AKI:

A blurry figure crept in through my window and ambled towards me, inching closer at an angle and swaying from side to side.

“What in Merkusian’s name are you doing?” I asked.

“You can see me?” Disbelief raised the pitch of his voice.

“Tell me you have your clothes close at hand.”

“I… I didn’t think I’d need them.”

I shook my head. “Well, you do.”

Fuller crashed into being as if reality was a reflective window, and he’d shattered his way in. I looked away from his naked form. The glow of reality bending wrapped around him, and the hazy outline of a loose, flowing dress of pale blue hung like fog over his figure.

“Do better,” I said.

“Uhm…”

“Fuller, I do not care to be greeted by the sight of your nakedness this early in the morning.”

The Auger raised both arms and inspected himself. “But for all intents and purposes, I’m dressed.”

“Not to me.”

“But I…” He inspected his work more closely. “This is a coupled four-layer matrix. I did not inject any Meaning into it, but still, it’s a coupled four-layer matrix.” He looked up at me. “When did you develop the skill to see past such an advanced Painting.”

“Blame yourself. Now, for all that is holy, clothe yourself.”

Fuller closed his eyes, concentrated, and suddenly, the weak mist he called a Painting solidified. “Better?” he asked, opening his eyes.

“I’d have preferred it if you’d left, or better yet, had never come, but I suppose this’ll have to do.”

“You left The Academy yesterday.”

“I did.”

“To learn about whoever’s been sending assassins after you?”

I nodded.

“What did you find?”

“More questions.”

Fuller sighed out of his nose. “Fine, keep your secrets, but Lokos is looking for you and I doubt he’ll be as accepting of your answer.”

“Why are you here in his stead?”

“I’m not. He’d asked after your whereabouts last night. I did not tell him you were with Brittle—he is not privy to the secret of your harmonies.”

“But Brittle is. I’ve wondered about that.”

“Your mother very nearly took that knowledge from her, but since the Pondus has kept quiet thus far, and since you’re unlikely to find a better instructor, she’s been spared. Besides, the friction between our House and that of Bainan’s is too close to bursting into flame, and I doubt our mistress cares to deal with her mother’s wrath if the conflict conflagrates.”

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I sat forward. “What time is it?”

“Early.”

“How early?”

“Early enough for you to visit Lokos before the day starts in earnest.”

“Are you sure you aren't his errand boy? You sure are acting the part.”

Fuller sat at the end of the bed and put a hand on my leg. “What I am is your errand boy, Young Master.”

I pulled my leg out of his reach. “Fine, fine. Truce.”

Fuller laughed his rejection.

***

“Welcome,” Lokos greeted me as I entered. “You know, you’re a hard man to find. Try as I might, I could not sniff you out when I went looking.”

I walked deeper into his small office. A single slab of hardwood made up the floor. His plain desk, chair, bookcase, and sitting table were all made of seamless hardwood—the work of Kolokasians.

“A nice office you have here,” I said, taking a seat. Morning light stabbed through the window behind him, and I had to squint to look his way. “Though a little monotone, don’t you think?”

Lokos made a gesture. A trickle of his sensus flowed into the window and darkened the glass. “I prefer more subtle showings of wealth, and unlike my Goddess and her children, I think quality comes from substance, not appearance.”

I blinked a few times to acclimate myself to the lowered brightness. “Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it,” he said, the smoking pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth bobbing as he spoke. “So, have you anything to tell me?”

“Nothing of note.”

“Hm, well, that’s disappointing.”

“Either you think too highly of me, or you think too lowly of my enemies.”

Lokos shook his head. “Our enemies. But no, I meant it's disappointing you’ve chosen to lie.”

The fire of my ever-present anger flared. “You had us followed?”

“Of course not,” Lokos snorted. “I followed you myself.”

I got to my feet before I knew I had any desire to do so. The thoughtless action encouraged me to take a deep breath.

“Good idea,” Lokos said, seeing me rein in my rage.

