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This line was advancing at a ridiculously slow pace, one that was clearly wearing on the nerves of the people around me, and when a fight broke out several places ahead, I smiled. Human nature was so wonderfully predictable at times.

For a moment, I considered breaking up the fight, but doing that might attract the Conscripted’s attention, which wouldn’t be smart right now. Because of this, I was planning to ignore the arguing men, blocking out their noise with the most avid of attention, but when one of them reached for a dagger in his belt, I found myself between them, twisting the assailant’s wrist while resting a hand on my sword’s hilt. This single point of contact with another person was small enough that I could maintain it without my skin crawling, but still, I’d be grateful when I could get rid of it.

“That’s rather rude, don’t you think?” I said in a slow, relaxed tone.

The assailant merely hissed in pain.

“Now, what seems to be the problem here?” I asked.

The intended victim shakily pointed at his assailant.

“He said I tried to cut in line, but I did no such thing,” the man said. “I only wanted to see how many people were in front of me!”

With a rolling laugh, I said, “Is that all? That’s no reason to draw a weapon, mister. You should apologize for your behavior.”

Grimacing, the assailant shook his head, and this only made me twist my hold on him harder.

“Apologize,” I repeated with a smile.

Gasping, the assailant said, “My apologies.”

And satisfied, I dropped my grip.

“That’s what I thought,” I said. “Now please, try to remain calm. Remember where you are and who’s watching.”

Crumpling on themselves, the two men shuffled back into line, making not another peep more, and with the threat handled, the Conscripted soldiers who’d been quietly watching the altercation resumed their tasks.

I could characterize my visit to the port of Nephiron with predicable behavior like this. On arriving, I’d left most of my gear outside the city’s gates, abandoning my armor in favor of street clothing while relegating myself to only one sword. No one had protested that single weapon in the other ramshackle towns I’d visited, so I’d figured the same would hold true here.

I found it interesting that remaining armed seemed to be actively encouraged in Auden. The strong were the ones who survived in this kingdom, which was slightly unsettling.

This port city, Nephiron, could be a copy of Sev, the famous city-state across the sea, if the poverty found in that distant place had been subtracted from the equation. People crowded the streets here, going about their business in a furtive manner.

I’d never seen a more frightened people, whether in this place or in the other villages I’d visited, but even still, trade insisted on continuing. Outside, I’d find markets occupying street corners and criers on the fringe, promising the best tackle for one’s horse or the finest of steel to be found in one shop or another.

All a standard pattern for a larger city. It was almost sad that Doldimar, feared Dark Lord plagued with insanity, could run a city better than his counterparts across the sea, although perhaps I should attribute this prosperity to the region’s Enforcer instead.

While on my way to town hall, the only oddity I’d noted had been when a loud bell had rung, filling the air with its peals. At the noise, people on the streets had scattered, and within moments, Nephiron had become like a ghost town. Following the pattern, I’d faded into an alley, determined not to stand out, and I’d reached it just in time too.

Howling Conscripted soldiers had chased a group of terrified people in front of them, herding those poor people toward a depression I’d seen on my way into the city. When the last of the enemy soldiers had disappeared, Nephiron had woken up with its citizens trickling onto the street again, and even as I’d wondered what that commotion had been about, I’d continued on.

Now, I was getting close to the front of the line I’d joined about a quarter mark ago. So far, the annoyance of my wait in it had been mitigated by my fascination with the mosaic on the receiving chamber’s wall, a good replacement for watching the jittery bustle of the people around me.

In this place, those who wished to make deals with Doldimar’s army came before his servants to argue their case. Here, I’d determine if Nephiron was a city worth taking. Until then, I’d try to understand the pattern of broken tiles on the wall.

Soon enough, a cleared throat pulled me out of my inspection, and blinking, I found myself at the front of the line. Ah. Must have once again lost some time while I’d been so focused.

This line culminated in a table, piled high with parchment on either side, behind which sat one of those strange people in black that I’d only seen in Auden. At some point in the past, the king and Spymaster Middle had touched on these ‘Kiraak’, mentioning that the only way to kill them was to cut off their head, but this was the first opportunity I’d had to see one up close. If the situation suddenly turned bad, would I have time to behead this woman, and if so, what would be the best way to do it?

