“Get to the pier, charter passage to Partum, then drop the boy off the boat. Easy.”

I sighed. “Make it appear as though the boy fell and drowned, Helena. Do not weigh his death on my conscience.”

“You? A conscience? When—”

“Stop.” Now, her look was bothering me. Merkus didn’t demand her respect. No, Knite did.

She looked away, just as Roche had, trying to hide her emotions. Where he had failed, she succeeded; a promise made was a promise kept.

“When will you leave?” she asked, a touch of sadness in her voice. While I claimed her loyalty, Merkus inspired it.

“As soon as my mask is sufficient for the task.”

Even as I sat there drinking wine and conversing, I wove threads of sensus over my soul, knitting an array of matrixes to hide my identity. Though significantly less complex than my Merkus mask, like a mundanely painted tree was to a grown forest, the disguise would suffice for the immediate future.

After a long pause, Helena asked, “Is a mask not a lie?”

My lips twitched with equal measures of amusement and irritation. “Are those clothes you wear a lie?”

“They do not deceive.”

“They do, but that is beside the point. Do they lie?”

“No, but… how do they deceive?”

“By leaving the truth to the observer's imagination.” I took a small sip from my cup. “Though all lies are deceptions, not all deceptions are lies. Take you, for example. It would not be a lie to call you my child, but as you know, you are not born from my seed. So, would I be lying if I addressed you so?”

“No,” Helena said weakly. I thought I saw a hint of anger on her face. I wished I could be sure. Not knowing irked me.

“What we did to Farian was not honorable, and I share your feelings on the matter as much as I am able.” She was staring again. I looked up from my glass and stared right back. “Justifying it with lies is not the answer. Carry it. Let it mean something bigger than itself. Let it guide you in our efforts.”

Her face hardened into neutrality. Times like these, I’d regretted how much I let my promises shackle me; more often than not, I was incapable of reading her emotions by countenance alone.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Good. Now, where exactly is the boy?”

“The boy?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Merkon.”

“Ah, the bitch’s whelp,” she said as if she had not known who I spoke of. “Around.”

“I had exacted aid from the boy that day and have worn a semblance of his face ever since.” I gestured at my half-formed mask. “Even now, it is the template of his soul I hide my own with. As you remember, I needed the outlines of a true soul to better mold my Merkus mask. And so, if you have not paid him for his service as I had ordered you to…”

“He is safe, but what need have you of him now?”

“Helena.” My tone held a promise of pain. Hidden threats were fast becoming a tedious method of ensuring my assassin’s obedience.

Helena averted her gaze. “I have not kept track of Merkon’s whereabouts since I placed him with his new family.”

I stood.

“Uhm, Master, at the risk of—”

“Ask,” I said.

“You saved him from Lorail. Is that not payment enough?”

“We owe him four times over.”

Helena frowned. “How so?”

“I had adopted his visage and replaced his with another. That by itself might be construed as two, but let us count it as one. For another, he allowed us to place Aki where I wanted him.”

“Another deception,” Helena commented. From the smirk she was failing to hide, I suspected she had less difficulty accepting this one compared to the last. “ One I do not understand. Who is Aki, and why did you need him to be Lorail’s son?”

I shook my head. “Thirdly, Merkon will help end my Merkus persona and thus close off another trail Lorail might use to find us. And lastly, all of this he’s done and will do without a choice. That, we owe him for the most.”

***

The wind was the only cold Evergreen saw. Winter, unable to traverse the borders my father had placed, blew in gusts of chilled wind from our foreign neighbors, yet residents complained as though they suffered the blizzards of northern Golodan, their ingratitude as enduring as the gift their king had left them. Such a wind blew, and such a resident—a young patrol guard of The Roots—complained. I spotted him walking through the affluent area of the merchant sector and kept pace behind him and his fellow guard.

