AKI:

The Alchemy room was awash with flames, soot, and ash. The charred remains of a plump rat lay at my feet, its melted fat oozing out from between the cracks of its blackened skin like pus from an infected wound. Firelight lilies lay discarded to the side, a scattering of lifeless stems and withered petals that were once a vibrant chaplet of fiery flowers. Further off, living specimens—rodents and the like—chittered away in cages, some intuition foretelling them of their fate and driving them to a fevered madness.

Flames licked at my hands and uniform before retracting to wisps. The power of the extraction had sparked with an adolescent buoyancy, at once excited and directionless—paired attributes that can inspire tragedy as easily as success. Worse, however, was the transience of its existence, explosive, there for a brief and fierce flash, and dead and quiet the next. Herbalist extractions beyond those that augmented base physical properties were fleeting; the roots of such abilities were more firmly planted in souls, making Arcanists better suited for their extractions.

"Are you certain Arcane is not more powerful than its sister Art?" I asked.

"Yes." Malorey's answer was terse, a sign of her certainty. She sat above the cages, legs crossed, an otter curled on her lap. "Why do you ask?"

"Extracting the domain of fire from these lilies is proving underwhelming."

Malorey scoffed. "Perhaps for you. Best you bear in mind your relative inexperience with such workings lest you embellish your expectations."

"Still," I said, "seems a waste to snub a talent. And considering Royce was kind enough to teach me all the matrixes he could get away with imparting…"

Malorey smiled, though I was unsure if my words or the otter's playful antics were to blame—the thing was on its back, gently pawing at the stalk of berries she dangled just beyond its grasp. Malorey knew the idea of practicing my Arcanist matrixes bothered me: To kill a being, snuff out their consciousness, rummage through what remained of their soul, and steal a part of them was a symptom of depravity. But whatever part of me was my mother's always seemed to ask: What if the victim was deserving? It angered me to discover that such considerations occasionally invaded my thoughts.

"I'm surprised your method of improvement is working," Malorey said. "Never have I seen someone master speed before control, yet it has appeared to work wonders for your progress. Might be I'll give it a try."

It was my turn to smile; precision was Malorey's imperative, and she was a faithful sort.

"So, what brings you here?" I asked.

"What makes you think—"

"Come now, Malorey. We are friends, but we aren't so close as to seek each other's company outside of convenience. Particularly because you are not so forgiving as to have forgotten our turbulent beginnings." Muttering, I added, "Though just about forgetful enough to strike from your memories your greater share of the blame ."

Malorey huffed. "And what if I were trying to change that? How would you feel?"

I knelt before the ashes of my experiment, pinched the dried stems between my fingers, and felt them crumble to dust.

"Wiltos," I said, knowing his name would pierce the heart of the matter.

Malorey stuttered, then coughed, then hacked. The otter lost interest in its prized berries and began to paw gently at her, sensing her discomfort.

"I take it my aim was accurate," I said.

Malorey cleared her throat. "He'll die if we allow him to compete."

"He won yesterday."

"Barely. So?"

"And the day before."

"Again, barely. And again, so?"

"And he's still here."

"Fucking so!" Unconsciously, Malorey's gentle hold on the otter tightened into a vicious throttle. The creature screeched and squirmed. Hearing the poor otter's pitiful cries, Malorey released him with a jolt. She whispered apologies into his ear and ran a gentle hand down the front of his coat. As most animals tend to do, the otter forgave and forgot.

"Wiltos is a stubborn sort," I said.

"We all are," she agreed.

"Indeed, we are."

"You could stop him."

"Forcefully? Perhaps."

"You should."

"Oughts are matters of debate."

"I could say the same of Merkusian's teachings."

"You could. The few who've read his musings generally do."

Malorey raised the otter from her lap and placed it on the floor, slowly and gently, some great and suppressed emotion stiffening her motions. "Why won't you save your friend's life?" she asked.

"I would."

"So you'll stop him?"

"I won't."

"But—"

"If he were incapacitated, or if his faculties were diminished by external interference—say, a Tunneling—I'd raise my hands against his effort because his motives have been misplaced through no fault of his own. Outside such circumstances, who am I to go against his wishes? How would I differ from the very forces he's arrayed himself against?"

Malorey continued her attempts at persuasion. I kept hold of my refusal. We really were a stubborn lot.

