Tarar had been walking for a few hours, exiting the sewage system barely thirty minutes ago. I still hadn’t gotten used to being a voice in his head, to losing all control of my limbs. All my adult life, I had been prepared for this moment, yet I didn’t expect it would come so precipitately.

I could feel all the questions he wanted to ask, some of them beyond his current abilities. But I guess I had to tell him where to go, and to that end, it was better if he knew the whole picture.

“Listen quietly, Tarar, for I’m about to tell you the story of us, the Drak’ga.” I sensed he was about to ask who it was us, so I immediately interrupted him. “Quietly, I said. If by the end you still have doubts, then I’ll listen.” And so, I began explaining.

I was a Drak’ga, but neither my mother nor my father were. As a child, I was only a farmers’ kid with an incessant thirst for knowledge. My parents saved every drop of Ink they could, and eventually, maybe when I doubled your age, I was sent to the association.

As I said, I was eager to learn, and that didn’t go unnoticed. I was taken under the wing of the headteacher in charge of Formations, Derbb. He was a kind elder, strict and sometimes harsh, but a good person at heart. To him, serving the Empire was as natural as breathing, so he never questioned if his beliefs were right.

I gained his trust, proving I was reliable and quickly advanced in my studies. No as fast as you, but I advanced at great lengths. Sooner than I realized, I was learning a whole new type of drawing system. Powerful, much more than what was normally taught. I was told it was a secret, something that only a few knew and shared. The old ways.

Reaching Ga’ar is, in the Empire’s eyes, the greatest rank you can achieve. It should be the paragon of all Inkers, but that stands far from the actual reality. The day I reached it, Derbb guided me through the mountains in the north. We walked for days, travelled through forests, rivers, and plains. He didn’t tell me where we were going, just that I had to be quiet, that I had to follow him with blind faith. And I did.

We finally reached an opening, a clear on the forest we were marching through at the time. I remember it was dark, but the moon descended on that patch of land like a halo of light. We sat cross-legged, facing one another, locking our eyes in a profound and meaningful stare.

“You must swear to keep the secrets of the Drak’ga hidden.” His shaky voice, byproducts of his advanced age, was infused with a seriousness I had never heard on Derbb.

I nodded, “yes, I swear.” At that time, I didn’t understand what I was swearing to keep secret. Truthfully, I thought he would show me a classified book, something not in reach of most Inkers, or perhaps teach me some forbidden formations.

“Brothers, sisters, you can show yourselves.” But he just shouted in the air, calling for his family. Figures revealed themselves from the edges of the opening, appearing from behind the trees.

I counted eleven people of varying races, ethnicity, heights, and genders, all of them with exposed chests and tattoos. Whoever he was calling brothers and sisters, it didn’t seem they were blood-related. I inevitably thought that must be the secret, a society of people devoted to the study of Ink. In a way, I was not wrong, but as I would discover some years later, I had barely scratched the tip of the iceberg.

It was a weird meeting; I don’t have any other ways to describe it. They made me take off my shirt, and then we exchanged names and chatted like we were friends from another life. They asked us about our travel: if it had been hard, if we had found any bandits, if the way was still navigable; just about anything you can think of, weather included. We ate with them, nothing fancy, just some stew. They sang and danced around the fire, enjoying themselves.

Just like we met, we disbanded. The music stopped, the fire was put out, and each made their way back from where they came. Of course, I was utterly lost. There had been no secrets, no talks, nothing. Was it simply not speaking of our innocent gathering? Were those people fugitives? I didn’t get an answer for those unspoken questions; we also went back to the city, once again in complete silence.

Months passed without other mentions of the Drak’ga, until the fatal moment came. Derbb’s health deteriorated, and after being bedridden for two straight weeks, he called for me.

“You must swear,” his low voice said with an apparent effort, “to keep the secrets of the Drak’ga hidden.”

My heart jumped, surprised to finally hear of it, even making the excitement supersede my sadness for a brief moment. I managed to nod, not without restraining myself from celebrating more effusively.

“Come closer.” I did as instructed, and when I was right next to his bed, he asked something I was not prepared for, “bring my Drak’gath, Ink, and leave your chest exposed.”

You should be familiar with what was about to happen, as you have just performed the very same ritual a moment ago, save the oath.

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He drew something on my chest, and while the feeling was still fresh, while my skin was still burning, he told me to learn the formation. I understood what it would do, just like you did, and also felt despair and horror at the prospects. I had to imprison my teacher’s mind inside me, nothing less than a miracle.

I’ll save you the details of my internal agony, you know how it feels. Needless to say, there was a lot of weeping and indecision. My situation was not as extreme as yours. Not in many ways; but we’ll get to that in a moment.

Without the urgency of an unavoidable and immediate death, I felt like I would be his murderer, not the affliction he was suffering from. As you can tell, mainly because I’m explaining this story to you, I eventually went on with the Inking.