“… it's spring, or soon will be,” Merkon was saying. He tugged at the loose backstrap that held his longsword. A more experienced guard would’ve secured it more reliably. But then again, seventeen cycles was nary a timespan long enough to claim experience. “Why are we still getting this bleeding winter wind?”

His partner, a taller, older, broader man with a short ax hanging from his waist, put his hand on his shoulder. “Soon, we’ll complain about the pouring rain, and when summer rolls through, the blistering heat. I tell you, youngster, autumn is the only season the weather gives us days of calm warmth, and even then, I reckon we’ll be complaining about the coming winter at the slightest hint of a breeze. I say forget—”

The tip of my boot dug into the back of the man’s knee. I heard the joint dislocate as clearly as the scream that followed. The guard fell forward. Merkon spun, sliding his sword from his scabbard. I was already out of his range.

The street held a spattering of people. Many ran when they saw the downed guard, his screams alerting them to danger. They scattered, disappearing into alleyways and sideroads. One man scrambled for a whip and hastily put it to his mule’s hind. An old shopkeeper and her customer ceased haggling and ran into her store. Servants pulling small, hand-held carts full of produce frantically hauled their goods, running despite the weight they lugged. Merkon and I faced each other as the commotion of their escape faded into silence. We stood six paces apart, watching for the other to make the first move.

I did.

I dashed in. Merkon swung at my neck. I slapped the blade away. His unwillingness to let go of his weapon flung him aside. I clung to his blind side, keeping to his back as I rounded him and came upon his downed partner. The man pushed himself up with his hands. My foot caught the underside of his chin. His head jerked up, his eyes rolled back, and he slumped back to the ground, the metal of his ax clanging against the cobbled street.

Merkon turned to the sound. “Stop!”

“Sure,” I said, clasping my hands behind my back.

The boy, Merkon, surprised by my lapse in violence, halted in confusion. His gaze shifted between me and his downed partner.

“Are you going to detain me, or am I to wait for your reinforcements?” I asked.

Merkon’s emotions were a disorderly murk of anger and fear. Despite his mounting apprehension, he tightened his grip, widened his posture, and held his sword low, level, and to the side, ready to attack.

Human souls are such inexplicable things, I thought, smiling.

“My sword or The Bridge,” he said. “The choice is yours.”

“I agree; the choice is mine.” I squatted beside the prone form of the man I’d just killed, raised his arm by the wrist, and let the limb thud back to the ground. “As are the options.”

Merkon lunged at me, his two-handed thrust aimed at my chest. I twisted sideways. His sword pierced nothing but air. He pulled back and came in low, swiping at my thighs. I danced back. His fourth such strike was a feint, a twist and flick of his wrist transforming the sideways swipe into an upward slash. I leaned back and out of the way.

I expected more. Better. A godling. Finding the whelp who’d crawled out from between my sister’s legs was surprisingly tricky. His lineage was clear, barely hidden behind a weak mask. But not mine. It was, perhaps, partially mine. Someone had found him during my days as Merkus, broken the cover, peered inside, then erected their own from the remanents. Too delicate to be Lorail. Delicacy was never her forte. Subtle? Sure. Delicate? Never. She was addicted to recognition, to being feared. Not Bainan, either. He was too proud to resort to using any Art but his own. Not Grono or Silas, I reckoned. They’d have ignored the boy. Manar? Maybe.

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Probably.

The boy was a decent swordsman, constantly aware of his range, his attacks oscillating in speed, technique, and placement. His control over sensus, however, was dreadful. Modest power slugged along his longsword, the sensus clumsily covering the Telum matrix that ran along the flat of the blade.

My leg rose over his weapon as he swiped at my shins. I stamped down and caught the flat of his blade, the tip of his sword biting into the cobbled stone, its length bending before the metal snapped into two. The boy stumbled back, coming away with only half his blade. He looked at it, judged it unfit for battle, and threw it aside. Unarmed, he raised his hands and shuffled towards me. He reeked of fear, more so than when he began his attacks, and yet here he was, in the face of superior strength and certain defeat, ready to continue.