***

Dako's elongated arm whipped at me, the sharp blade of bone along the outside of his hand scraping across my protected forearms. The force of the blow pushed me back. I aided my momentum and escaped his follow-up. A winded Dako dashed in, a smile coloring the edges of his gaping mouth. He was eager to score a win; it had been some time since he last tasted victory over me.

His leg swept toward my midriff, its greater length trying to make up for the distance my superior speed had created. I slowed my retreat just enough to avoid the blow and followed Dako's leg back to its owner. He twisted with his follow-through, arm raised to whip out yet another attack. I was already under it. He tried to pull back. His arm pulled him forward instead, right into my rising fist. Dako's head snapped back. His teeth clacked. His eyelids fluttered. Then, his unsteady legs giving way, he fell to the ground on his rear.

Dako lay there, panting, arms and legs splayed, still smiling. "Almost had you there," he said. I didn't have the heart to tell him he was only as close as I wanted him to be.

"Our training sessions might be better if you'd let me help you," I said.

"You are helping. To have as potent a training partner as you is a great boon."

"Is he strength-based?"

Dako's smile shrank, then spoiled into a frown. He knew who I spoke of. A stubborn pause held on for an age before Dako grew tired of the absolute stillness true silence demanded. He sat up, paused once more, briefly, and finally said, "Yes."

"When was the last time you saw him fight?"

"All of us of age from the compounds were brought to Durum a cycle of seasons before we were due to attend The Academy." Dako's head hung low, his eyes cast on the floor where the beads of sweat from his forehead congregated. "Titled Leaves came to assess House Bainan's new crop."

"You met Samiel and Zalzii?"

"I did not last long enough. By a cruel twist of fate or the deliberate hand of a cruel Leaf, my brother was my first opponent. He beat me so thoroughly that the Leaves adjourned my status as a Leafdom until such a time that I proved myself worthy of the designation."

"How? He's impressive, but—"

"I did not care to tread the path they'd envisioned for me."

"You lost on purpose?"

Dako nodded.

"Then what?"

"I came to Discipulus."

"Alone?"

Dako looked off into nothingness, his mind lost in memories. "It was… difficult. Life in the compound did not prepare me for life outside of it."

"I'm sensing much happened between losing to your brother and your journey to The Academy."

"Not really," Dako said. Rarely one for deception, the clumsy lie staggered out of him awkwardly. "I tried to go home and found it did not exist—strangers made the place unfamiliar to me. Uninviting, too."

"Your brother's doing?" I asked, trying to nudge the truth from him.

Dako nodded, his jaw tense. "My only choice was to try for The Academy on my own or seek refuge in another house. Both options lay here in Discipulus."

"Brittle." More questions rested on the tip of my mind, but I did not care to burden their accompanying obligations on my friend; if I asked, he'd feel compelled to answer—that'd feel too much like I'd held our friendship to his throat like a blade. And so I offered innocent prompts and left the choice to him.

Dako nodded once more. "She was said to take in strays."

"I did not know you were—"

"She refused."

My incredulity was obvious.

"And introduced me to Sil instead," he said.

"A thoughtful kindness," I said.

"Didn't feel like one at the time." Dako smiled at me. "Brittle can be… intense."

"I'm guessing she was less than gentle about dissuading you from abandoning your Leafdom. Almost violent."

Dako rubbed at the back of his neck. "Actually…"

We shared a brief and subdued laugh over the paradox that was Brittle, and the moment seemed to ease away the harsh lines talk of his past had carved onto his face.

"You said your brother was—"

"I have no brother." Dako's gaze was cold. Glacial. Within and without. He had this way of transforming, this instant sort of shift from exuberance to austerity and back again. And though I was growing familiar—if not accustomed—to his bouts of impassioned detachment, his precipitous transitions always took me by surprise.

"You said Drulikir was strength-focused," I tried.

"He is."

"What else?"

***

"May I join you?"

Edon stood at the head of our table, holding a tray of food. His uniform was clean, his hair combed, and his posture upright. These simple changes made a new man of Edon, one less intemperate and vapid than the incessant simpleton he'd portrayed most of his life. My friends stared at him, recognition battling through expectations.

"You aren't scowling in our direction," Wiltos said. He was playing with his food, pushing around the chunks of seared meat and wedges of fat-fried potatoes Malorey had piled up for him.

"An astute observation," Edon quipped.

Wiltos looked up, unbothered. "A welcome change, is all."

"For good reason. It takes a man a great deal to forgive an invasion of the soul."