I sat back down. He was right. Lorail had given him the same mission. Ceding to my request to go about finding and neutralizing the source of my assailants without his aid was already a favor of sorts. My failure would cost Lokos. He knew I’d gleaned some information from the assassins I’d dealt with. That information would be lost upon my death, and that was to say nothing of what Lorail would do to him if I died. Her son. Her project. A slave she’d spent some effort in rearing. No, Lokos, to safeguard his mission, and thus his life, had no choice but to follow me.

“I see you are beginning to understand,” he said. “Well done, by the way. I was rather impressed with how you dealt with the Tripler. Your Auger Arts are coming along quite nicely.”

“Were you there for all of it?”

“I saw everything, but the distance I was forced to keep between us to avoid detection kept me from eavesdropping. Tell me, what did she reveal before your large friend took her life.”

“And if I don’t, what then?”

Lokos shrugged. “Then nothing.”

I nodded, thankful my pride did not have to contend with his threats. “I wasn’t lying when I said we found nothing of note. Not who sent the assassins, nor why.”

“But you gained some clues?”

“Some.”

“Tell me.”

“If you promise to stop following us.”

“Sure.”

“Invoke your sensus and swear upon your soul.”

Lokos smiled wryly and shook his head. “I’m afraid I cannot.”

“So you lied to me?”

“I did.”

“Then let me return the courtesy and tell you anything I say about what she told us will be a lie.”

Lokos’ chuckle was short and dry. “Fair enough.”

***

I stepped onto the arena barefooted. The stone was cold beneath my feet. I tried to let the cold creep into me, to let it cool the heat and sweat of my trepidation and slow the thumping of my heart. My opponent was an unknown. Not a Leaf candidate, I knew. There was something about a Leaf’s aura, a sort of indescribable heaviness, as though their soul was too confined and thus leaked out of their pores.

A week and a day had passed since the new cycle started. I’d forgone the company of my friends to complete my offered challenge for the month. They, in turn, went in search of their own opponents. Leaving it too late significantly reduced the pool of willing opponents. Even then, finding one was slow going, and I did not see mine until a turn before I was to meet with Mistress Brittle. Time. Another worry I had to contend with.

Dako and Sil were safe, I knew. They were too skilled to worry over. As was Malorey, though I had less reason to worry over her in the first place—we had gotten closer, but not nearly in the realms of the friendship I’d come to share with Dako and Sil. Wiltos was a different story. He’d lost his first battle. And to a relatively weak Tripler, no less. My fears hounded me as I stood ready to face my second foe, but they were not entirely for me.

Julow kin Hopsin was a Seculor of House Silas. He was not from our dormitory. Word of my victory over Froxil had spread, and few who knew me were likely to accept my challenge. Julow did. He was happy to learn my name disqualified me from being the Fiora I appeared to be.

Julow’s teeth lengthened. His mouth and jaw grew to accommodate his new, sharp, wet fangs. Hair sprouted. The mop atop his head grew wilder, the dull gold mane falling to the small of his back. Claws replaced nails. Extra joints formed along his arms and legs and fingers. He dropped to all fours, his posture animalistic. Unnatural, even. He was an Alchemist. An Arcanist. The amalgamations they were known for were outside nature.

The flag dropped.

I went for his soul. The remnants of a horde of evolved beasts stood against my sensus. Souls he’d ransacked and spliced together manifested before him in outlines of what they had once looked like. I put my training to use. A two-weave matrix wrapped around the thick root all my Tunnels sprang from. This matrix was the bedrock of Tunneller Arts, one to make my Tunnels invisible to anything but sensight.

Tendrils flew towards Julow. His stolen power stood in my way, a coagulating mass of bestial sensus. Even as the souls blocked my attacks, Julow galloped towards me, his form flowing like water. I tried another angle. Again, the creatures got in my way. Julow smiled. I tried again and saw his amber eyes follow the trajectory of my attack moments before the outline of his horde moved to intercept my Tunnels.

Just my luck; Julow had sensight.

It did not matter.

He was close now. Two more loping strides put him in range. I pulled my Tunnels back and threw them all to his left. They dragged his attention there. I threw myself in the opposite direction.

