Yet the Primevals tired from their labor and rested, entrusting the care of their workmanship into the hands of the Six Sentinels, whose names were Creation, Destruction, Order, Chaos, Dreams, and Time. To them was entrusted the power of the Primevals, a balance of weal and woe to govern that which had been made.

But unbeknownst to the Primevals and their Sentinel custodians, so too was the seething Void clothed with form and flesh. And thus the Uzra were born.

— The Divine Book of Primevals - Parca 2, Kisim 12

***

The boy, Torrick, was a mess. Nearly delirious with dehydration and exhausted from a long day of travel. What he needed was a hot meal, a bucket of water, and a decent night’s rest.

He would get none of those things. Not until he had earned them.

Rift was not entirely surprised the boy had followed. He’d tried to break the boy’s spirit but revenge could drive a man to do stupid, reckless things. Rift knew as much from firsthand experience. Revenge was a cruel mistress, though, and did not tolerate even a whiff of weakness. Nor stupidity. He’d told the boy to turn back, yet Torrick had persisted. Pressed on against reason or wisdom. That showed spine, but also brashness. Stupidity.

And stupidity had grave consequences, as the boy was about to find out the hard way.

If not for Idwan’s intervention, Rift likely would’ve left the boy to die in the cold and dark, pursued by the terrible creatures that hunted the night. He wasn’t a cruel man by nature, but he wasn’t a soft one either. Okkorim was a hard place and only the tough survived. What the boy was about to endure would be much more painful than a quick death in the night.

But Id had intervened on the boy’s behalf.

Idwan was the closest thing to family that Rift had and so, against his better judgment, Rift would do as the Muzhry had asked. He would train the boy, at least until they arrived in Bhaleel. Six weeks was hardly long enough to forge a lump of raw steel into a weapon fit for battle, but it was more than enough time for Rift to determine whether the boy was worth forging at all. Whether he was fine raw ore, or brittle pig iron that would crack and break when the hammer fell.

If the boy could stomach what was to come, perhaps, Rift would let him stay.

If not… Well, they could drop the boy at the city gates with a small bag of silver and depart with a clean consciousness. Perhaps the gods, if they even cared, would smile on them for their act of generosity.

Rift allowed Torrick to sit just long enough in the warmth of the tent so that there was no fear he would lose fingers or toes. He also allowed Idwan to provide the boy with a few sips of water but permitted no food at all. In the desert, dehydration was a death sentence, and Rift had no desire to see the boy die from easily preventable causes. He wasn’t a monster. Food, though, was a luxury. The boy could go for weeks before the effects of starvation would begin to show.

If Torrick wanted to eat tonight, he would pay for the meal in blood and sweat equity.

“Stand,” Rift barked, once he was sure the boy would live.

Then he moved to the entryway and pulled back the flap, revealing a slit of darkness beyond. A wayward breeze drifted through, tugging at the edge of Rift’s oilskin cloak. He wore a pair of wide black pants, bound at the ankles, and a gauzy tunic cinched tight at the waist with a simple length of rope. He wore no armor and carried only a simple spear.

There was nothing special about the weapon. The handle was ash, the triangular head crafted from fired steel. It was the weapon of a hunter.

“We have work to be about before we can turn in for the night,” Rift said, gesturing toward the darkness with the razor-sharp tip of the spear.

Torrick seemed dazed, confused.

He cast a questioning glance between Idwan and Chains, searching for some sign of mercy. Some glimmer of compassion or sympathy. There was none to be found. Idwan and Chains were both Cultivators and knew exactly how demanding the Twelve-Fold Path was. The road to immortality was an even crueler master than vengeance and codling wouldn’t serve those who wished to ascend.

This was the foundational truth those who reached for the heavens needed to learn, yet it was also one that was so often overlooked.

There were countless noble families with vaults overflowing with sacred treasures and priceless alchemek elixirs and pills, meant to help one advance. Yet so often their young flitted off to the Cultivator Akademy like tiny birds taking wing for the first time—only to tumble from the nest and crash to the rocks below. Broken and bloody. The Twelve-Fold Path didn’t care about bloodlines, royalty, or social standing, and elixirs and sacred treasures could only help so much.

In the end, weakness was a death sentence.

It was an impurity that needed to be burned away.

And this boy was weak. He was less than a true Iron. Though he had the gift—the potential to cultivate mana—he hadn’t advanced far enough to form a proper Cultivator’s Core and he was already fifteen or sixteen summers old. Past the age when most Cultivators started formal training. He had a lot of catching up to do.