I winced at his blunt reveal.

"You didn't," Illora said.

"I'm afraid I did." My shame was palpable. Guilt always had a way of taking over my expression.

Dako and Sil, who'd known what had transpired between Edon and me, stared at their empty plates for lack of a better option. Illora shook her head, amused by my hypocrisy. Malorey's attention was piqued but brief, her concerns wrestled away by Wiltos' lack of appetite. Wiltos himself was lost to greater concerns—his refusal of our aid was firm, and I assumed his thoughts went to whatever training method he found more efficacious than the one we might have provided.

Edon broke the silence. "Have you written to Merkus?" he asked me.

"No."

Edon frowned. "Why not?"

I shrugged. "You?"

Edon shook his head. "Not since our… disagreement. I've always had the feeling that Merk tolerated me only because you wanted him to. I assumed you'd told him of our rift."

"I hadn't. I take it you've tried to write to him before?"

"Twice, though both remain unanswered."

Because there is no Merkus au Farian in Partum's academy, I thought. "I doubt he has the patience to read his letters," I said instead.

"Or to sit and write a response." Edon gestured at the empty seat beside Illora with a nod. "So, am I welcome?"

"More than."

The real Edon was a great deal less talkative than the one I'd known. He ate his modest meal at a measured pace, interacted cordially but without exaggeration, and possessed a wit and a sense of humor more caustic and sophisticated than that of his forged persona.

"You know," Sil said to him, "now that I have a better measure of you, I can't say you are as repugnant as I'd believed."

"Especially since wanting Aki here dead was marginally justified," Dako added, a grin plastered on his face to lessen the blow of his honesty.

"I'm still finding it difficult to believe," Malorey said.

"A moment of weakness," I said. "One I'm not proud of."

"They don't know how our Art beguiles our sense of wonder," Illora said. "Of living a life not your own, brief though it may be. They do not have the sense for how seductive wandering the plains of a soul can be, the allure of gaining a greater understanding of life."

I shook my head in disagreement. "The urge to succumb to desires should always be overshadowed by the risk of being swallowed by apathy."

Illora sighed. "I grow tired of you plucking wisdom from Merkusian's teachings."

I scoffed at her in response. "I grow tired of others turning a deaf ear to them."

"Agreed," Edon said. "They'd be less suffering if they did."

We froze, all of us, and took a moment of silence to appreciate what Edon had said and, more importantly, what it said about him.

Dako threw an arm around Edon. "Indeed. I dare say you are a welcome addition to our circle."

Edon smiled, faint but visible. "As long as our Tunneller here remembers to keep from my soul, I'm content to remain."

"Ha!" Dako barked, finding the blunt jest to his liking. "Let's hope he extends that courtesy to all of us."

***

My legs quaked. Fatigue latched itself to my back, hoarding the weight of every step. A cycle of the moon was not a great deal of time. Not for what we intended or faced. And so we trained. We trained until cramps seized our muscles, our joints screamed, and our endurance eroded into pure will.

Dako helped me with whatever new Reaper Arts he'd attained as a Leaf. For those who might one day lead their own houses, affiliated instructors, both Fifths and Masters, were welcoming—a decree from Bainan that superseded the fears of ruling Leafs. While he had the benefit of receiving instruction on how to best integrate the matrixes into his combat style, I made do by researching martial paths in the library and consolidating the best of what I found.

Beyond the physical rigors of training, my mornings and evenings were spent with Fuller and Brittle, expanding upon my knowledge and usage of Auger and Pondus Arts. The scant spare time I found was shared between the library, researching mention of Oorago—the guild that'd assigned themselves my enemy—and helping Zo treat ailing Muds.

Our rooms came into sight as we returned from another session in the training chambers. By then, after having braved the stairs, a hand was no longer enough, and I leaned bodily onto the wall of the hallway, dragging myself across its length. Dako, who was in much the same condition, hung from Sil's shoulders, a load she could hardly bear as her fatigue was lesser by mere margins.

The door to our quarters drew open, and lights from matrix lanterns flooded in, joining the dimmer lights of those hanging from the hallway ceiling. We rejoiced for not having to decide amongst ourselves who'd be burdened by what felt to be, at the time, the monumental chore of opening the door. The joy was short-lived, however, as it was eclipsed by the surprise of who happened to come into view.