“Name,” she said on my approach.

“Marcuset,” was what I answered with.

It would be interesting to see the commander’s reaction on learning that his name had been added to the enemy’s records.

“What’s your business?” the woman asked, short and sweet for once.

“I have grain for the army’s use,” I said. “If you see fit to compensate me, I’d be forever grateful.”

Nodding, the woman said, “Grain’s currently going for fourteen gold chits a cart. Bring yours to the stables outside of town hall, and you’ll get your money.”

“Thank you, mistress.”

Bowing, I turned on my heel. While speaking with the woman, I’d only gotten a fleeting glance at the contents of the parchment scattered on that table, but if the information on those pages was any indication of the truth, Nephiron accumulated and stored much of Auden’s resources for Doldimar’s army. With the city’s capture, the Conscripted would quickly go hungry, and without the weapons gathered here, the Dark Lord’s soldiers wouldn’t have much luck with defending against a properly armed force.

It had taken three such waits in lines of equivalent length throughout this half of the kingdom, but I’d found what I’d been looking for, which meant I could go home. Maybe ‘Sin would be back too, and the two of us could spend a quiet night together. That happened so rarely nowadays.

As I strode through the receiving hall’s doors, intent on reaching my left-behind belongings and getting out of here, a handful of Conscripted soldiers flanked me. Oh, goodie.

Never ceasing in my stride, I asked, “Can I help you?”

As expected, none of them replied, but they subtly guided me away from prying eyes and into a small room. Great… this was just great.

Here, they gave me privacy, although a pair of them stood guard outside. For a breath, I considered incapacitating those scrawny men before leaving, but I didn’t think violence like that was required yet. I hadn’t noticed a pattern that would indicate the Conscripted soldiers meant to hurt me, and until that became the case, I’d wait to see how this situation played out.

Eventually, the woman who’d given me the price of grain entered the small room, giving me a single look before glancing over her shoulder.

“This is the one,” she called.

A vine-covered man joined her, patting her on the back once he saw me.

“Nicely done, my dear,” he said.

Beaming, the woman left as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, this new Kiraak approached me until he was a pace away, never wavering in his perusal of my body.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

I couldn’t help the annoyance sparking through me. These people weren’t following the typical pattern of social niceties, which was… irritating. I’d never known how to react in situations where people deviated from the patterns I’d painstakingly picked out over the years.

“Tell me, Master Marcuset, have you seen much combat?” the Kiraak asked.

As he’d spoken, he’d circled me, looking me up and down.

Shifting in place, I said, “Nothing serious.”

The king and his soldiers might have fought a sizeable force of Conscripted and Kiraak after landing on Auden’s shores, but by the time that battle had begun, Spymaster Middle had dispatched me further afield for reconnaissance. I’d missed the bloodbath, fortunately, and before coming to Auden, no large-scale fights had ever pulled me into their deadly embrace.

“Hmm,” the Kiraak said. “Have you ever been in a fist fight, then?”

Wincing, I said, “More than I’d care to admit.”

What an understatement. I firmly did not think of many a wonderful evening left behind in Daira.

“Fascinating,” the Kiraak said. “You’ll do quite nicely.”

“Quite nicely for what, sir?” I blankly asked.

In situations without a pattern, it was best to only display deference and civility, even if this other man had done nothing but unnerve me since first entering the room.

Stepping back with his arms spread wide, the Kiraak said, “For the pits, of course!”

The pits? I’d heard about these, but I couldn’t remember the context I’d heard it in. Maybe it had been in an overheard conversation or a report I’d scanned?

“Even more fascinating,” the Kiraak said, rubbing his chin. “Most candidates break and plead for their lives by now.”

That was… interesting.

“Why would I do that?” I asked. “You have no intention of outright killing me. This current pattern of behavior doesn’t call for it, and if that changes, I’m confident in my ability to defeat you.”

At that, the Kiraak burst out laughing.