My fist took him in the jaw. Bone shattered. Fangs snapped and fell out and shifted back into human teeth upon clattering to the cold stone of the arena. He wobbled, dazed. I did not waste the opportunity.

***

“You are an enigma.”

I looked up from my meal to find Samiel standing in place and rocking on his feet as he watched me. The rat-faced godling wore his vulpine smile, undercurrents of an almost innocent curiosity drowned out by the callousness he so openly exuded.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“I have a love-hate relationship with puzzles,” he announced. “I love to solve them and hate to leave them unsolved. It can be an infuriating combination.”

“I’m a puzzle, am I?”

“Indeed you are.” His lips stretched, and the sharp crescent of his smile was a danger of its own. “A rather confounding puzzle.”

“And you wish to unravel the mystery?”

He nodded, eager as can be, as though my question had somehow endorsed his desire.

I gestured to the seat across from me. “I suspect you have more to say. You are welcome to join me if you so wish.”

Samiel waved over a servant and took the seat I’d indicated. “So, are you a product of incest?”

I nearly spat out the food I’d just spooned into my mouth. After some tightlipped coughing, I wiped away the few grains that had escaped onto my face, swallowed what remained in my mouth, and looked up at the amused Fiora. “Incest?”

He waved my question away. “I thought as much. Besides being an utterly boring revelation, no son or daughter of Bainan would stoop so low as to bed a Lorail. Although…” He took on a thoughtful pose and looked off into the distance, two fingers tapping his cheek. A shudder broke his contemplation. “Whatever punishment they’d face for such a heinous sin would surely be anything but boring.”

The servant approached. Samuel pointed at my meal and said, “I’ll have whatever he's having, only half as much as what he has left.” In a whisper, he added, “The glutton eats almost as much as my brothers do.”

“Does Vignil know you are here?” I asked as soon as the Root was out of earshot.

Samiel snorted. “Much as he likes to think me his underling, I’m not. His penchant for making enemies and his otherwise entertaining comportment are the only reasons I offer him my company. Be that as it may, the man doesn’t care about you, per se, just how he might bring about your death and heal the wound to his reputation your continued existence brings about.”

“The new moon cycle is only days away.”

Samiel’s smile turned into a smirk. “It is.”

“Are you to be my opponent?”

“And if I was?”

“I’d ask how you can refute being his underling while following his commands.”

Samiel shook his head. “If I were to face you, I’d do so because I find you interesting. Your display of Duros Arts did not make you interesting, just more so. I’ve wanted to spar with you ever since I first laid eyes on you. A Mud-turned-Heartwood who has the look of a Fiora? It’d be strange if I weren’t curious.”

The servant returned and laid out Samiels’ simple yet hearty meal.

Samiel held up his bowl and sniffed at its contents. He nodded approvingly, took a bite, and then hummed through a close-lipped smile as he nodded once more. “I had never thought to try such a… quaint supper. Maybe I ought to try commoner cuisine more often.”

“So,” I began, “will you or won’t you?”

Samiel took another bite and shook his head. “I’m afraid my brother doesn’t care to take any more chances.”

“And what of my rights of refusal?”

“For all that he seems simpleminded, Vignil is not the mindless brute he comes across as. He may be rash, unreasonable, and all too eager to emulate our father, but for all that, he is, not unlike our father, rather astute. I trust he’ll find a way.”

“You’re afraid of him,” I accused.

Samiel laughed a little, the sound so breathy as to barely qualify as a laugh. “Because I do not fight him for the right to face you? No, little lamb, I do not find you worth the cost. He, however, does. Besides, one way or another, Vignil will draw out more of your skill, and that, my dear Mud-turned-Heartwood, is the chief reason I wish to face you in the first place.”

I recounted a memory that seemed ages past but was only a little over a year ago. “A friend once told me, ‘Cost is a matter of sacrifice; price is a matter of value.’”

“He sounds a wise council.”

“Vignil will try to kill me,” I said. “He might.”

“He will,” Samiel corrected. “So?”

“A mystery is far harder to unravel when its source is dead.”

“As I said, you aren’t worth the cost. Much as I hate unsolved puzzles, I loath the coin flip my life will balance upon if I so choose to stand against Vignil—though he is not my superior, nor am I his.”

