“Watcha doin’ with thos’pair o’ rrusty daggars!” It was hard to understand what the poor soul, too drunk to even pronounce, was trying to say.

“Give me all your Ink!” A hoarse voice yelled, choosing to ignore the other man’s words.

“Lower tosh daggersh! Ya’re goin’ to cut yaself!” The messy shouts continued, “yo’ll get n’infection!”

“Bastard!” I heard the curse and feared the worst.

How did I get here? I was starting to question if I was in a dream, or if Spare was trying to pull a prank on me. I had reached the Ga’far level and, supposedly, Spare was trying to get me a teacher who could make sure I became competent with some weapons. Daggers, maybe swords he mentioned.

“Don’t judge a book by its cover,” I heard Spare’s voice somewhere in my mind, not able to completely awaken me from the negative spiral I was in.

We had finished our conversation on the old ways with a half-heartened agreement on my part to keep all that knowledge to myself for the moment. That’s when he said that we would immediately go meet my new instructor, and old friend of his who was a master of dual sword yielding.

Yaasir, a Ga’ar who had focused solely on combat, weapons, and killing. All he knew about Ink had been dedicated to the sole purpose of fights and wars. A high ranking member of the Empire’s armed forces, someone who had played a key role in the recent fights at our Empire's borders.

We got there, right were we were, and he pointed his finger at one of those two figures. The worse-looking one, even. The person who could barely stand by himself and that, as it looked, was being robbed of all his Ink. If he had any, as his robes looked no better than someone who lived in the slums and frequented the sewers.

I swear I tried. I attempted to imagine the drunkard with a pair of swords hanging from his drooping side as the magnificent and powerful Ga’ar Yaasir that Spare had told me about. But I failed. For God’s sake, the man could not even stand still, his sluggish words could barely be understood. And he was a Ga’ar? Not a cha-

The mugger slashed in a straight line, his sword perfectly aimed for Yaasir’s heart. I was about to look away from the scene when I caught Yaasir’s dropping his weapons. I was losing my mind, I couldn't believe what I was seeing, and it all got even more surreal when they clashed with a loud sound. Right then, as if the sound had awakened him, his waist slightly moved and just barely dodged the incoming blade. Being so drunk that you accidentally dodge a hit might be possible, yet right after that, he was able to go out of the path of the followup slash.

I was expecting a puddle of blood, certainly not a drunkard dancing around a pair of daggers like it was nothing. His feet were miraculously bound to the ground, defying his massive binge and somehow maintaining the balance of his swinging body. Like a feather rocked by the gusts of the thrusts, his body spun, turned, and dodged. His bare hands moved like short swords, striking at the enemies’ waist and armpits.

“Fuck!” The still armed robber swore, launching a desperate attack. Both his daggers followed a descending trajectory, from the top of his head to his enemy’s head.

Not only did the drunkard effortlessly sidestep the slash, but he also managed to catch the attacker’s falling hands, grip them, and use the force against his opponent. The robber tripped over, falling headfirst to the ground and rolling a few times until he managed to stop. That was enough humiliation, it would seem, as he over-hastily ran away without even picking up the daggers.

“Boy! Tcha lookin’at!?” I was still perplexedly going over what had happened a moment ago, so I involuntary turned to both sides to check if there was any other boy other than me. “Com’va her n’ he-” his phrase was interrupted by his own vomit, an orange-colored fountain erupting from his mouth. If that wasn’t enough, though, he swayed to the front, then to the back, once more to the front, and finally, on his last sway to the back, he passed out.

“What?” I was only able to produce that single word while blankly staring at Spare. Just what have I just seen?

“Go pick him up, it’s disrespectful of the student to leave his master in such a state,” Spare said with a straight face that I still can’t understand how he kept.

It was hell to drag him to a near and empty shack, and I’m not sure I would have done it if it wasn’t Spare telling me to. Sure, the man seemed to know what he was doing, but teaching? There was simply no way that such a person would be able to transfer his knowledge. Spare came back shortly after, two beers in his hands and a huge grin on his face.

“So, are you convinced yet?”

I tried not to blink too many times and, no doubt, I absolutely failed at it. There were many ways to convince me of something, and the one I had just witnessed in particular was not what I would say effective.

“Just wait and see,” he winked at me and proceeded to kick Yaasir in the ribs. “Old man, wake up!” His leg got released yet one more time, hitting the exact same spot and getting an angry grunt out of it.

“Will you let me sleep Spare?” Said the rough voice of someone who should be no younger than 100 years old. And who probably had not cared enough to drink water in quite some time.

