Vaskir despised port towns. In Vaskir’s mind, a hub of transport like Port Royal was little else than a festering hive of drunken sailors and agitated Ascendants. He loved the smell of the sea; if only it wasn’t drowned out with the smell of fish. Vaskir spat off to the side, leaning up against an empty metal cage. They had arrived in the town an hour ago and he already wanted to leave. Pravin had gone off to find them a boat. Covens and Cradow had shopping to do at the local Consortium, a massive spire-like building in the center of the town. Vaskir had been surprised the first time he had seen it, expecting a smaller shop like the ones he had visited in rural villages.

‘It seems like the Consortium is making an effort to expand into the new world,’ Vaskir thought. The spire cast an ominous shadow, a black streak cutting the town in half. He shook his head, dispelling the train of thought. Pravin was supposed to be back by now and Vaskir was getting worried. He sighed and started walking towards the shipyard that he had seen Pravin go into. Pravin had asked Vaskir to stay outside and keep a lookout for any trouble. In actuality, the request was a kindness from Pravin to Vaskir. Pravin was all too aware of how much Vaskir disliked interacting with sailors, especially captains.

Pravin walked out of the shipyard’s entrance, flanked by two sailors. Vaskir considered his options and loosened his longswords from his sheath; it’s best to expect the worst.

‘Friends of yours?’ Vaskir asked, meeting the group halfway. The busy street corner on which this meeting was transpiring suddenly cleared of pedestrians.

‘My new friends are asking why we’re searching for a nonaff- nonaffiliat- a not Consortium ship,’ Pravin said. Vaskir nodded, they were probably just trying to increase the price with some good old-fashioned intimidation.

‘Unless the Consortiums’ influence goes deeper than I guessed,’ Vaskir thought, remembering the spire. ‘No. I’m being paranoid.’ Vaskir gestured for Pravin to make his way over to him and he did. They stood side by side as Vaskir considered the men before him. ‘I haven’t yet met a sailor not happy to earn some queens on the side. You a Consortium plant, boy?’ Vaskir said.

‘Fuck your mother,’ the left sailor replied. He was the bulkier one of the two, which probably meant he was higher on the sailor pecking list than the scrawny right one. ‘I get paid enough without some fucking gigolos buying passage from us.’ The fact that the sailor considered them pretty enough to be called gigolos made Vaskir worry about what kind of people he was spending time with.

‘We’re Ascendants, mackerel brain,’ Pravin said then turned to Vaskir. ‘I told them we’ll pay better than the standard fare for a place on a fast ship, but…’ He shrugged. ‘I guess they just hate money.’

‘Two-hundred queens,’ the scrawny one said. Vaskir spat at their feet.

‘Go kiss a siren, fuck face,’ Vaskir said. ‘Fine,’ he turned to address Pravin, ‘the Consortium it is. Fuck, I guess you were right.’ He took out a queen and flicked it over to him. Pravin caught it, grinning.

‘I did tell you these fish fuckers weren’t bright enough to see a good thing, even if it showed up offering them money,’ Pravin said, turning to walk away.

‘Sixty queens,’ the scrawny one said, ‘each. And proof of your identity before boarding. We’re not letting some Frenzy bastards on our ship.’

‘Fifty queens,’ Vaskir countered. ‘And if we were Frenzy we would have just made a boat out of your skulls and paddled across The Long Blue. Would probably be faster than whatever shit-barge you put us on.’ The scrawny one nodded. He spat on his hand then held it out to Vaskir. Vaskir recoiled, grimacing at the sight. Pravin stepped up and shook the hand, saving Vaskir the inelegance. ‘Thanks,’ he muttered.

‘Alright, shrimp legs,’ Pravin said. ‘Tell your boss there’ll be 4 of us. When’s the earliest, fastest ship go out?’

‘Tomorrow, daybreak,’ the brawny one said. He elbowed his friend in the side. ‘And how’d they know your nickname?’ He laughed. The scrawny one sighed. After the bulky one was finished laughing he hucked a fat wad of phlegm in front of Vaskir, then turned and left. The smaller one followed.

‘That was productive,’ Vaskir murmured, glad for the interaction to be over.

‘What’s the next move?’ Pravin asked. Vaskir thought back to the private Consortium pass he had earned for his efforts during the expedition. Vaskir had only ever visited the first floor of the consortium, and Covens had told him to register as an Ascendant before their status as thieves was exposed by Monver.

‘Follow me,’ Vaskir said. Vaskir’s mind still served to surprise him. He had only briefly glanced at the streets leading down to the Consortium building, yet remembered the route perfectly. They came up to the front gates and Pravin whistled.