I got to my feet, ready to depart. Mistress Brittle did not care for tardiness. “Very well. Then I bid you farewell.”

“Ah, come now, one or two more questions. I feel you’ve bested me in this conversation. If you leave now, you’ll rob me of the chance to draw even.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking me to forfeit victory?”

He shrugged. “I was hoping to pull on your empathy, your sense of fairness. I hear commoners are incorrigibly more susceptible to such notions.”

Feeling a little insulted, I leaned in close. “Whoever said I was a commoner?”

He was still laughing when I exited the refectory.

***

I’d met Zo’el on my third outing into the city, a week before our first monthly fees were due. Dako, Sil, and I had been fruitlessly searching for any word on Uorago. We had tried to speak to Svelok’s associates. None entertained our questions without needing to be convinced. We managed, however; violence can be mighty persuasive. But in the end, the only reactions we got from any of them were befuddled silence or unconvincing lies. We ventured ever further, delving into the seedier parts of Discipulus. Still, we met with little success.

Then, one day, I met Zo’el. That in itself was a sort of success.

Our search had taken us to the city's northern reaches where many of Discipulus’s Roots resided. One of the smugglers we’d found near the docks had said there was an information broker by the name of Finicky who operated in those parts. There was, and he was a broker, just not of information. The only truth the squat and oily man possessed was his naked cowardice.

As we’d made our way out of his place, a commotion broke out in the center of the street. A woman of average height with a worn-out rag tied about her hair stood facing a bald fellow with black tattoos snaking up and around his burly arms. He stood there, picking at his crooked teeth with a dagger, a boot resting on a wooden crate that had fallen from his cart.

“Think twice,” the woman who I’d later come to know as Zo was saying.

“Or what?” The man countered.

Zo’el jabbed the man in the throat. His blunt knife slipped from his grasp, cutting a thin line of blood down his chin. He fell back, both hands on his throat as he struggled to breathe.

“Or that.” Zo’el stepped forward and picked up the crate. With it over one shoulder, she reached into the pocket of her oversized coat and threw a silver coin at the man’s head. “Here’s your payment. You’ll not be seeing me again. I’ll be finding another source.”

My monetary woes had not strayed far from my thoughts. At the mention of ‘payment’ and the sound of the glass vials in the crate clinking together as she stalked off, I hurried after her. My friends followed me without question.

I caught her as she slipped into a narrow alleyway and jerked to a stop. She stood a few steps away, peering at me, all but the lower half of her face darkened by deep shadows.

“Do I know you, boy?” she asked. She looked behind me as my friends rounded the turn. “Or you two?”

I raised empty hands, palms facing her. “Not yet. I wondered how you might feel about me becoming your new source?”

“Source?”

Slowly, I lowered one of my hands and pointed at the crate she’d placed down to the side. “Healing tinctures.”

“You’re an Alchemist, then?” Her eyes scanned me from head to toe and back again. “Second cycle. Hmm, maybe. Your wares will likely be too expensive for me. Certainly, they will be before the season is over. Desperate, are you?” The question showed a better understanding of The Academy than most.

“I am,” I admitted.

“Very well.” She sheathed the dagger she’d hidden in the loose sleeve of her coat. “How much?”

“First, tell me what you’d use them for.”

Zo’el shrugged. “Does it matter?

“Maybe. I don’t know yet.”

“Not much of a secret. I’m an ascended Root.”

When she didn’t add anything, I glanced back at my friends. They were as confused as I was.

“And?” I asked, turning back to her.

She snorted. “Fucking godlings. Not all Roots live to serve you people, you know? Some of us ascend to serve others less… fortunate.” I had a feeling that wasn’t the word she wanted to use.

“You give them to Muds?” I asked.

Zo’el tensed as if readying for violence. “Is that a problem?”

“For free?” I asked. She glared. I raised my hands a little higher. “No, not a problem at all. Far from it.”

“So, how much?”

“How much can you afford?”

“What can I afford, or what am I willing to pay?”

“What can you afford?” I repeated.