“A good candidate indeed,” he said.

On the tail end of the man’s glee, a Conscripted soldier stopped in the room’s threshold, and on receiving the Kiraak’s nod, he stepped closer to give that man his news, which made the Kiraak stiffen.

“Of all the things to happen!” he snapped before glancing at me and subsequently making a face. “Take this one to the pits now. No need for the usual routine.”

Spinning on his heels, the Kiraak left at a run, and the two of us left behind simply stared at one another for a moment.

“You going to make this hard for me?” the Conscripted soldier soon asked.

“For now? No,” I said.

Why would I do that?

With a faint smile, the Conscripted soldier said, “Then, I’ll let you keep your weapons, although how much good they’ll do you remains to be seen.”

At that, I shrugged, and without another word, the Conscripted soldier led me out of the room.

When we emerged onto Nephiron’s streets, I understood why the Kiraak who’d been eyeing me like a piece of meat had been called away. As with most cities on the coast, Nephiron climbed from out of the ocean and onto higher ground with its town hall resting on the summit, and from atop it, one had an unobstructed view of the sea. Contrary to what I’d seen when first venturing inside the building, a new line of specs marred the join between sky and sea now.

“Are those…?” I breathed.

“Ships, yes,” the Conscripted soldier said. “I haven’t seen such a thing in years.”

“Where did they come from?” I asked, more to myself than for an answer.

Shaking his head, presumably at my wonder, the Conscripted soldier resumed our paused journey, and I followed, thrown by this break in the pattern.

Most people in the west nursed an unholy terror of Auden. No one would have braved a journey to this cursed land except…

No. No, it wasn’t possible. No matter that it fit the pattern, I wouldn’t accept it.

Up ahead, the Conscripted soldier eyed me with his hand on his sword’s hilt.

“You going to make me drag you the rest of the way?” he drawled.

With a headache forming behind them, I rubbed my temples. Why had I stopped like that? I couldn’t indulge in any distractions right now, not when I still wasn’t clear about what was going on. I must focus on the here and now, not what might soon be coming.

With that in mind, I said, “I’ll follow willingly.”

And with a raised eyebrow, the Conscripted soldier continued leading the way.

Despite Nephiron’s regularly spaced streets and intersections, I soon lost a precise sense of my location, if not my way, until my surroundings started getting familiar again. I’d walked down this road when entering Nephiron earlier today. Given that it was near the city’s edge, I wondered if this Conscripted soldier was planning to let me go.

When we took a left instead of continuing forward, however, that theory crumbled to dust. No, this way led to…

The two of us stopped at the edge of a depression in the earth, and finally, the pattern that had been mystifying me clarified. Tall, curved blocks carved a stepped incline into this depression’s walls, all leading into a perfectly level floor in its sunken center.

“An arena,” I said.

Seeing this, I remembered when I’d heard of the pits. I’d scanned a briefing before agreeing to this mission, and references to these ‘pits’ had been buried within its contents. Apparently, Doldimar found it highly amusing to have his subjects fight each other until exhaustion saw the participants killed or otherwise maimed.

“I see why most candidates beg and plead before their march here,” I said.

Chuckling, the Conscripted soldier trotted down the steps, disappearing into the gaping hole in the pit’s far wall. Did he think I’d follow him? Sure, I’d been compliant to this point, but who walked into a situation like this?

Someone who felt an old, familiar itch crawling under his skin, that was who.

I patted at my tunic, breathing out a sigh of relief when glass brushed against my skin. If that was still there, I could indulge in my old habit. It had been such a long time…

In the dark beyond the pit’s hole, cells lined a hall. People had filled them to capacity with some blankly staring while others gibbered nonsense to an unseen companion. One crazed woman slammed her body against her cage’s bars when I walked by, reaching through them to swipe at my tunic.

Those howls faded the deeper into the earth that I plunged, soon replaced with silence and the occasional sob. When the soldier and I reached it, I recognized the people in the last occupied cell. They were the ones who’d been fleeing from soldiers earlier this morning, and on seeing them, I stopped short.