Light gleaming off Lokos' scalp. He caught sight of us, turned, and strode our way. "Ah, Aki. Just the man I wanted to see." He reached out to me, ostensibly unaware of Dako and Sil and their struggles. "Let me help." He hooked an arm under mine and pulled me from the wall. "I'm glad to see you do not rest on your laurels."

Lokos guided me inside, set me on a plush chair—we'd done well for ourselves during our long years at The Academy and managed to furnish our rooms in a modicum of comfort—and stood back to appraise me.

"Who let you in?" I asked.

Lokos looked towards Wiltos' closed door. "The boy."

"Why?"

"I came to find you."

"I know," I said. "But why let you in. News of my absence could just as well have driven you from our door. What need had you to enter?"

Lokos waved away my question. "He was kind enough to let me wait for you inside."

We looked to the door as Dako and Sil struggled inside. A lack of sensus meant the last of our injuries remained unhealed: blood sat in the whites of Sil's left eye, a cut ran along her hairline, and her right arm hung by her side, useless, while Dako's left foot dangled, his bloody nose sat crooked, and, from the way he wheezed, I'd guessed one of his lungs had collapsed.

"We'll need some privacy," Lokos said.

"What a happy coincidence," Dako coughed out, his words wet with blood. "We need to rest. Forthwith."

"He means to say we shall be retiring to our rooms," Sil explained, exhaustion muddling her words.

I gestured to an Alchemy case I kept near the window. Sil took out three vials, handed me one, helped Dako to bed, overturned the contents of another into his mouth, and took the third with her back to her room.

I drained the contents of the vial, then turned my attention back to Lokos. "So, what brings you here?"

Something crossed Lokos' expression, a hint of a lie, some expressive reaction he pulled back from the brink of visibility. "Your mother."

"What news has she labored you with?"

Lokos wove a hand in the air, and a Zephyr matrix bloomed around us, sealing us in a bubble impenetrable to sound. "She is aware of your conflict with the Principles."

"I assumed as much."

Lokos tried for serious, but I'd since been numbed to the tyranny of his dour expression, hairless and eerie though it was that first time it had apprehended my gaze. "You cannot defeat them while hampered by your deceptions."

"I know."

"And they will not allow you to hide behind inaction."

I sighed. "Your fixation with truisms is not as charming as you might think it to be."

Lokos grinned. "Your inability to appreciate peril is likewise grating."

I held my tongue. Engaging with Lokos' twisted games of humor would only further delay the purpose of his visit.

Lokos blew out a breath. "Fine. Our Mistress has expressed to me her desire for you to showcase the breadth of your abilities in the next tournament."

"I had already planned to do so."

"Against her edict?"

"For my survival."

"Very well," he said. "Then I shall take my leave."

"Lokos," I called. He half turned, looking over his shoulder at me, his bald fingers wrapped around the edge of the open door. "Why did you come in?"

He smiled. "I told you, lad—your friend invited me to wait for you inside." Then he winked at me and left me to my healing.

***

A curious sun hung from the lip of the coliseum. Forsaken by the shelter of shadows, we fidgeted in our seats. The blistering heat and a relentless outpouring of nervous energy moistened our uniforms with sweat despite the many matrixes embedded within to prevent just such a thing. Wiltos suffered the worst of it; the burgeoning spectacles of the day were heavy upon his shoulders, and the strain of not buckling under their weight drove him to exhaustion.

"Forfeit at the earliest sign of defeat," Malorey said from beside Wiltos. She had his hand clasped in hers.

"Stop fretting, woman," Wiltos said. His jest and accompanying smile did little to affect his intent to mollify her concerns.

Malorey held up his hand above eye level, tightened her grip, and let his sweat drip to the floor. "Need I say more?"

Wiltos chuckled nervously. "All shall be well."

Sil, who sat beside me, repeated his words in a whisper. She had her eyes on Dako. Unlike Wiltos, Dako seemed unperturbed. He chuckled at some joke Edon had made. The two had become fast friends, a contrast of rambunctious enthusiasm and dry wit.

Around us, spaced out so as to make space for their shared hostility, were the nine opponents Wiltos was to face, a few Triplers among them. Their solitary determination and scattered seating branded us as an anomaly. Even Edon had come in support of Wiltos, but to them, to my mother and her mother and the empire they'd putrified into the barbarous Evergreen of new, the weak nor the strong had any friends, merely masters and servants, oppressors and those they oppressed. And so they sat alone, stewing in their worries without the kind words and supportive presence of someone who cared.