Her eyes narrowed. “I’ve never known a godling to be generous.”

“I’ve never known a Root to care about Muds, yet here we both stand.”

She watched me closely, then ran her gaze over Dako and Sil. “You lot from House Bainan?”

I jerked my thumb in Dako’s direction. “He is.”

“And you two?” She pointed at me and Sil.

“What’s your name?” I countered.

“Zo’el.”

“Aki.”

She frowned. “Aki?”

“Yes.”

“No Aki bin this or other?”

“Au Farian, actually.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she took another close look at Sil and Dako. “You expect me to believe you’re a Root?”

“A Heartwood, though I suppose I’m nothing until I graduate.”

For the first time, Zo’el smiled. The lines it drew on her face were deep from use. “Interesting. You may call me Zo.” She looked over my shoulders at Dako and Sil, one at a time. “They’ll call me Zo’el. Or Miss. Their choice.”

***

It was the first day of a new moon. I’d avoided Vignil that morning using a trick I’d not be allowed to use again. A handful of students had witnessed me sneaking out of my window and over the back wall, and one of them had surely informed my aggressor. But more than Vignil’s vigilance, my self-worth banished any thought of repeating the cowardly act, the shame too much for me to bear a second time. It was, as such, with pride stoking the coals of humiliation in my chest, a lousy day until fortune pushed opportunity onto my path. She came in the shape of a godling. I knew her; she did not know me. That and my mood decided my choice. I suppose the memory of when I’d last seen her had a little to do with it, too. Of her invading a mind. Of the Root’s tears. Of her forcing him to grovel at her feet.

I changed direction midstride.

“Where are you going,” Malorey said, the first words she’d spoken to me since we’d left behind the summer-intermediate field. Failure wears on your mood much like muck wears on your boots, and with the sweat of my shame adding to the fuel, my mood was altogether sour.

I did not reply, my eyes fixed on the godling. Two men accompanied her, both low-standing godlings—besides the darker shades of their hair, my advancing talent in detecting auras and the long year I’d spent amidst their ranks was beginning to afford me an accurate sense of these things. They chatted like godlings are taught they ought to: primly, their conversation filled with fake laughs and stiff gestures that meant both everything and nothing. All three looked my way when they saw I did not intend to walk past them.

“Good day,” the shorter of the two men said. He was smaller than my target, too. Average, really. It was just that my target was tall for a female Tripler. I reckoned she had some Golodanian in her, enough for the height but not so much as to have inherited their ugly bulk.

“Good day,” I said. “Excuse my interruption, but I wondered if I might be so bold as to steal the lady’s attention for a time.”

Malorey came to stand by my side but said nothing. Her decision to follow me evidenced our growing fellowship. Even in the haze of my bad mood and murderous intent, I took note.

“By all means,” the short man replied, looking between us. “Who am I to stop you if you succeed? It isn't my attention you are trying to steal.” He laughed that fake laugh the godlings practiced. As expected of them, the other two joined in.

“My thanks.” I turned to the tall godling.

She smiled. I hated how much prettier it made her. If the world was fair, godlings would be as ugly of flesh as they were of soul. But the world wasn’t fair. It never would be, not least because we never would be.

“I have to admit, I’m intrigued,” she said. “What it is you wish to speak about?”

I held out my hand. She placed hers in it. I leaned forward and lightly touched my lips to the back of her hand. Casually and copiously dispensed beforehand, courtesy gives insult a far greater depth.

“To start with, your name,” I said, almost flirtatiously.

She giggled. “Bacnam kin Julee, of house Fralk.”

“Fralk?” I let my tone convey an admiration I did not feel. “As in Fralk kin Lorail?”

“The very same.” She smiled, thinking I was playing the game of etiquette. She was correct; this was a game.

Mine, and she was losing.

“You’re a Tripler?” I asked.

Bacnam frowned. I got the feeling she was suspicious of the question. Too late, I thought.