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“There’s a child in there,” I said, pointing at a boy huddled in the corner.

After returning to look, the Conscripted soldier dismissively waved a hand.

“Old enough to fight,” he said.

“Really.”

Without my permission, my fingers twitched, and I did my best to still them.

“How old are you, kid?” I called into the cell.

The boy’s eyes darted between me and the Conscripted soldier, but soon enough, he answered.

“Eleven.”

Turning on my guide, I said, “That’s old enough to fight?”

I found this idea… odd. Most societies followed a pattern that protected children from violence, and while that protection’s length of time varied from culture to culture, most of them would have an eleven-year-old falling within it. I required clarification before I could continue.

Shrugging, the Conscripted soldier said, “You’d be surprised what they can do with such tiny hands and bodies.”

He paused for a moment, looking me up and down.

“Are you thinking about running now?” he asked. “Because I can guarantee that you won’t make it far. It’s almost time for the fights, so the Kiraak will be coming to the pit any minute now. If you don’t do as you’re told, they’ll tear you to pieces.”

That… was an intimidating thought.

Raising my hands, I said, “You’ll have no trouble from me. I was just surprised. The kid doesn’t fit the pattern.”

“Whatever you say, big guy,” the Conscripted soldier said with an eyeroll.

Without another word, he tromped down the hallway with me reluctantly following, but soon, the Conscripted soldier stopped beside an empty cell. When he gestured toward it, I stepped inside.

“I won’t lock the door,” he said. “You’ve been more than cooperative, and if you do decide to run, you’d deserve the fate you’d get.”

That was nice of him.

“Much appreciated,” I said with a nod. “Any idea of when I’ll be fighting?”

“Not sure, but I’d guess you’ll go last this evening,” the Conscripted soldier said. “You’ve got too much potential for it to be otherwise. So, you have some time to prepare and pray to whatever gods you believe in.”

Bowing, I said, “Thank you.”

For a moment, laughter won out over the sobs and screams found below the earth here.

“First time someone’s thanked me for bringing them here,” the Conscripted soldier said to himself as he left.

Once I was alone, I retrieved a bottle, hidden in a pocket sewn into my tunic’s sleeve seam. I grabbed the charcoal and parchment found within its glass, careful not to break it, and sprawling on the ground, I smoothed down my writing surface while considering how to phrase my message.

Every missive from a Hand member went straight to our spymaster. Middle then decoded it before bringing it to the king, and I knew precisely which code would most frustrate my superior. Using it, I described my experience in Nephiron as well as my assessment of the city, ending the letter with an explanation of my decision to investigate the pits. Almost as an afterthought, I included the oddity of those ships that I’d seen on the horizon.

As I folded this paper back into the bottle, I smirked. I wished I could see Middle’s face while he translated what his Thumb had written. Frustrating him like that had always been a pleasure.

After tucking the bottle into its hiding spot, I dismissed it from my thoughts. Sometime in the next few hours, that hidden pocket would flatten after a Zrelnach in Tiro had summoned the bottle.

Those Esela had been a fortunate find, speeding up the process of relaying reports to an extreme. I didn’t miss the days of dead drops, and I could only imagine that Middle liked getting reports from his subordinates on a daily basis instead of sporadically.

Unfortunately, the spymaster would have to live without my daily updates until I was finished with this place. I’d hidden my remaining bottles outside of the city with the rest of my gear. Without them, I had no reliable way of getting a message out of enemy territory, not while they were surrounding me at least. Hopefully, nothing calamitous would occur before I could retrieve my things.

With my tasks as a member of the Hand completed, I settled in to prepare for the coming fights. No matter how hard I tried, though, my mind wouldn’t go empty, as I’d like. My thoughts kept returning to the last time I’d indulged in this incessant itch.

My opponent—an unimpressive little man—enters the ring, but just because he seems so unintimidating doesn’t mean this fight will be boring. Rolling my shoulders, I stretch, hungrily watching as my opponent strips off his clothing until only skin remains above the waistline. Then, this evening’s referee steps between us.