‘The Consortium. Still impressive every time I see it,’ Pravin said. Vaskir slowly nodded in agreement, looking up at the red-tinted windows and black rock. The gates were crowned with a red arch that reminded Vaskir of antlers. The gates opened and a group of Ascendants made their way out. Normally, Vaskir, like every other mortal, had to guess if someone was an Ascendant. Now, thanks to Vaskir’s breakthrough into Foundational, he could reach out and sense their aura. A cursory examination to identify them as Ascendants was nigh undetectable by the observed party, unless one was a sensitive. Even then, the process would likely be ignored. Vaskir sent out his aura and his hunch was confirmed: 4 Ascendants. One must have done the same to him because the frontmost man gave Vaskir a casual nod. Vaskir nodded back. He had never experienced, or even considered, that Ascendants would show hints of respect to one another.

‘You staying outside?’ Vaskir asked. Pravin had done the lion's share of the work with the sailors, and he had the same hang-ups with Consortium formality and politicking that Vaskir had about sailors.

‘Yeah,’ Pravin said. ‘Burn down the building if you need me.’ Vaskir made his way inside. The gates swung open automatically when he drew near. He grimaced but didn’t break stride. There was a small outdoor area past the gates, with two well-maintained sandpits flanking his arrival. A polite-looking man was standing in front of the Consortium entrance proper. Vaskir’s footsteps echoed loudly as he made the short journey to the man's side. It made Vaskir feel a little awkward: a single man strutting purposefully to the entrance of a grand spire… to do paperwork and perhaps some window shopping.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

‘Your business at the Consortium, sir?’ the man asked. He was young and well-groomed. Vaskir felt a little self-conscious about his travel-stained leathers.

‘Registration,’ Vaskir said. ‘Oh, and this.’ He took out the milky-white card. The man raised an appreciative eyebrow and beckoned him in.

‘Enjoy your stay, sir.’ The first floor was far grander than the ones Vaskir had seen before. Each wall was engraved with swirling patterns, reminding Vaskir of seafoam. It smelled, surprisingly, of a warm cobblestone street. The same heat even permeated throughout the room, reminding Vaskir of his days running barefoot through his village chasing other boys, and climbing rooftops. The room was open, except for lush chairs and couches. Ascendants sat about, waiting for workers to deliver them their ordered goods and services. A young woman immediately came up to Vaskir. She was wearing the same muddy red uniform as the man at the entrance.

‘The card, sir?’ she said, holding out her hand. Vaskir almost shook it from instinct.

‘Here,’ he handed it over. She bowed far deeper than Vaskir expected and settled him comfortably into one of the chairs before disappearing behind a door, most likely off to confirm that the card he handed her was real. Vaskir knew about the card system that the Consortium employed and in truth had wanted to avoid it. A bronze card allowed you access to teir 10 artefacts. Silver 9. Gold 8. But it simply drew too much attention. Vaskir had never heard of a private card but was hoping that it would buy him enough respect that he could expedite the registration process.

‘Your card, sir,’ the young woman said, breaking Vaskir out of his musing. He looked up to see her smiling pleasantly at him. He took the card and stood up. ‘Would the young master prefer the term of address: sir, master, or Ascendant?’ she asked.

‘Vaskir,’ he said, slightly uncomfortable.

‘Of course,’ she said, bowing lower than before. No one had cast a stray eye on them yet, but Vaskir didn’t want to draw any more attention. ‘You are here for registration, yes?’ The only person he had told that to was the man outside, and he hadn’t seen her go out to speak with him. He nodded. ‘Allow me to escort you.’ She turned on her heel and began to lead him to the door she had gone through earlier. Vaskir had remained stoic throughout most of the encounter, only nodding and smiling at the young woman whenever appropriate. But he now felt as if he was being led into a trap. Paranoia kicked in and he began drumming a familiar rhythm on the hilt of his blade.

‘The Song of Summer?’ the young woman asked. Vaskir looked at her. ‘I recognised the tune.’

‘I apologise,’ Vaskir said, gripping the hilt to keep his fingers from tapping. ‘Reverie got the better of me.’ She nodded and continued to lead him. They climbed two sets of stairs before she finally used a key and opened a private room on the third floor.

‘Mistress Vivian will be here to see you shortly. Please, enjoy the amenities,’ she said, then left the room. Vaskir took a careful look around, and a large painting to his right immediately caught his attention. He made his way over. It depicted The Sundering: three large orbs caving into each other. Behind them was a sun, melting their outer edges. The colours were vivid reds and yellows, the edges black, where the sun’s rays could not touch.