If Torrick wanted his vengeance, he would need to be strong. Rift could make him strong, and he could do it quickly, but there was a price to be paid. There was always a price to be paid.

In this case, that price was pain.

“Best you do as he says,” Idwan replied sternly. But then he faltered and his normally stony expression softened just a hair. As much as a stone could soften, anyway. “Don’t worry, Edriah is a very good teacher. He will make sure you survive.”

That was true, though Rift doubted it would be much comfort to the boy.

Chains snorted. “Survival isn’t the only thing you have to worry about.” She stood, the epitome of elegance, and carefully pulled back one of her gossamer sleeves. Her skin was crosshatched with thin scars. “You’ll live, alright, but you’ll also learn exactly how much blood you can lose before dying.” She let the sleeve drop, offered Torrick a lopsided grin, then flopped back onto her pile of pillows. “Good luck out there, kid. You’re going to need it.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t have so many scars if you actually listened to my advice once in a while,” Rift grumbled. “You’re the one who picked the kusarigama, not me. If you wanted less injuries, perhaps you should’ve chosen an easier weapon to master. Like a sentient whirlwind.”

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The boy licked his lips and hesitated for a long moment, before finally standing with a nod. He wiped his dusty palms against his robes, then grabbed up his sword from the ground where he’d dropped it.

“No,” Rift said, motioning for him to leave the weapon. “Tonight, we hunt a different game.” He tossed the spear at Torrick.

The boy’s reflexes were quick, and he snagged the weapon from the air. It was instantly apparent that he was more comfortable with a staff than he was with a blade, which came as no surprise. Rift suspected the boy had likely never even held a sword before looting the prismglass tulwar off the dead scout. Hells, it was possible the boy had never even seen a sword before. Although they weren’t exactly uncommon, they were typically reserved for nobility and highly ranked military officials.

Seasoned caravan guards carried them from time to time, but most soldiers favored spears or halberds. The exception were the sell swords from the southern city of Kenza—everyone there walked around with a sword, fighting honor duels over a single misplaced glance. The city produced more mercenaries than the next two combined. The Sword Dancers of the curling spires were without equal, and Rift had learned much of what he knew about the blade from their order.

Spears were much more common.

They were cheaper to produce and though complex to master, by their very nature, spears were easier to use—especially for lightly trained soldiers. They were versatile weapons, effective in both individual combat or as part of a larger formation, and they provided superior reach. Plus, most folk, especially those in the dusty border villages, knew their use since they were powerful hunting tools, capable of defending against water raiders or cutting down wild game with equal ease.

“You attracted a feral Uzra,” Rift said, as he led the boy away from the safety of the yurt and into the pitiless dark. “They are common out here in the Scorch and if we don’t take care of it, more will follow.”

“We’re hunting monsters?” the boy asked, his voice quivering at the edges.

“No,” Rift replied, shaking his head. “They’re hunting us. We’re just being proactive in our response. Most Uzra are like Thornbacks in that way—once they get a whiff of something they want, they’ll pursue for days. Especially out here where food is scarce.”

Rift dropped into a crouch then motioned for the boy to do the same. Ghosting across the sands like a shadow, Rift stole up the leeward side of a large dune, then lay flat on his belly as he reached the crest. Torrick, attempting to move with some semblance of stealth, crunched along in Rift’s wake, sounding for all the world like a newborn calf just learning to walk.

Rift sighed.

He had a lot of work ahead of him, but at least the boy followed orders without hesitation, which was a good sign. Stealth could be taught and so could battle, but bravery was innate. Either something you were, or something you weren’t. It could be fostered and nurtured, certainly, but it could not be learned.

The boy wormed his way up the last few feet of the dune, eventually stopping on Rift’s left.

The dune sloped sharply down thirty or so feet, terminating in a small bowl with a large boulder jutting up. It was the same spot Idwan had found the boy only a short while ago. Sniffing around the sandy clearing was a hulking boar-like creature, though there was nothing natural about the monster. It was easily three times the size of a normal feral hog and covered in rocky armored plates with curved spikes running along its spine. Its hooves were razor sharp and the great beast boasted tusks large enough to run a man through, back to belly.

A Razorback. Quite common in this part of the Scorch.

Six red eyes searched the darkness, while the boar’s flat snout tasted the air for its prey.

Searching for Torrick. Had Idwan been any slower, chances were good the boy would already be in the beast’s belly.

“What is it?” Torrick hissed. Rift could hear the edge of fear in his words. Clearly, he recognized where they were and just how close he’d unwittingly come to death.

“Uzra,” Rift replied simply.

“This thing is like the monsters you killed in the caves?” the boy asked, his voice hardly more than a whisper.