Such inexplicable things, I thought.

I held up my hands, empty palms facing him. “I think I’ve had enough of your sword.”

Merkon smiled through his fear. “I guess it’s my fists or The Bridge now, isn't it?”

I grinned back and meant it; the boy was reasonably likable, I decided. So, too, was his soul unmarred by the muck of selfish deeds. It was a wonder how he’d spawned from such a vile creature as Lorail. I guessed he’d inherited traits that must’ve skipped a generation.

“We need not continue this exchange,” I said.

Merkon watched me warily. “I’m afraid we will have to. Unless you’ve—”

I took my swords from my back, sheaths and all, and threw them high and fast over his head. “They’re closing in, Helena. Be quick about it.”

Even before my lips uttered her name, Merkon lunged forward, trying to escape what he so swiftly knew was coming. But reacting to Helena meant you’d already failed.

Moon slashed him just above his heels. He folded, unable to leverage the strength of his legs. Helena sheathed her dagger and caught my swords with time to spare. She tucked them between her arm and chest.

“With all the ways and methods you’ve trained and mastered,” I said, “did you have to injure the boy?”

Helena pressed a hand to Merkon's back, keeping him from rolling over. A finger to his temple, a burst of sensus, and the boy lost consciousness, his spirited resistance falling limp.

“‘The surest path is always the best path,’” she quoted. “I believe that was the second lesson you taught me.”

“I had also taught you to pay your debts. This injury is yours to pay for.”

I leaned down and turned off the boy's mask. In a wave of twitching muscles, the soft features of the face I’d imagined seventeen cycles before transformed into that of Merkus, though in truth, it had always belonged to Merkon—I had merely borrowed it for a time.

Helena hefted Merkon over her shoulder. “If you aren’t back before one cycle of the moon has passed, I’ll come for you.”

“You’ll do no such thing. If I am not back by then, it is because I chose not to be.” I turned my back to her, looking towards the earliest of the guard reinforcements as they came upon their downed colleague.

Such as it were, even with the added weight she carried, I did not hear Helena leave.

***

A whiff of blood, a hint of feces, the scent of sweat, the smoke of burning wood, and a constant breeze of salty wind filled the air. But mostly, the place stunk of piss, both stale and fresh. The hundreds of prisoners I shared my confinement with paid the smell no mind. Perhaps it was an acquired numbness. Perhaps it wasn’t. I would not wait long enough to find out.

The Bridge was, in actuality, a cylindrical structure built in and around an almost perfect hole on the northern coast of The Bark, perfect in that it was shaped in a flawless circle and ran as deep as any hole could. My assault on the guard had earned me a place on the ninth floor. With Sanas likely being held on the deepest of them, I had some distance to fall.

The prison guards had wounded me during our trek down. It mattered little; I felt no pain, and my aversion to injury was but a matter of convenience. Besides, I’d found myself in need of predators, and there was no better bait for their kind than injured prey.

Hugging my knees and forcing a tremble, I huddled against a wall close to the cell's entrance, where the pungent odors were thickest.

“Gots to tell you ‘bout the rules, new blood,” A gruff voice said.

I looked up. A middle-aged man hovered over me. Two burly men framed him. All three had the tanned skin, stocky builds, and dim-witted grins Golodanians were known for.

“There be rules you gots to follow down here in rainbow’s arse,” the man continued. “You know how The Bridge works?”

I stared blankly at the man.

“Then let me tell you what’s what. One, you listen to our orders. Two… well, I guess it’s just the one rule.”

“Where’s the rest of your crew?” I asked.

The man's brow creased. “Here’s ya first order, laddie. Don’t—”

“I see.” I stopped shivering. The man’s creased brow furrowed further. I stood. He stepped back, confused. “I guess the question I should've asked is, where’s your boss? Superior? Leader?”

Livid, the man jabbed a finger at my chest. “I’m gonna teach you some manners, or my name isn’t—”

I seized his greasy throat. “I do not care to know your name.”