“I expect a clean match!” he shouts. “No funny business. We go until one of you yields, is incapacitated, or the round’s timer expires. Understand?”

Once he receives his acknowledgments, the referee chops a hand between us combatants.

“Begin!”

My opponent starts with several jabs at my face, each of which I easily block, but I make no move to counter them. The man’s pattern of attack isn’t clear yet, and if I want to understand it, I need more data. Fortunately, the other man is more than willing to oblige. His already ruddy face turns uglier with each of his failed attempts to land a blow, but I don’t pay that much mind because soon enough, I know his pattern.

Lunging around the man’s now predictable right hook, I land a solid uppercut on his jaw. Blood gushes from my opponent’s mouth as his teeth cut into his tongue, and the man topples backward.

“End round!” the referee shouts.

Unsteadily sitting up, my opponent spits blood into the dirt. He shoots metaphorical daggers at me, but I ignore them. Now that my opponent’s pattern is known, this fight has become tedious. I want to finish it.

“Marsuvius!” someone calls from the edge of the ring.

Reluctantly tearing my focus away from analyzing the fight in my head, I plod to the woman asking for me, frowning at her. I don’t know why this woman has continually insisted on acting as my promoter, both before, during, and after fights, but it annoys me how much she interferes in the one area of life where I can relax.

When I’ve reached her, the woman says, “You need to take your punches and bow out in the next round, big guy.”

Which only confuses me.

“Why would I do that?” I say. “That man’s pattern is predictable to an extreme. Now that I know it, I can’t lose.”

With her face going bright red, the woman hisses, “Fuck your pattern! Your opponent is a noble! If you humiliate him, he’ll make your life hell.”

If anything, my opponent’s social status makes me more inclined to ignore the woman’s suggestion. The nobility conform to a pattern of oppression that I, as an Audish slum brat, have always found baffling.

“If the two of you don’t mind…” the referee drawls from his corner, apparently eager to get round two underway.

Before I can leave, the woman grabs my wrist.

“Promise me you’ll take a fall,” she says.

Tugging my hand free, I turn my back on her without a word.

“Marsuvius!” she shouts behind me.

But it’s too late for anything more.

Chopping his hand through the air again, the referee says, “Begin!”

This round, my opponent’s pattern goes somewhat erratic, but that doesn’t happen to a large degree. I let the fight continue for a minute, hoping against hope that I’ve mistaken the other man’s predictability for something more interesting, but when my opponent again goes for a right hook following a feint, I abandon that wish. My surprise is colossal, then, when cold steel is slashed across my blocking arm, sending blood droplets pattering into the dirt.

As the alleged noble brandishes a knife, the crowd cheers, and I look to the referee to call foul and stop this fight. That supposedly impartial man, however, says not a word.

My opponent attacks again, and this time, blood follows each of those blocked thrusts. The noble wickedly smiles, which tells me that if I don’t end this fight soon, I’ll become another corpse in a pauper’s grave.

I won’t let that happen.

Here comes that feint and hook combo again, but this time, instead of blocking the right hook, I catch my opponent’s unarmed hand and squeeze. Bones unnaturally bend beneath my fingers, making the noble howl.

Confident that this injury will incapacitate him, thus ending the fight, I retreat, but my opponent follows me, jabbing at my chest with the knife. Again, this isn’t what I expected, and it makes me slow. I shift my body enough that the blade fails to reach my heart, but it embeds, hilt-deep, into the meat of my arm with its tip painfully bouncing off of bone.

While holding the noble off, I can’t rip my eyes off of that knife’s hilt. This isn’t right. The rules say that weapons aren’t allowed in these fights. They say a match is over when someone is severely wounded. They say that the referee will enforce those rules.

Rules are the pinnacle of human patterns, and patterns are the essence of life. They must not be broken, otherwise, chaos takes over and society collapses. THIS ISN’T RIGHT.

But wait. If… if the noble can break the pattern, does that mean I can too?

When I swing at him this time, my fist meets my opponent’s nose with a crunch, and roaring, I drop to my knees atop the fallen man’s chest. Plucking the knife out of my arm, I slam it into the noble’s face over and over and over and…

I took a shuddering breath. Those memories were of another man, one who’d lived a separate life from me. They had no relevance in the present.

