The brothers rarely discussed the training of the Hallowed step in Ezril’s presence. They did so from a sense of empathy, he noted. In time even the priests favored him with looks of pity. Priestess Ellenel not so subtly reduced the force with which she pushed him during their personal practice of the bow. The greatest blow came when Father Talod proved sparing with the cane, flogging him for only the dumbest of mistakes.

“So tell us, brother. What’s her name?” Olbi spoke between bites as they ate in the dining hall one evening, exchanging playful banter.

“I will have you know,” Salem began in a mock accent of royalty Ezril suspected was actually how he spoke before the seminary, “that the fair lady is none of your concern.”

The brothers laughed at his tone. Raylin spewed chewed up pieces of apple from his mouth. It was a classless display of enjoyment; the beauty of his laughter wasn’t one of the things he was known for, often it proved more humorous than the jokes.

“C’mon, brother.” Unkuti wiggled his brows comically. “Or would you have us find out ourselves?”

“We best not do that, brothers,” Darvi joked, something he did rarely. “We might scare her from our brother’s arms.”

Takan backed him with a series of well-placed kissing sounds, drawing another bout of laughter. Each laugh carrying its fair share of displaced sweat and spittle.

Although the training proved sufficient enough to cause fatigue, they sweated more than any training ever made them. Not even the training of the body or the pole which required they swing poles of six feet in combat had the same effect.

The brothers rushed their meals with a gusto Ezril had only seen them display on their first few days in the seminary. However, he proved unable to match either their hunger or their fatigue. It was proof that the actual step claimed more than the training required to achieve it.

“We are just friends,” Salem replied, reddening. “Nothing more.”

“I would believe you, brother, save one thing.” Takan grinned. “If you speak true, then I reckon you wouldn’t be so flushed.”

The red of Salem’s face deepened into a close crimson color, and he covered his ears. Living with each other revealed a lot of things. When Salem blushed, his ears turned an almost crimson red. It was something Ezril realized he had not seen from the brother in years. In their earlier years it only came to view whenever they poked harmless jokes at Divine. Ezril found he liked the sight of his brothers happy. It is a strong bond, he agreed.

So why are you not happy?

“Vi Antari!”

All heads swiveled to the sight of Father Talod clad in his customary black cassock at the dining hall’s entrance. There were a few tables of younger boys standing between them. Talod walked up to their table, his gaze fixed on Ezril. Ezril could see the hate he had almost forgotten Talod had for him marr his stare. What have I done, now?...

“The Monsignor requests a word with you,” Igor said.

The table tensed with surprise, one that no doubt heralded nothing favorable. But Father Talod perhaps knew what it was, and it served well enough to rekindle his dislike for Ezril. It eased Ezril slightly. If Talod didn’t like what the Monsignor intended to say to him, then it was likely something favorable.

Ezril rose, hiding his anxiety the best he could. Today’s meal was another where his brothers had kept their comments on the training to themselves. But he knew they spoke of it in his absence, just as they had spoken of his scars. The difference was the absence of Olufemi’s confrontation. It proved significant.

As Ezril walked out of the hall with Father Talod he knew his brothers would speak more freely. They are being kind to you, his mind reminded him.They show their empathy with it.

He answered almost immediately. I understand their actions. But all I see is pity.

He took a contradictory solace in Father Talod’s rediscovered dislike in him. At least it’s not pity.

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Ezril and Talod arrived at the Monsignor’s office a while after. Behind it’s door Ezril heard a voice.

“… the thought of a Hallowed incapable of the Hallowed step in the seminary is insulting,” the voice was saying with barely contained rage. Ezril recognized Father Fravis’ voice easily. “…Are you sure he even is? The seminary will not train one that is not Hallowed. The thought of it is anathema.”

Talod opened the door, and the voice came to an abrupt end. Monsignor Crowl cast an unreadable expression on Ezril. Fravis stood at one corner, silent as if never having spoken. The priest’s expression, like the Monsignor’s, proved unreadable.

To the side a man sat comfortably in a worn leather chair. Ezril had never seen him before. He was a man of many years. The wrinkles that clung to the edges of his eyes spoke of a fulfilling life. But ascertaining if it was one fulfilled in happiness or despair was unreadable. His skin was weathered from time under the sun, and he had strange eyes like the monsignor when he wasn’t being jovial. Not the eyes of a priest. The eyes of a warrior.