The thug to my left reached for me. I caught the back of his hand and bent it until his wrist snapped and his palm touched his forearm. A kick to his shin brought him low. A knee to his face put him to the ground, unconscious, one eye leaking blood.

The one to my right went for the arm I was choking the first man with. I let go, grabbed the back of the brute’s head, and crashed my forehead against the bridge of his nose. He stumbled back but came away without injury, meager Duros sensus pulsing below his skin. He was proud of himself. A sensus-laden punch wiped away his prideful grin. I left him on the ground, choking on the broken fragments of his teeth.

The older of the three fled deeper into the cell. Good, I thought. He’d bring me his leader. I turned back to the unconscious brute with the broken wrist. He lay face-first on the floor. I broke his neck with a twist of my heel, the snap delightfully audible.

The second brute got to his hands and knees, coughing. Blood and spit ran down his chin. Broken teeth fell from his mouth. He Looked up at the sound of my approach. Fear warped his face, and he stumbled back.

“You will die,” I told him. “The less you fight it, the quicker it’ll be.”

His horror was delicious. I breathed it in, licked at it, nibbled at its edges, and all together savored the taste. His fear grew at witnessing my ecstasy, and my ecstasy grew in kind. So lost was I, so enraptured by my long-awaited indulgence, that I’d almost pried deeper into his soul, almost dug out the marrow of his being. I beat back my appetite and released him. Devouring his core was as good as letting him live within mine. I would not poison my soul or extinguish his sovereignty. There were lines I would not cross.

The hulking Golodanian had become a shell of his former self. His skin sagged, his eyes sat hollow, and his bones had shed the muscles he’d carried but moments ago. He did not react when I came to him and dispatched what remained of his soul. On the contrary, as if I’d freed him from the burden of life, he released a final sigh of relief.

A crowd surrounded me, every one of them oozing fear. Some had a tinge of hope. I think they thought me a harbinger of death, and thus, their liberator, their chance at leaving this plane with their souls intact. The Alchemists who ran The Bridge rarely, if ever, allowed them that consolation.

Among the milling, gossiping throng of prisoners, one man showed neither hope nor fear. He stood apart, surrounded by space in a crowd where others pushed and shoved to watch the spectacle. The man I’d choked stood a few paces from him, rubbing at his neck and smiling at me like I would be punished for it.

I approached them. The crowd parted. It took much of me to ignore the fear that radiated about the room. I couldn’t tell whether I approached the man to further my objectives or to find refuge from my urges in his cocoon of courage. Bravery always dulled the scent of fear, the depth of my appetite.

“Did you have to kill them?” the man without fear asked. A thick, pale scar ran from the edge of his nose and across his lips. It squirmed like a worm when he spoke.

“Your name?” I asked.

The man smiled. Lopsided because of the scar, it was a menacing sight. “Jonar.”

“Were they your men?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“And what manner is that?”

“I beat them, spared their lives, and they swore a fealty I neither wanted nor needed.”

“Then they’re your men. I assume you lead this floor.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

I gave him a silent stare.

He sighed. “Yes, for all the trouble it causes me.”

“Good. Take me to your dwelling.”

With a sharp nod, the man turned and walked deeper into the cell. A soldier, I thought. No one recognized and followed orders quite as promptly as they did.

We passed through a listless crowd of men and women sitting around improvised camps. Pots of stew simmered over fires, dulling the wretched smell of piss and salt. Plates full of cheese, bread, and meat were passed around freely. Warm and fed as they were, each of the men and women trapped here wore a haunted look of despair, their languid movements fueled more by the instinct to survive than by the desire to live.

The northern edge of the prison was built into the city’s very cliff and lay open to the wild winds of the sea. Metal bars fixed twenty or thirty paces from the opening were the only obstacle keeping the prisoners from the plunge to the rocky shore below. Jonar’s place, what he called home, took a section of the bars as its own, one side enclosed by one of the cell walls, the other two partitioned by impromptu screens of old fabric draped over wooden frames.