Still, my thoughts refused to slow down, and when a Conscripted soldier came to escort me into the pit, my mind wouldn’t stop spinning. As I stepped outside, the setting sun blinded me with only silence in the air, and when my eyesight cleared, my confidence in my ability to escape this place wavered.

People with black vines squirming under their skin had lined the steps, filling this pit to the brim, with hundreds of eyes piercing me.

And not a single word was spoken. Only the occasional breeze broke an absolute silence.

So, when sniffling came from behind me, I faced the noise’s source with trepidation. A familiar, eleven-year-old boy was hugging his chest near the hole beneath the earth, shuffling in the sand.

“He’s going to be my opponent?” I said. “I thought the Kiraak liked a spectacle. A child won’t be much of a challenge for me.”

Still, a voice called, “You will fight.”

Shivering at the emptiness in that voice, I raised my hand in surrender.

“Whatever you say,” I shouted.

I didn’t like the idea of fighting someone who was unavoidably weaker than me. It wasn’t fun when I had an unearned advantage over my opponent, but when my options were to fight or to brave these violent people’s displeasure, I knew what my choice would be.

Besides, maybe I could use the fight to help the boy out. Unfortunately, when I lifted my fists to try that plan, the boy refused to move from his huddle.

“Come on, kid,” I whispered to him. “Don’t make me hurt you before you’ve had a chance to hit me.”

Sniffing back tears, the kid uncertainly matched my stance.

“Good,” I said with an encouraging nod. “Now, attack me.”

Again, the boy followed my instructions, swinging at me, and I let the blow land, along with several subsequent punches and kicks. From everything I understood about the Kiraak, they’d want to see a display of violence and would kill anyone who didn’t conform to this desire. So, I’d let the kid have a chance to prove he could be entertaining, given time, before decisively finishing this fight.

When that time eventually came, I avoided the kid’s overly ambitious strike, spinning around him. After dislocating the boy’s shoulder, I stepped back. Sure, the pain caused from this injury would be bad, but the boy would be able to recover, quickly returning to health and heartiness.

I faced the audience.

“Good enough?” I shouted over the kid’s screaming.

To my surprise, something landed on my back, and tiny fingernails were raked across my cheeks and neck, engaging long-held instincts. Dropping to the ground, I rolled backward, crushing and subsequently shedding a recently added weight. Once I was back on my feet, I warily watched the kid, flattened into the sand, but that boy didn’t move with only hiccupping sobs to shake his frame.

I didn’t understand. According to accepted decorum, the injury I’d imparted should have ended this fight. I’d proven I was the better brawler, and wasn’t demonstrating superiority the point of contests like this? I should be facing my next opponent, not warily circling the one I’d already bested.

“Why haven’t you sent out my next challenger?” I asked. “Yes, this kid did well, but he’s no match for me.”

This had a rustle breaking the audience’s stillness.

“Where did you find this one, Overseer?” an overly amused voice growled.

A crunch and choking cough followed this question, briefly restoring a deep silence.

“The fight is to the death, Master Marcuset,” a decidedly more imperious voice eventually called. “Do you not understand how the pits work? You’ll stay locked in mortal combat with a string of opponents until you die or satisfy our need for entertainment.”

Snorting, I poorly tried to contain my laughter. That claim couldn’t be right. Sure, I’d only skimmed the briefing that had touched on the pits, but the words ‘mortal combat’ or ‘to the death’ would certainly have leapt off of the page at me.

Besides that, Doldimar had been in power for nigh on three centuries now. With the rate of his Harvests alone, that Dark Lord should be close to a complete cull of the Audish population, but if deaths from the pits were thrown into the mix as well, the kingdom’s citizenry would surely have passed from existence years ago.

Unless Auden was much larger than my fellow Hand members and I had suspected.

The voracious gazes fixed on me revealed how serious these Kiraak were about their demand, though. They sincerely wanted to watch a highly skilled brawler fight a child to the death. What the fuck was wrong with them?