“Father Fravis, I am fully aware of what my post entails, and I will take your opinion under advisement,” Crowl said. Then he addressed the rest of the room. “May I have a moment alone with Vi Antari.”

It came as a request, but they all knew better. In the space of a few heart beats Ezril found himself alone with the old man.

“Vi Antari,” Crowl addressed him, “do you know why you are here?”

“Yes, Monsignor.” Ezril had his suspicion. The entire seminary did. “It would seem I am not Hallowed.”

The Monsignor rubbed his head in thought. “I see. You must have heard Father Fravis.” His face remained unreadable, his mask never faltering.

“Who is he, Monsignor?” Ezril asked.

“The man?” Crowl waved the topic aside with a simple gesture like it was of little import. “Lord Eleren Alif.”

Lord Eleren Alif was of great import.

There was no one who did not know the name of the Lord Commander of the second defense of the kingdom. He was a Hallowed who’d fought battles beyond the kingdom’s borders. And when experience had eaten into his skill with age he was given command of the second of the two forts protecting the kingdom’s borders.

“Antari, you are Hallowed,” Crowl said, scratching his forehead. It made him seem weary. “This, I know. If anyone can tell a Hallowed, it’s your father. And he picked you.” His mask slipped at the mention of Urden.

But? Ezril waited.

“But not every Hallowed learns the step fast enough. You are still young. Maybe too young. If you continue to try you will learn it.” Crowl rubbed his beard now. It raised a feeling in Ezril’s chest, one he had felt whenever Urden had touched his scar.

I am still young? Ezril held back a scoff. Olufemi isn’t older than I am. He felt his mind steel itself. Why is Lord Commander Eleren Alif here, Monsignor?

“The Lord Commander is an old friend.” Crowl continued, as if hearing his thoughts. “I met him a few years after I began my service to the Credo. He is a good man.”

“Monsignor,” Ezril interrupted, knowing it was disrespectful but not caring. “Why is the Lord Commander here?” It was a question with an answer he didn’t want to know. But asking it had proven itself inevitable.

“The seminary has rules, Vi Antari. I would delay the test if I could, but, alas, I cannot.” Crowl’s mask was back in place, unreadable as the empty sky, the earlier crack gone, almost like Ezril had imagined its existence. “He will take you under his tutelage and see you to the fort. But if you seek to put yourself to other uses, my reach is not limited to the service of bloodshed.”

Ezril’s eyes stung from the swell of tears he’d thought he no longer had but was certain he would never shed. “Why me?”

Crowl took a step towards him, compassion in his eyes. Perhaps thinking better of whatever action it was supposed to be, he stopped. “I may not have known your father too long, but I owe him a debt.” He turned around and returned to his seat sluggishly. It seemed more like the motion of a tired man, a man who wished he could do more. “Lord Alif returns tomorrow,” he said, “you will follow him should you choose to.”

Ezril frowned. He knew a dismissal when he heard one.

“Yes, Monsignor,” he answered. He bowed his head, and took his leave.

………………………….

The evening breeze was cold, and yet its chill seemed to avoid Ezril as he walked the woods beyond the mist, Shade bounding around him in happiness of its freedom, however short lived it was.

Ezril found a tree stomp easily. There he sat and watched Shade. It rolled in the dirt, staining its beautiful grey fur with the black of the forest sand.

Ezril knew when it caught the scent of prey. He made no move to stop or follow it when it moved with an immediate rush, racing after whatever unfortunate animal had caught its fancy.

Ezril never knew Shade to lose a hunt.

Unlike beyond the other gates, the forest lost its ominous presence on this side. Alone, Ezril took off his boots. The dirt was cold against his feet. The sand was coarse, nothing like the halls they practiced in. There was something different about it, something different about the dirt. He had been in this part of the forest multiple time. But it was the first time he ever stood on it with bare feet.

Ezril stood straight. He had grown at least an inch taller in the past few months. His hair he kept cut short every two months ruffled at the touch of the breeze, uncut in six months. The ends of it caressed his cheek but the cold touch of the breeze stayed away.

He leaned forward slightly on his toes. Father Fravis’ words spilled into his mind: “It’s all about the toes. Seek to grab Vayla in each step.”

Ezril’s toes curled, gripping into the sand. He lifted his other foot, bringing it ahead of him. His toes gripped the dirt tighter.

Seek to grab Vayla… compress it all into one compact step… one… two… eight… his mind counted in a flowing rhythm. It was as serene as his façade of Credo.

…One.

He stepped forward.