“Were they acting on your authority?” I asked, sitting on a wooden box. The wind blew strong in his corner of the cell, forcing me to be louder than I wanted.

Jonar stuck out his bottom lip and shrugged. “I am not much of a leader. Supervising these animals is not something I wish to do.”

“Animals?”

Jonar turned to face the falling dusk, watching the final rays of the day shimmer orange on the still sea. His hands gripped the metal bars separating him from the sweet release of death. “Once you cage men,”—he shook the metal bars—“and force them to fight daily for survival, they have little choice but to become… less. It is the only way to avoid the heartache of their humanity.”

I shook my head in disagreement but kept silent on the matter. “You’ve… delayed my plans. I’d expected someone I could kill without mercy.”

Jonar turned to me, his smile sad. “Then I’m thankful for whatever has stayed your hand.”

“Thank your humanity,” I said. He chuckled at that. “When do they come for their research?”

Jonar walked over to his poorly built table, picking up a ripe apple from a skull refashioned into a bowl. He held it up in my direction. I refused the offer with a shake of my head.

“Soon after daybreak,” he answered.

“Tell me how they work.”

Jonar raised a brow. “You don’t know?”

“Do not ask moronic questions.”

“I just assumed—”

“Do not make assumptions.”

He came to sit on a box before me, taking a large bite from the apple. “The eastern and western quadrants hold the research and testing rooms. Every morning, prisoners are led to their floor’s bridge, where they fight to avoid the sadistic experiments of House Silas.”

“The fights themselves are part of the experiments,” I corrected.

“Yes, I suppose they are.” He chewed loudly, crunching the juicy fruit between his teeth and smacking his lips. Definitely a soldier. “But I thought you did not know how they operated.”

“What did I tell you about making assumptions.”

His face set into an expression of curious confusion. “Then why was my earlier question moronic?”

“Does losing mean death for a prisoner?”

“Ah!” Jonar’s eyes lit up as though he’d fathomed some elusive mystery. “They were moronic because they would go unanswered.”

I sighed. “Jonar?”

The man barked a nervous laugh before my question exposed sunken eyes, tired in that way long nights without sleep bring. Only then did I notice the thin, purple-tinged web of veins below his eyes.

“No, it does not always mean death,” he said. “They try to keep us alive as long as they can. I suppose a live body is more useful to poke and prod than a dead one. Nevertheless, the Bridge sits over the world’s deepest maw, and scores of men and beasts fall prey to it daily. I don’t think they mind.”

He did not know the maw was fed to power both the stillness of The Dead Sea and the shield surrounding Evergreen.

“How many times?” I asked.

“Hm?”

I tapped my cheekbone. “The purple. It marks most of their concoctions—a pious dedication to their deific patron and his Art.”

“Once was enough.” His eyes shimmered. This soldier, who had likely seen and suffered the brutalities of war, held back tears for the horrors The Research Institute had put him through. He threw the half-eaten apple over his shoulder, past the bars of his imprisonment, and out into the calm sea below. “Once was more than enough.” Grief for the man he once was drifted around him, festering upon his soul. To me, it stunk much like a flesh-bound infection might.

“What do you know of the lower floors?” I asked.

Jonar took a moment to shake away the memories of his torture. He inhaled deeply, the shine in his eyes dimming. “I never bother to explore the pains of others; my own is more than I care to bear. However, once every so often, a prisoner rises from the lower floors. They rarely stay long. Those I’ve seen come here empty and numb to the world, refusing to eat, drink, or speak until their dejection robs them of their lives.”

“I see you are heading to a point. Get there faster.”

“There is a man. He goes by the name Karok. Rumor has it he came up from the fifteenth. I cannot confirm; he was here before I was.”

“Lead the way.”

Karok was a young man and a son of Evergreen through and through. Platinum hair, a lean figure, pale skin, and eyes of royal blue made him look like an eminent godling. I knew better. It was a wonder he’d survived all the Surgeries.