“We do as you ask, or what?” I shouted.

Following their command would test me in a way nothing ever had before. Forget the silly emotional rationale that was supposed to affect me at the prospect. Children were the future of humankind. To kill one was to end the possibility of future genius.

“You fight, or we kill you both,” someone from the crowd said.

Oh, how one amused statement changed things. Suddenly, my expected fistfight was no longer about providing entertainment but a visceral struggle for survival. Whose existence would continue at the end of this: the older, stronger man or the underdeveloped kid?

I stood over my opponent, and terrified eyes met mine.

“At least I can make it quick,” I said.

Without thinking about it, I snapped the kid’s neck, and the pit erupted into cheers while a Conscripted soldier dragged the body away. So quick. One child’s potential gone from the world, and already, the next challenger was stalking toward me from across the sand.

As he came, I idly remembered something about how pit fighters eventually lost their minds here, which made perfect sense now. Most couldn’t long withstand the emotional pressure that came with ending a life before something snapped in their head.

As for me, I felt nothing but disgust for the travesty that the Kiraak had forced upon me, and I quickly shook that off in order to face the next threat to my survival.

I had to.

My next opponent—a stout man, madly smiling—stopped opposite me, and on inspecting him, I quickly discounted any challenge that he might bring. I could easily counter his pattern.

Soon, the cheering around us died, and I waited for the command to begin.

Instead of receiving it, I had to clap my hands to my ears as multiple bells across Nephiron started clanging, a clamorous tumult of ringing chimes—so much noise—and after a beat of stunned silence, the pit dissolved into sound and movement. Howling, the Kiraak sprinted out of the pit, and Conscripted soldiers came forward to herd me and the other combatant away.

When we reached them, the holding cells were in the process of being emptied, and Conscripted soldiers were driving this crowd in the direction opposite the pit. I endured their shoving and screaming, holding back the panic threatening to claw up my throat.

Too many people in one place! I couldn’t read their patterns, and with chaos looming, my vision narrowed to pinpoints with black stalking along its edges.

When we broke into open air once more, creating space, I nearly collapsed with relief, but my torment wasn’t yet at an end. The Conscripted corralled me into a cart filled with prisoners, several of whom tried to bite and scratch at me. The cart bed was crammed with flesh, forcing every inch of my skin into proximity with someone else’s.

I could only stand one person’s touch for more than a few seconds, and that man wasn’t here. How long was I supposed to endure this?

As a final, bawling woman joined the group, a Conscripted soldier slammed the cart’s hatch closed.

“Get your cargo to Elisk as quickly as possible,” she called to the cart driver. “We can’t afford to lose the Dark Lord’s entertainment.”

After an acknowledgment, the cart jerked forward, slamming a mass of bodies into me. I was quite aware that I was hyperventilating, but until I could get away from the chaos of so many interwoven patterns, I’d never get control of my brain or lungs back.

At least black wasn’t threatening to drag me under, like it had been earlier.

The woman last loaded in here had been left hanging over the back hatch. As we departed Nephiron, her eyes landed on me, and if possible, her sobs became even more violent.

“My son?” she asked.

What was she-?

Oh, Alouin. The kid. She was asking about the kid.

Slowly, I shook my head, and the woman let loose a single shriek. For a moment, her body went limp. Then, she jerked herself over the hatch, tumbling to the earth, and the cart behind us rattled over that debris a breath later.

Seeing this, my panic subsided, replaced with something… other. I’d only experienced this sensation once before, but it shouldn’t be showing its face now. It didn’t belong to me but the man I’d once been.

The jingle of a key ring approaches my cell, which doesn’t match the pattern of the guards’ established patrol. Another three-quarter mark should have passed before the next one.

So, I unlace my fingers from behind my head, quickly sitting up. Shortly afterward, the third-shift guard swings open my cell’s door, and a stranger saunters inside with the guard quickly departing.

I stay perfectly still. With no indication of what pattern the other man holds to, I’m not sure how to act or what to say. The cell’s quiet must have become uncomfortable because the stranger soon shifts in place.