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Lokos, as he had done before, appeared through a ripple of reality and descended onto the sands. Fifths and healers stood beside rings of red. The time had come.

Wiltos got to his feet. I expected him to be unsteady. He wasn't; Malorey's firm grip had yet to abate, her stiff fingers the last attempt at persuading his withdrawal.

"Wish me luck," Wiltos said, unwilling to be deterred from his chosen path.

"You don't believe in luck," I said.

Wiltos peeled his gaze away from the sands and the nine descending figures he'd soon have to face. His once clever grin had waned into some desolate approximation. His visage, hollow-cheeked by sleepless nights and arduous days and an unquiet mind, had become a husk of the pudgy, learned, and cheerful face of the boy I'd first met. He was tired. Exhausted. Weary in that way Muds inevitably became when their prospects stagnated and life began to march them towards an early grave. At once, there in the pit of Wiltos' mournful resignation, I saw my failure. This was not the nervous energy of uncertainty I saw. This was ill-concealed despair. I had taken his word and left his fate in his hands. Why? Because cloaking my reasons in faith was so easy. Trust is a tenet of friendship, but what of reliability? I had deserted Wiltos in his time of need, left him to fend for himself. Malevolence is grievous, true, but willful ignorance is worse: It is tragic. And try as I might to keep the veil over my failure, I had, in the end, willfully ignored my friend's plight.

Wiltos slid out of Malorey's grasp, gently but insistently tugging out of her ever-tightening hold. "I don't usually believe in the afterlife either," he said to me. "But a desperate mind makes truths out of fantasies."

Before Malorey or I could stop him, he leaped out into the sands. Malorey lurched, gripped the balustrade, and leaned forward, watching him fall to his doom.

"What did he mean?" she asked. As if all else had failed, Herbalist matrixes came to life, ready yet powerless against the abstractions plaguing her mind.

"He appears to have resigned himself to success or death," I said. "And given his dejection, he has deemed the latter more likely."

Malorey's claws dug into stone. Feline eyes blared a soft light. She hissed through fanged teeth. "Fool!"

Wiltos' first bout brought dark tidings.

The Root stood across him. He seemed aloof. Unworried. We soon saw why. With one blow, he unhinged Wiltos' jaw and sent him to sleep. We were, nevertheless, content—our friend's survival was paramount, more so than his victory.

Wiltos fared little better in his second: he forfeited, and we knew the Tunneller had worked her Art because it was beyond Wiltos to yield of his own accord. Wiltos went to his knees, shaking with resistance all the while, and declared his defeat. An odd expression crossed the girl's face. Her incredulity seemed out of place. She had, after all, succeeded in her aim. Greater matters brushed the peculiar incident from my mind.

Wiltos' third was against a Telum. Hope blossomed when the Tripler's slight talent in Meaning was outdone by Wiltos' greater sensus, the throwing blades he'd thrown dismantled into scraps mid-flight. Wiltos barrelled forward, his dagger elongated and reinforced. The Tripler staggered back, panic stripping grace from his movements. Wiltos led with his rapier-turned-dagger. The Tripler manipulated the thick fauld he wore about his waist, and the metal unfolded into a makeshift chest plate. Wiltos' blade skittered off. The sudden change threw him off balance. The Tripler tried a kick, the sole of his plated boot aimed at the side of Wiltos' passing knee. The blow struck the shin and snapped it in two. A jagged spear of bone jutted out from Wiltos' leg, its pale-white length and sharp tip dripping blood. Wiltos screamed, rolled clear, and hobbled back to his one good leg. The other dangled, the shard of bone mangling the fleshy site of its protrusion.

Another loss.

The fourth opponent was a talented Root who'd aligned himself with House Manar. He was a gentle sort, dancing around Wiltos, each evasion made within a hairbreadth, each opening cited by an attack that never reached completion. He did all he could to demonstrate his superior skill without causing injury, but Wiltos was too desperate to take heed. He chased the Zephyr boy with blind fervor, his teeth gritted, his eyes frantic. In the end, the Tripler snatched Wiltos by the wrist, spun, and tossed him bodily from the ring. Wiltos tried to obstruct his flight by conjuring earthen constructs, but to no avail. He clawed at the air as if he might find purchase in its insubstantial mass. It flowed between his fingers, refusing to be caught.

I think Wiltos gave up the moment his body touched the ground outside the ring. He was uninjured, yet he remained still. His head hung low, half buried, half his mouth and nose stuck into the sand. Malorey was near tears, elated yet mournful. He'd survived, but she knew how much victory meant to him. As did I. Or so we thought at the time.