‘Painted by Lucy Parradin. So many forget that their family's expertise extended beyond the fashioning of blades,’ a calm female voice behind him said. Vaskir had not heard her enter. He turned to meet her. She was wearing a professional red dress, in the same style as the uniforms. Except it was of a far higher quality and sewn specifically for her use, almost form-fitting in design. It was only now that Vaskir regretted not buying a set of noble clothes before visiting.

‘Miss Vivian. A pleasure,’ Vaskir bowed, placing his hand over his heart. She curtsied, lifting the hem of her dress to reveal red-tinted stockings. Vaskir didn’t look because that would have been deeply unprofessional. She beckoned him over to a seat. He walked over, then sat only after she took hers. ‘I can’t imagine you grace the registration of every new Ascendant that walks into your building.’ He did not know her status or position, but it was always fruitful to assume the worst. If she proved to be a smaller cog in the machine Vaskir could always pass the comment off as flattery. Instead, she smiled, red lipstick perfectly accentuating her lips.

‘The Consortium keeps a watchful eye on burgeoning diamonds. And I, like to meet the men that catch the Consortium’s eye,’ she said. ‘But, it would seem that you’ve arrived early. Before your captain could deliver his report on what actions you took to receive a private card. It now falls to you, Vaskir, to delight me with the tale.’ Vaskir felt the same shiver of danger run down his spine as when he was being hunted by the Duskstalker. He wondered if he would see another, if he suddenly turned around, slowly crawling down the wall, red eyes gleaming in the candlelight of the room. But he knew that there was no Duckstalker behind him. The only danger was sitting in front of him, legs crossed temptingly.

‘I’m surprised you have the gall to ask,’ Vaskir said. ‘Considering the amount of undue danger your shoddy, most likely deceitful, paperwork put us in. Just know I earned it by fighting a fight I never should have been in. I hope you find whatever manual you're salivating over, and that it chokes whomever you sell it to.’ She had begun to smile after Vaskir’s first statement, but it quickly grew into a dazzling grin as Vaskir pushed the point. ‘I would have died 10 times over if it wasn’t for the brave men you tricked into falling on the blade of a clan you deemed too unimportant to show base, human dignity too. Congratulations, Monver will be here in a week with your prize. The Consortium grows in power and you’ll grow alongside it.’ Vaskir felt like he may have overdone it. Somewhere between the lies he stumbled onto emotion and let it wash over him. He leaned back coldly, hating the fact that despite this being the woman who chose to sign the death warrants of so many mortals, Vaskir included, he still wanted to kiss her.

‘I apologise for the indignity, Vaskir. But you must understand,’ she said, the grin returning, ‘we are greedy, greedy people.’ Vaskir let out a small laugh, she chuckled as well. The tension dissipated, just like that. ‘I shan't press the matter, Vaskir, but let me make it up to you.’ She took off one of her rings; the one in the shape of a snake’s head and pressed a small button on the side. The fangs extended, two small pinpricks. She opened one of the books on the table between them and carefully ripped out a page. She placed it flat on the table, massaging out any wrinkles, then pressed her thumb into the snake’s fangs. Two small beads of blood pooled up and she let them drip onto the blank page. Her full name, a picture of her, and her seal of Ascendance appeared on the page. She held out the ring, Vaskir reached out to take it then suddenly stopped, his instincts screamed against it. She prepared another page as Vaskir drew Cradow’s friendship dagger and used the tip to pierce his thumb. ‘I commend the paranoia,’ she said, as he let a single drop of blood fall on the page. His picture and full name appeared. Surprisingly, the picture was of his current self, not the picture from 8 years ago. Vivian touched the side of his paper and an Ascendant seal appeared, marking him as an officially recognised Ascendant. Vaskir did not know how much use he would get out of it, but Covens had persuaded him to get the seal before they moved on.

‘Thank you for the quick work,’ Vaskir said.

‘The seal will appear on any blood documents you may activate in the future, and it is quite permanent,’ she informed, pressing her thumb against her lips. Before she drove Vaskir into a frenzy he stood up, nodding his head in thanks.

‘I hope we meet for fairer reasons, next time,’ Vaskir said. She smiled again—it was to die for— and opened the door for him.

‘The next time we meet, I hope to provide a service that will help you forgive my… clerical blunder,’ she said, holding out her hand, palm down. Vaskir kissed it the way his mother had taught him, kissing the back of his own thumb whilst softly pressing down on her hand to mimic the sensation. “Kiss only the hands of women you wish to court,” she had taught him. He never had a chance to put his knowledge to use before today. A kiss would have been dangerously forward, and Vaskir was more a man of propriety and dignity than he would have most people believe. Also, he wasn’t suicidal.