“I hear you’re good with codes,” he says.

And I shrug. I’ve unraveled patterns for Daira’s thieves guilds on occasion, whenever I’ve needed extra coin, but I wouldn’t call my work ‘good’.

“You’ve gotten yourself into quite the pickle, Master Marsuvius. Killing an ambassador from the Southern Kingdoms, even if the man provoked it, is never wise,” the stranger says, clicking his tongue with disapproval. “Kaedesa was furious about that until I told her about your unique skills.”

He ceases his flow of words as if expecting a response, but I have nothing to say. When they pulled me off the nobleman I attacked, they said I was incoherent with rage. That I attacked several other patrons. That restraining me took four other brawlers’ strength. I remember none of it, just my opponent breaking society’s pattern and something subsequently breaking in me.

“Have they told you what’s happening come morning?” the stranger asks.

“Execution,” I reply.

It’s a fitting punishment. I doled out death on the man who broke the pattern and as a result, broke one of society’s most sacred rules. I deserve what’s coming.

“How would you like a grant of reprieve instead?” the stranger asks.

Cocking my head, I consider his proposal. Continued existence is, of course, preferrable to death, but this offer confuses me.

“Wouldn’t that break your laws?” I ask.

“The queen makes the laws, and she’s the one offering,” the stranger counters.

An acceptable line of reasoning. Which leaves…

“Why would she offer such a thing?” I ask.

“She has need of your abilities, although I suppose I should test them before we go any further,” the stranger says before retrieving a document from a breast pocket. “We found this among the belongings of the ambassador you killed.”

Accepting the sheet of parchment, I scan it. At first glance, it seems like a love letter to a mistress in Daira, but on closer inspection, I notice a familiar, coded pattern in its otherwise confusing words and…

“The ambassador planned to use his protected status to get close to the queen so he could kill her,” I say while handing the document back.

“Exactly as we surmised,” the stranger says with a half-smile. “So, would you like a stay of execution?”

I hesitate but eventually nod.

“Excellent! Welcome to the Queen’s Hand,” the stranger says, offering me a hand.

Reluctantly shaking it, I suppress a shudder at our point of contact.

“My name’s Oswin,” the stranger says. “I’m your spymaster, and together, we’ll create a little chaos.”

At that idea, I promptly throw up.

That same reaction was threatening to overwhelm me now. Only the angry glares of the people around me were keeping my stomach contained.

What did other people call this sensation? Self-disgust? Regret? Somewhere in between? Whatever it was, I couldn’t shake it. That kid’s eyes were burning into me, even now.

I could produce a slew of logical reasons for what I’d done in the pit. My king needed me. If I’d let the kid kill me, the boy would have died at the hands of his next opponent, and that death wouldn’t have been nearly as painless.

None of these rationalizations, however, had been floating through my mind when I’d snapped the kid’s spine. All I’d known was his life versus my own, and I’d chosen myself. It was a perfectly rational choice, one I’d made countless times in the past, but this one already haunted me, which was frustrating.

In a struggle to survive, nothing but strength should matter. Not gender, not genius, not age…

I buried my face in my hands, rubbing at my gritty eyes. What was I doing? Feelings like this shouldn’t distract me from my job. I was the Thumb of Raimie’s Hand. My sole purpose was to serve the king.

So, I carefully pulled my message in a bottle from its hidden pocket. This was the last report I’d be able to send for a while. Best to make it thorough.

Ignoring the curious glances directed my way, I added the information about the commotion in the pit and my current transport to Elisk at the end of my report.

So many Kiraak scrambling away from a favored form of entertainment and the appearance of ships on the horizon could only mean one thing. Someone else had invaded Auden, and they’d been lucky enough to make their landing at Nephiron instead of on an abandoned beach.

As I returned the parchment to its bottle, it disappeared, right as I replaced the stopper. This display of magic stirred something from the dejected people around me, but their reactions didn’t last long. They soon returned to listless staring.

As for me, panic took over once more. The creak of the cart’s wheels barely covered the noise of my ragged gasping.