“What of it?” Her cordial demeanor frayed. Break a rule, and the game collapses, and I’d broken a rule: never ask if someone is a Tripler. A Seculor? Fine. A Fiora? If anything, that’d be seen as a compliment, regardless of whether or not they were one. But a Tripler? Such a question could only mean you think them too far removed from divinity. Godhood. Perfection, as they see it. Even if you were right, never accuse a godling of being a Tripler unless you wish to throw fighting words.

“Forgive me,” I said, feigning contrition. “It is just that I’d never come across such a weak godling. I had thought you were a Faded.”

Bacnam’s eyes flew open. A gasp came from her two companions. Malorey gripped my elbow.

“What is your name?” Bacnam asked, the words hissed through gritted teeth.

“Aki au Farian.”

“Au? Au!” Spittle flew from her mouth. “You’re a Root!” She stepped in close but held herself back from violence. “I, Bacnam kin Julee, challenge you, Aki au Farian. Do you accept?”

“Thank you,” I said, and the realization of how she’d been played worked its way across her expression. “I, Aki au Farian, accept your challenge.”

The arenas were busy. The scheduled lessons had ended for the day. Many students who had not done so already went about fulfilling their mandatory bouts. The wait gave Malorey enough time to collect the other members of our ragtag group.

“She looks familiar,” Sil said, uncaring of the Bacnam’s proximity.

“It’s that Auger,” Dako said. “You know, the one who fought before Aki last moon cycle.”

“Ah, I see. Come, Dako. We have nothing to worry over.”

My friends left me to join the swarm of spectators. I spotted familiar faces as I watched them go: Samiel, grinning; Vignil, expressionless; Helena, bored; and Edon… His gaze chilled, slipping around me with the numbness of his disdain. I stood breathless. And then, just as suddenly as the wash of attention had threatened to drown me, I wasn’t. One thought freed me. A promise remembered. The truth of my fears. The weight on my heart and mind slid off me like it was never there. Pride took its place, making light of my challenges—both the Tripler I faced and the looming figure of evil oozing out of the many versions of me my potential might mold me into.

My opponent and I stepped onto the arena and faced each other. She still thought me a Root. Despite this, despite her crimes, I’d stopped thinking of her as dead.

The flag came down.

I smothered Bacnam’s sensus. She was not my equal. Not in sensus, harmony, skill, or any other factor that mattered. She tried to inject Meaning into her defense. I tore her efforts apart. Her defenses shattered. She dropped to her knees. The last of her exhausted sensus barricaded the gate to her soul. I stepped up to her.

“I surrender,” she whispered, a mix of fatigue and embarrassment softening her voice.

I stuck my right foot forward. “Your lips atop my foot shall grant you my mercy.”

Gasps. More than a few. Some thought me cruel. It’s funny how cruelty can only be inflicted on godlings. Kill a Root for the fun of it, massacre Muds so they, as inferior lifeforms, might remember their place, or order an ascended Branch to their death and claim their worthless life was given meaning, and all is well. And why not? It is the natural order of things.

No!

Like for like, to keep me straight, to protect me from becoming the personification of my fears, that is what I’d decided. Like for like.

“Do you know who I am?” Indignation replaced her shame.

“Who you are is of little import,” I said, calm in the face of her threat. “What you’ve done, however…”

“Do this, and you’ll suffer untold misery,” she hissed. “My house will be glad to stand against your protector, whoever they are. Then you’ll be mine, and the pain I’ll rain onto you for the rest of your miserable life will flood your soul till the day you expire.”

I snorted in disgust. “Unlike you, I’ll live and die standing on my own two feet. Now, quit stalling.”

“I won’t.”

I stepped forward, fist clenched.

“I-I can’t.” Her voice cracked.

“That can’t be,” I said, “because you will.”

“I-I can’t. Please, I beg of you, do not make me do this. It will ruin me.”

“You will do this,” I repeated. “And next time, when you think to remind a Root of how worthless you think they are, you’ll remember this moment.”

“Please—”

“Now, or I’ll breach your soul and make you do it anyway. Then I’ll leave you soul-scarred and half-mad.”

Bacnam pushed her tear-stricken face down, shoulders hunched and hair dangling down, and placed her lips lightly atop my foot. I, in payment, accepted her surrender.

Like for like.