The healer went about his duties and attended to Wiltos. He sat him up, brushed the sand from his face, and checked him over, finding him in good health.

Henceforth, Wiltos became listless, a walking corpse, there in body but otherwise gone, his dead eyes staring into nothing.

The subsequent matches commenced. They called for Wiltos to ready himself. Prompted by the ghost of his aspirations, he shambled to his spot. Then, at the precipice of the red rope, as if the ghost had expended the last of its facility to affect the real world or recalled the root of its evanescence, Wiltos came to a stop. He stood, hunched, staring into space. The Fifth called for him to enter. Wiltos remained entrenched.

"If you refuse to partake," the Fifth warned, "I shall have to declare your forfeit." His words fell on deaf ears.

This repeated for the remainder of Wiltos' matches.

At the completion of the last bout, Lokos appeared as usual. He sent Wiltos a glance, brief yet far from casual, his hairless, burnished face somehow conveyed a mix of pity and disappointment.

"Ulander," Lokos called. He turned his attention to the skilled Zephyr Root. "Your challenge is scheduled for tomorrow. Be prepared. As for the rest of you, you are no longer welcome within the dorms of The Academy. Gather your belongings and depart before the sun wholly dips below the horizon." He looked up at us. "Two of you may collect your… companion. I doubt he has the wherewithal to do so himself."

Conflicting emotions fixed Malorey in place. Her hands were clasped and pressed against her chest. Those who did not know her might've thought she was praying. I nudged her, a gentle prompt I hoped would strike her into action. She jolted as if waking from a nightmare.

"Let's go," I said.

Malorey and I soared into the arena and landed beside Wiltos. With a forced smile, she wrapped her arms around him, then immediately stepped back and looked at me. Her brittle smile had broken, subsumed by a resurgence of worry.

I looped an arm across Wiltos' shoulders. He was cold to the touch. Only when I pressed one hand to his chest and held another to his face and felt the slow, shallow breaths and heartbeats against my palms did I believe him alive.

"All is not lost," I said to him. "As long as you avoid death, you yet might be Named. Will be."

Wiltos remained silent.

"Come," I said. "We must arrange your lodgings within the city before Dako's group is due to compete."

Wiltos refused to move. I snapped my fingers in his face. I tried for levity and threatened to kiss him. I flicked his forehead. Whatever I did, his heavy-lidded eyes did not flinch or blink. With a sigh, I took hold of his wrist and pulled him after me. He shambled, his gait awkward and precarious. He entered this state once before, soon after I'd first met him. His sister's death had marked him that day. Failure had scored another mark.

"The lower merchant quarter?" Dako asked. He held a hand up to block the rising sun from his eyes as we exited the eastern entrance of the coliseum.

"Mid-quarter, preferably near Lover's Park." Edon patted his stomach. The city's pre-eminent bakers were in that region. He'd frequented their establishments often before danger had locked him inside The Academy. Since then, he went whenever he managed to convince us to accompany him.

Dako laughed. "Not for a meal, you glutton. We need to find a place for Wiltos before we help collect his belongings from the dorms."

"I know," Edon said. "What better place to live than near the scent of freshly baked goods?"

"So you shan't be acquiring their produce if we so happen to heed your counsel?" I asked.

"That'd be entirely unreasonable. We'd already be there."

As we left The Academy and entered the city's proper, we tried to smother Wiltos with our light-hearted talks, hoping it might thaw the deathly cold mood recent events had entombed him in. We failed. Malorey clamped him to her side, guiding him as though he were blind.

***

Dako and Drulikir faced each other within the circle of red, the younger calm, the older cheerful. They stood the same height, shared the same rugged features, but Drulikir took a tad more space, a breadth of stature and stance that gave him a heavier presence. He held a pair of battle axes in his grasp. They were curved monstrosities, giant crescents fashioned onto a thick cut of rough wood. Dako had no sword, dagger, or axe, and I began to wonder if his brother's penchant for weaponry had informed Dako's distaste for them.

"Are you ready, brother?" Drulikir said. Even his voice was uncanny, a bit gruffer and older, as if age had whittled away the softness of youth, yet eerily alike to Dako's nonetheless. Buried within was a lively tenor, a familiar humor marred by an unfamiliar cruelty.