For lack of a better answer, Spare just clinked the two bottles of beer together. He didn’t need to do or say anything else, because the call took its immediate effect. Faster than lightning and than any man should have the right to be, Yaasir was standing up and holding the bottle.

“Who’s that?” Yaasir said while pointing at me with his eyebrows.

“You know who he is. I already explained you about Tarar,” Spare said in an exhausted tone.

“And I already told’ya that I didn’t want anything to do with that!” He replied non-chalantly.

“Yaasir, I come to you bec-”

“No!” He rudely interrupted while taking a big gulp of beer. “You know I don’t teach!”

“But Tarar is unlike that, he needs to train or othe-”

“It’s always special! Always the last time! Always life or death! Fuck!” The bottle on his hand flew straight to the wall, crashing into a million glass pieces and spewing beer everywhere. “I already to-”

“La’er.” Spare said, and repeated when Yaasir blank expression froze for a moment, “La’er.” Each syllable carefully and slowly laid out.

“You better have a good explanation for that, boy.” Something in his voice, or maybe in his pose, was screaming danger at me.

I was petrified in place. Wasn’t it for the puncturing gaze of Spare, quickly followed by Yaasir’s, I probably wouldn’t have moved an inch for the whole conversation. That was my cue to do something, and that something—if explained incorrectly—felt like it could get me killed right then. I shouldn’t talk of the old ways, or make any mention of it, but it was Spare who ratted me out, wasn’t it?

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I moved my right hand to my left arm and invoked the Ink. It was the first time that Spare saw it, and I was not disappointed at his face. He was proud. I could see that he really thought I had done and excellent job. And maybe, just maybe, so was Yaasir.

“Fuck! Didn’t I teach you anything, Spare!” I inclined my head to the side, perplexed. “Why would you name that La’er! Just why w-” He stopped, his eyes looking suspiciously at Spare. “Ya’re smiling. What is it?”

I was starting to get a feel for Yaasir's accent. He wasn't native from Lamar, and while it normally didn't show, whenever he was agitated—or drunk—his original accent came back up.

“I didn't name it,” Spare said in return, shamelessly pointing at me.

“Ya must be kiddin’me. Ya taught the kid that? That!? What’s wrong with ya!” Yaasir was lashing out at Spare, and I felt it was my obligation to stop it.

“He didn’t. He even told me to forget about all of that. And I tried, I didn’t even know what La’er was or how it could be a problem.”

I relayed the whole episode with Ink Formations, how that knowledge had been stuck with me since I touched the glyphs, and how the name just came to me even when I didn’t know about it. Yaasir was strangely quiet, it almost seemed like another person was sitting in his place. There were no shouts, no drinking even. He just listened.

“So, that’s basically it.” I finished my long explanation.

“This ridiculous,” Yaasir started, “this, this-this!” He got stuck with the word out of pure frustration. “An’now you want me to teach him? Fuck!” I was convinced fuck was his favourite word. “You know what kind of mess ya’re getting me in!?”

Was it because I was touching upon forbidden topics? Maybe the risk of associating with me was too big to start with? But Yaasir already knew of the old ways, that much was clear, so I could see no reason that I could make it worse.

“I’ll get you booze?” Spare offered with a smile, his hand offering his own beer to the man that had smashed his own bottle just moments before. “I know, I know. Consider this a favour to your old student, one that will be repaid in full.”

“Spare…” For the first time I could sense hesitation coming from Yaasir. “If what you are thinking is true, if you were to ask the question in your head, are you sure I would the answer?”

That was the first and only time that I heard Yaasir lose his slur, accent, and perhaps even emotions, all at once. It was the only occasion were I could really see sharp eyes, a focused gaze that pierced beyond the skies and into something else. Yaasir. I saw the man Spare had talked me of. I saw the master that fought in wars, a paragon in swordsmanship. It became engraved in my mind, and I would strive to see it again, but I would never.

Yaasir suddenly took Spare by his shoulder, and so did Spare a fraction after.

“Can he feel the Ink?” Yaasir asked.

“Yes; he can feel It.”

“But will he hear It?”

“Yes; he will hear It.”

“Will he see It?”

“Yes; he shall see It.”

“Thus it shall be, he will find the way.”

At that time, I was not sure what was going on before my eyes. Even if the questions and answers in that perplexing ritual lacked context, I grasped that there were steps I had yet to achieve. And, somehow, I couldn't fail to make a parallel to the levels the association assigned. He who draws, speaks, and shapes. Whether it was related or they were just going through some manuscript, I didn't know. I was the main subject of that interchange, yet I didn’t have a say in it.

“Tarar,” the sound echoed deep in my mind, Yaasir eyes seeing something in mine that I wasn’t sure was there. “You are now my student. Live by my rules, don’t strive off the path that I’ll draw, follow my Ink, and you shall find what you seek.”