“Yes and no,” Rift replied, watching as the hulking boar rooted around, digging at the earth and sand with its tusks in evident frustration. “In theory they are the same, though in function there are leagues of difference between this beast and the creatures I battled. In their way, Uzra are not so different from Cultivators. Like those who walked the Twelve-Fold Path, they start weak and grow stronger as they amass kills and absorb mana.

“Most Uzra are unthinking,” he continued, “driven only by the basest of desires. To hunt, to kill, to sleep, to survive. In that way they are like normal creatures. As they advance, though, they become more powerful and over time some even become sapient. Thinking beasts, like you or me. Those are the most dangerous. The Uzra I fought back in the cave above your village, were such nightmares. This one though”—he waved a hand toward the boars—“is still young. Weak. Of a level with an early-stage Steel Cultivator.”

“Where do they come from?” Torrick asked, his eyes tracking the sporadic movement of the Razorback below.

“Temporal Rifts,” Rift replied matter of factly. “Tears or thin spots in the fabric of reality.”

He stole a sidelong glance at the boy and noted the confusion etched into the lines of his face. Rift sighed yet again. Truly, Torrick knew nothing. Not even the core concepts, which served as the basis for all Cultivation. Still, there was some benefit in that. Although he would need to explain everything to the boy in painstaking detail—a thought that chaffed at his soul—it also meant the boy would have no misconceived notions or bad habits to break.

“Think about this world as a grand tapestry,” Rift said patiently. “The warp of the cloth is formed by the six foundational Aspects—Water and Light, Earth and Fire, Aether and Shadow. The weft is formed by the six grand precepts of the Sentinels—Time and Order, Creation and Dreams, Chaos and Destruction. When woven together, these Aspects represent the Twelve-Fold Path and make up the tapestry of life. That tapestry is what separates the material from the immaterial. It serves as a barrier between our world and the worlds beyond.”

Rift pulled a small face scarf from his belt. It was dark and stained, hard worn from years of use. He held it up and bits of moonlight peaked through more strongly in some places than in others.

“Like this face covering,” he said, “the fabric of our world is not uniform. See how the light trickles through more strongly here and here.” He pointed at two especially notable spots.

Torrick nodded.

“Those are Temporal Rifts. Places where the fabric is worn thin. Those are the places where Null power can creep through into our reality. The places where Nightmares are born. But like Cultivators, when the Uzra seep through, their essence is tainted by whatever Aspects exist near the rift. If a rift exists in a deep earth cave, the creature will embody an earth, stone, or sand aspect. If they burble up from the mouth of a hot sulfur vent, they may embody Fire or Destruction.”

“And that thing down there?” Torrick asked, pulling his gaze away from the cloth and returning it to the unnatural boar. “What kind is it?”

Rift let his physical sight go hazy for a moment as he opened his spiritual perception and peered at the landscape below. The huge boar radiated a muddy brown light, confirming what Rift had already suspected. Stone Aspect. Like most of the beasts in the Scorch, these were born of deep earth.

“Rock and sand,” he said dismissively. “It has a stony hide, and its tusks are as sharp as fine obsidian. But as I told you, it’s weak. It might be able to condense mana externally, but I doubt it. You should be fine.”

“Me?” Torrick choked out, looking at Rift in sudden horror.

“You drew this beast to our encampment,” Rift said flatly. “Idwan set formation wards to keep Uzra away. You were careless and, as a result, this one tracked you across the sands. You made this mess, boy, so you’ll be the one to clean it up.” Rift paused, his lips pressed into a thin slit as he surveyed the monster. “Since that creature is brimming with earth-aspect, your spear will never penetrate its hide, but it’ll have a vulnerable underbelly.”

“You honestly expect me to go down there and fight that monster?” Torrick asked incredulously.

“That I do,” Rift replied, “and from now on you will address me as Serhan.” Master in the imperial tongue, and the formal honorific used between disciple and teacher. “Or perhaps you think the Imperator’s hand-picked Cultivators are less formidable than a big sand pig?”

That seemed to light a fire under the boy.

His eyes narrowed in defiance, and he snarled. “Of course not, Serhan,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Good, then best you move along and take care of this before more show up. You should count yourself lucky that it’s only a single boar and not a pack.” With that, Rift made a slight shooing gesture with one hand. “Move along.”

Torrick growled and his hand tightened around the haft of the spear, clutching it so tight his knuckles turned white. Without another word of protest, the rebellious child lightly crawled to his feet, then stole forward, slipping down the far side of the dune and toward the deadly monster below.