“A visitor?” he asked. He was so petite, so high in pitch and beautiful in the face, I’d have thought him a woman if not for his soul.

“I’ve brought…” Jonar paused and looked at me, realizing he did not know my name.

“You may leave, Jonar,” I said. And he did. A good soldier, he was.

I turned to Karok. “Do you kn—”

He lashed a thin whip of sensus towards me. I knew what he planned to do. I let him.

The sensus latched to the back of my neck, seeking entry into my soul—a grave mistake. Not even my sister, Lorail, would dare come into my soul so haphazardly.

I seized his sensus as soon as he entered and yanked the attached consciousness past my temporary mask and into the recesses of my memories. Then I showed him horrors that could break many a man: a war too cruel to describe, where souls were raped, tortured, and burnt into non-existence; a lawless land teeming with depravity, where children were eaten to stave off hunger, adults became playthings, and the few relatively untainted souls among the hordes of evil were crushed into following the ways of unscrupulous survival. He tried to wrench back his sensus. I kept him there until I heard his soul cry out in pain. He deserved it. Anyone who would so casually invade another deserved the worst there was.

“As I was saying,” I said, letting his consciousness retreat, “do you know where I might find a woman named Sanas?”

I did not have the skill for scrying that Lorail did. She could find whatever she sought by intent alone. I had to follow links in memories and emotions to search for answers. I hadn't the time or fancy to rummage through his vile thoughts.

Karok stared past me at the hangings of his camp, lost in the anguish I’d fed his soul. A crisp slap dropped him to the ground and woke him from his stupor.

“W-w-what was that?” He looked up at me, bleeding from the corner of his mouth, a bruise already forming on his porcelain skin. “Who are you?”

“That is of no significance to you or your situation.”

“You were in the battle for the Eastern Gate, in the great war with Golodan. How?” He ran his eyes over my dark hair and eyes. “You are not of the royal lineage. That much is clear. Were you an adjudicator? A general? A high-ranking guard? A—”

“Stop.”

He struck his fist to his chest with clumsy bravado. “I’m a son of a Fiora, a Seculor by birthright. You cannot kill me.”

“You think I cannot read your lies? You are a Faded, one of those abandoned by the godlings for being unable to contend with what they consider the dilution of imperial blood. Then your hate, coupled with your daring stupidity, brought you here to rainbows arse to be punished for it. I do wonder about what you did to have been demoted beyond even The Muds and into this hole, but alas…”

“W-who do you think you see?”

“An unmarked grave,” I said, my true voice creeping into the fake. “Tell me what I want to know, and you just might get there painlessly.”

He whimpered, his weak facade crumbling away. The touch of black sensus wafting from my eyes and the gravelly age of my true voice might’ve played a part.

“Y-you’re…” he began. “Please, I beg of you, spare me. I was just…” He shook his head and blinked like he was having trouble seeing. “Everyone thinks you’re…” He took a deep breath, outwardly calmed himself, and went to his knees. “I promise, I—”

Tired of waiting for his compliance, I strode forward, whistling my tune of death. My hand flashed to the back of his head. He tried to push me away, but like most Tunnelers, like so many godlings who depended on nothing but their spark of divinity, he was weak. I dove into his soul. He fought with all he had, relentless in his efforts. Layers of matrixes protected his soul. I ripped through them without caution, setting off traps meant to make me forget, feel fear, or turn docile. None worked. I dove further and further, and his fear swelled in tandem, growing beyond his control. I did not taste any of it; indulging while pillaging a soul is harder to stop than to resist.

Some might think Karok was as pitiful as some in The Muds. Some might argue he was more pitiful for the same reasons a man who lost his sight was more tragic than a man born without. Some might hold the opposite view for precisely the same reason. Karok had known the sweetness of a rich life and the bitterness of poverty. No, I felt no pity for him. He died that day, and in the end, I found nothing of Sanas in his damnable soul.