A whole week’s worth of work went down the drain. Ral thought he had it. He thought, for once, he was doing something helpful. There was a certain thrill to pretending to be a Freerunner as well. Maybe he had finally found what he was meant to be but like always, it just fell apart before anything came out of it.

Kentor kept assuring him that it was going to be alright, but the truth of the matter was that they still had inventory to move around and they still didn’t have the horses needed to do it. Maybe Ral would have to do the heavy lifting, literally. He had hoped his days of being just the muscle would be over, but perhaps that was the only thing he was good at. The days of being the dumb, blood-head Gaian was supposed to be behind him. The days spent in Alkkes made the pain better, made him almost forget. But now all the times he failed being still enough, being swift enough, being Somas came back to haunt him.

While Ral was simultaneously feeling sorry for himself and trying very hard not to feel sorry for himself, Kentor was busy finding alternatives to their transportation problem. The merchant headed out almost every day, meeting with people, bargaining and debating with his peers to either scrape up enough gold or to find even one horse fit enough to carry their cargo.

Ral felt terrible. He was supposed to help Kentor, this man who risked his life to bring him back to a Gaian city. After finishing a few chores (mostly shuffling inventory around after they buy or sell items), Ral made time to return outside of Alkkes to the little unmarked shop off the main roads. Again, he could hear the snorts of horses and the smell of manure. In the shop, the incense was as strong as ever. But this time the man behind the desk did not greet him with a smile.

“What do you want?”

Ral scratched at his beard. He wasn’t unpleasant the last time he was here. “I was hoping that you could - ”

“There is nothing here. Nothing I can do for you. Please leave.”

The shopkeeper's words were harsh but Ral could feel it in the Great Solvent: an agitated wave of pure terror rippled through to him. This man was scared enough for Ral to feel it without trying. He didn’t understand what provoked this response. The man behind the desk further paled when Ral didn’t turn to leave.

“You already know who’s responsible,” the man said. His thin lips quivered and he pressed them together to stop the movement. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“What wasn’t your fault?”

“The blood,” the man blurted out. “I already told your men that Pautal couldn’t stop his miserable mouth from running. Not me.”

Ral kept his expression blank. “Of course. Let me check up on Pautal. I need to speak with him.”

“He didn’t come to work today,” the man behind the desk said, shrinking in his seat as Ral approached him. “So he might be at home. Just a few blocks down. Horse painted at the door. Please, I didn’t say anything.”

Ral could almost smell his fear as a stale, sweaty stench. The only other man he could think of that knew about some large shipment of blood was Kentor but the even tempered merchant would never…

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All he ever had was instinct. Bette had tried to tell him it was wrong to rely on it in order to stamp it out and replace it with tried and true . He went back outside, away from the plume of perfumed air of the fake shop, and started down the direction he was sent to find Pautal.

Ral didn’t even have to look far until he saw what he was looking for. The atmosphere shifted when he turned a corner of what looked like an inconspicuous street of little wooden houses. He spotted two women muttering and casting dark glances down the street - again, instinct told him to follow. He saw a door left ajar at a house and when he approached, he saw the simplified form of a horse painted on the side. A long, dark smudge of blood trailed out from the entrance.

A very small crowd had gathered at a distance, whispering and muttering. They were intent on not getting too close to the bloodied doorway. Ral didn’t have to get much closer to spot the body just inside. Pautal lay there in a pool of his own blood, his throat slit.

Ral immediately returned back to Alkkes. How did this happen? Did Ivron do this? No that didn’t make any sense: if Ivron wanted to hide how he was selling horse parts, he would be coming after Ral and Kentor. Something was amiss, and if they kept going, would he and Kentor be in danger? Ral could certainly defend himself, but Kentor wasn’t a fighter at all. He had to go back and warn the merchant to be careful -

As he approached the inn, he saw Kentor briefly at a distance. The merchant’s face was twisted in fury, an expression Ral never saw on him. Kentor was almost always smiling, relaxed - at most he would be perturbed when someone was rude to them, but he would quickly return to his jovial self. The merchant was a constant source of unbridled optimism to the point where it was nearly annoying. Even the way Kentor walked exuded agitation. With a speed uncharacteristic of the rotund man, he turned a corner.

Ral mustered up every bit of knowledge of the area to predict where Kentor would be. If he turned down that alley, he would reach a dead end created by a tall wooden fence. Walking around the inn to the other side down a different alley would bring Ral to the other side. Quickly and quietly, he made his way there and had to use his stillness again to remain quiet, straining to hear anything through the wooden fixture. For some reason, he felt dismayed hearing Kentor’s voice. A small part of him hoped he had been mistaken about seeing him.

“…were you thinking about meeting here,” Kentor hissed.

“It won’t matter soon enough,” another voice intoned. It was deep and masculine, a voice that Ral didn’t recognize.

“Of course it matters. I’m still here. Now I don’t have any fucking horses because apparently they’re killing them for you. How am I supposed to bring my goods out of Alkkes?” It almost turned Ral’s stomach, hearing the agitation in Kentor’s voice. It was so out of character.

Could it be that he didn't really know Kentor in the first place?

“That should not be your focus as a Bringer,” the mysterious voice replied. “Money is frivolous. Things are temporary. None of this should matter in the face of the Final Solution.”

“You can’t mean to start it here,” Kentor said, voice still hushed but strained. “I don’t even know if that red headed moron is what you’re looking for.”

“He is.”

Ral felt a chill creep up his back despite the persistent desert heat.

“He is the Solaris, we are sure of it,” the mysterious voice continued. “And so we must act quickly.”

Kentor cursed, vocalizing exactly what Ral was thinking, albeit for different reasons. In more ways than one, the guise was up and someone was going to do something with a lot of horse blood. To Ral, the worst of it was witnessing Kentor’s true face.

How many times will he be lied to? Red-headed moron…

Was he going to run away from it again? Ral kept stone-still and quiet until he knew Kentor and his contact had left.

He is the Solaris, we are sure of it. Now more than ever, Ral wished he was never born. Ralos, Son of Suns, ever burning in a sky alone. Now, more than ever, Ral had no idea what to do.