I had never experienced Ink in that way; it drew power beyond my expectations and moved my hand with haste and fury, drawing precise strokes on my own chest. By the end of it, I was lying next to my former teacher, hugging his body in a river of tears. It was unexpectedly beautiful.

If we were in any other situation—namely not running away from Lamar—I’d let you discover by yourself what I’m about to explain. But I believe you will need to know beforehand what to expect.

It took me a week to grow used to having Derbb in my mind, the influx of information never stopping even for a second. I had long discussions with him regarding my inheritance, and yours now too.

The Drak’ga are an ancient tribe; none of the myths and tales about them make real justice to how old they go back. Obviously, neither of them comes close to the truth either. A Drak’ga is an inheritor, someone worthy of receiving the knowledge of all their ancestors. He or she is a perpetrator of the lineage, not by blood, but by mind.

Derbb was a Drak’ga, and so was his mentor. And the mentor of his mentor. It’s a chain that goes back thousands of years, winding around genealogies and selecting the most appropriate seed at each time. We have always used the same formation to ensure that the chain doesn’t die with us, that the knowledge is passed onto someone else.

Lamentably, that is not always the case. It’s an imperfect system, each of us can only give way to a substitute, so it’s bound to fail at some point. Countless of us have died without leaving a suitable inheritor, some because of war, others finding a premature and unexpected death, and a minority because they never found someone apt. We are a dying tree, too old and massive for new branches born from the ground to reach our crown.

Like any other tree, we are neither free from diseases. There have been several traitors to our cause, using the power with evil intentions or outright exposing our secrets. We are not knowledge hoarders, we do disseminate information, but not all should reach the public. Remember that some formations are too powerful for unprepared minds; the chaos that could follow would expand like a wildfire.

There are some preemptive measures to select candidates, most of which you have directly skipped. In fact, you are in a quite young sprout of the tree. One that, by the Empire’s standards, has been poisoned and should die. For, the first requisite to become a Drak’ga, is to be under Empire’s surveillance.

Yes, Derbb knew. The formation I drew on my chest, the one that captured him, is not the same one you have just tattooed, Tarar. Mine was more complex, in ways that yours will never be. From the moment I became a Drak’ga, I unwillingly submitted myself to the Empire.

It all began when Derbb took me to the opening… that was a test. They tested my temperance, the ability to remain quiet and collected even upon the unique opportunity of learning a secret that everybody pursued. If I had asked any prying question, they would have outright banned me from the tribe. If I had gone beyond that, they would have killed me and my knowledge of the old ways.

They tested my trustworthiness; would I tell someone what I saw? Those people walked half-naked; I saw their tattoos. Were their paintings safe with me? The briefest mention, perhaps even to Derbb, could have meant discarding me.

They tested my patience; not only had they teased me with the Drak’ga’s secrets, but they also showed me all kinds of formations. If I tried to reproduce any of those formations, that also was a clear red flag.

And, of course, Derbb was the centerpiece of the process; he was my patron, my entry ticket to the society. During that reunion, Derbb presented me in the community and exposed my ability and personality in subtle ways. The others examined my reactions and my knowledge; they evaluated if I should continue the process.

“As you can guess,” I explained to Tarar, “our situation demands to get rid of all those formalities, nothing short of a severe violation of all and any codes and traditions of the new Drak’ga. Those people were none other than representatives of the Empire. You are in a huge mess. The only way forward is pretending to be part of the Drak’ga; you must never reveal that you are not under surveillance.”

You are a Drak’ga, part of a select group of people; you carry the secrets of countless generations. It’s a gift, but also a responsibility. More so in your case, as a part of the old generation—of the true Drak’ga. Those that sought knowledge, that sought Ink in its purest form, and that weren’t subdued by anyone.

I saw potential in you; you were a hot metal waiting to be hammered, young enough to be molded into something precious, intelligent enough not to blindly acquire a new form; you were everything a Drak’ga should be—everything a Drak’ga was—and I was ready to forge the perfect Inker.

Everything has had to be rushed forward. It implies that your smooth entry into this new world has been truncated, and you will have to experience more hardships than necessary. I can be your moral compass, but you will be in charge of steering.

I paused, meditated for a second, and then said the phrase Drebb had asked me. “You must swear to keep the secrets of the Drak’ga hidden.”

I do, I swear. I will honor the Drak’ga, Tarar’s voice spoke inside me, oozing truth and conviction.

I guided him to the north, following the same route Derbb had shown me while preparing him for what would come. I hope I have done a good job, Derbb. For, as much as Derbb had sold me to the Empire, it was through him that I uncovered the truth behind the Drak’ga.

You will now have to pass their test.

Live among the fakes.

Pretend to be one of them.

Learn.

Prepare.

And spread the old and free knowledge; by force.