There was a brief moment of silence, his eyes gradually fading into the drunk stare of someone who can hardly keep it together. He was back to the Yaasir I had met before he continued.

“I won’t go easy on you. You’ll only quit if I deem you ready, or if you die in the process.” I nodded, not a bit surprised by the events. “Good. Then run you go for the next few hours.“ He saw I wasn’t moving, so he requested it again with a final tone, ”go!”

Running was an excuse to get me out of there, that I knew. They had something to talk about, and I could not be privy of it. Yaasir seems to be his teacher? Maybe it’s some master-student conversation, I'll have to ask Spare.

Thankfully I had kept up with my routine, even when possessed with the desire to master runes, which included training twice a day. So, while running for a few hours was not a stroll, it was neither the greatest of the hardships. I’m not sure if I could have slacked, but I didn’t want to start with the bad foot with Yaasir. If we has going to teach me, and strictly so, I wanted to prove that I could be trusted and that I would do my part.

I was back to the shack after about 3 hours and some more, keeping track of time was not my best suit. Spare was still there, clearly just waiting for me, fully packed and ready to leave at any moment.

“It’s another goodbye?” I said, looking at my feet instead of him.

I was immediately reminded of Tali, even of my mother. I'm sure they noticed, that they saw my struggling expression and my efforts to keep it together. And I was eternally grateful that they didn't bring it up.

“I’m afraid so. The circumstances have not changed, it would still be dangerous if I stayed with you for too long. But you have a teacher now, right? The best I could think of, actually.”

“When will we see each other?” I know I was making it hard on everyone, but I couldn't resist the fear I felt deep inside me.

“When the time comes.” Spare didn't expand anymore, he just hugged me. “Take care, and become an Inker that others are afraid of.”

With a last look from above his shoulder, he exited the shack. I kept staring at the door, hoping he would come back while knowing that he wouldn't. He did what was best, and I couldn't hold it against him.

Yaasir, perhaps thinking it would distract me, jumped immediately into action. He gestured me to follow him, and while walking outside he started explaining what would happen.

“Your training will be threefold. Composure, achieved through perfect control over your mind and body, and Ink. You’re an Inker above all, you fight with Ink in mind. If you forget that, ya’ll die.”

“Composure?” I asked after a brief moment of sorting through my feelings.

“Composure, yes. What you do when faced with enemies. Not any amount of training can be useful if you freeze when someone points at you with a sword.”

“And…” I hesitated, maybe my question was too stupid, “how does one fight with Ink?”

“Tsk, materialize your sword!” He ordered with quite the attitude.

I did as he instructed by moving my right hand to my left arm and willed the Ink to become real. It didn't take much, some seconds probably, and I was already holding it.

“That,” he's hands moved in circles pointing all around me, “is how ya get killed. Or how you impress a fine lady,” he winked. “You had to bring your arm to the Ink, carefully grab it safe it falls to the ground, and wait for seconds! Lame.”

Okey yes, now in retrospective I have to admit that it was indeed lame. The kind of lame move that impresses certain people. It does work in the wars of love, but will certainly get you killed in a real fight.

“Look.”

I barely had time to process the single word, when a sword appeared in his left hand. And it was gone, just to reappear it the other hand. No, wait, there's two swords now? I thought as his other hand became busy again. How ca-

I caught the blur in the air with my eyes wide open. His body spined at a vertiginous speed, turning 360 degrees in but a blink. His bent leg lagged behind, releasing just when he was about to complete the turn and impacting the blur in the air with mighty power.

The blur became a thin spot. A thin spot that cut the air itself, leaving behind a trail of sound that hissed right next to my ear and exploded behind me a fraction after.

I turned, eyes still wide open, and I saw it. A third blade embedded deep in the wood, cleanly stabbed in a perfectly straight line.

I brought my hand to the half deafened ear, sensing that something wasn't right. Wet. I slowly brought the hand to my side, and I immediately saw the red spot in my fingers. It has not touched me at all, it must have been the compressed air displaced by the sword. I quickly realized as I revisited the whole scene in my mind.

I only then noticed that I was breathing heavily, that my right punch was tightly pressed and threatening to draw blood from my own hand. In the same amount of time it had taken me to invoke my sword, he had juggled with two swords, invoked a third one right in the air, and perfectly aimed a kick that sent it flying straight next to me. I was sweating at the thought of him missing the kick and the sword stabbing me instead of the wood.

“This is the bare minimum a student of mine must learn. If ya don't think ya can do it, run to Spare's arms.”

If I can do it? I smirked with conviction.