"Does it matter?" Dako's tone was the opposite, boyish exuberance limited by a depth, sounding like how I imagine a child burdened by the wisdom of suffering might as he expounded on the painful teachings of his short and hurried life.

Drulikir's doltish smile twitched in approval. "I suppose not."

The brothers glanced over at the Fifth officiating their match. He nodded his assent, and Drulikir and Dako began to close the distance at a leisurely pace. The axes twirled in the air, a blur of motion, their song a high-pitched whistle that grated on the ears. Bone flowed over Dako's arms up to the elbow. Hooks protruded from his conjured vambraces. Finger-length spikes grew from his knuckles. Their gazes held. A light shone in their eyes, shafts of murderous intent, one dressed in silent determination, the other in wicked glee.

Drulikir attacked first. A casual swing of his axe suddenly flew forward.

My heart jumped into my throat and tried to climb out.

Dako was more prepared. He dashed in and backhanded Drulikir's wrist. An uppercut followed, aimed just below the center of his opponent's ribcage. Drulikir shifted aside, brute strength altering his momentum. The other axe fell. Dako sidestepped out of the path of its gleaming and deadly bite. He dashed in closer, looking to make his brother's weapons useless. Drulikir raised his arm to stab down with the butt of his axe, aiming straight at the crown of Dako's head. Dako drove the heel of his hand against Drulikir's elbow. He shifted to his blind side and raked four lines into his brother's side. Spikes of bone gouged into Drulikir, tearing him open. Smiling, delirious, Drulikir ignored the pain and twisted, the torque of his spin adding to the swing of his axe.

Dako ducked under. He did not retreat. Distance was death. He suffocated Drulikir instead. Each evasion brought him closer, stole more from Drulikir's strength by restricting his space, and gave him the opportunity to deliver another cut. The cuts healed as expected, but new ones soon took their place, each leeching more of Drulikir's sensus, more of his endurance and strength. It had taken Dako and me an age to help him adopt this fighting style—this was a strategy foreign to him. Persistence bore fruit.

After another swipe along the inside of his thigh, Drulikir roared in frustration, then swung his axes one last time. As expected, he missed, but the swings were his last—he released the weapons and they flew out of the circle. The Fifth snatched them from the air with whips of raw sensus before they could interfere with the surrounding bouts.

Drulikir balled his fists and hammered them down. Dako, taken aback by his brother's sudden fury, barely had enough time to raise his guard. The blow thundered into his forearms, shattering his bone vambraces. Dako slid back, his feet digging furrows into the sand. New bone flowed to repair the old. Pain contorted his expression into a grimace. Drulikir's raw strength was formidable. The plan had been to render his power inconsequential. A lapse in concentration might well become a gateway to death.

Drulikir charged at Dako, roaring, the tremors of his steps raising splotches of sand. Dako held his ground. The only way for him to lure Drulikir off the ledge was to join him on the edge of death. And so he stood his ground.

Drulikir's arms bulged, veins thick against his stretched skin. He threw an enlarged fist. Dako flowed around the strike. Drulikir thrust his forehead at him, cords of muscle knotting about his thick neck. Dako speared his elbow into his throat. Drulikir stumbled back. He righted himself soon enough, spat out a goblet of blood, and rushed back in. Dako stepped out of his way.

Drulikir turned, snarling, rage coloring him crimson. He took a step.

"Dakomir kin Bainan is the victor," The Fifth declared.

Drulikir stared at Dako, spittle raining down after his every exhalation. "What! This is not over!"

"It is." The Fifth was calm. Unworried. Having survived four years of The Academy and having chosen to stay even longer, he had no reason to fear Drulikir.

"You disappoint me," Drulikir said to Dako, panting. Blood seeped from his uniform. His once-braided hair was wild and tangled, darkened by drying blood. Most striking of all, however, was the smileless frown he wore.

"My thanks," Dako said. "Your disappointment is very nearly as sweet as my victory."

"You were unworthy of her support." The madness remained in Drulikir's eyes. He took another step. "I am your better. I have always been your better."

"My victory tells another story. As did my mother's judgment."

Drulikir rushed at Dako.

The Fifth appeared riding a gust of wind. A single hand stopped Drulikir's advance. "Proceed, and I shall be duty-bound to escalate my efforts to stop you." The Fifth shook his head. "You will not appreciate such an outcome."

Drulikir spat over the Fifth's shoulder at Dako. "Coward! If this were a fight to the death, you'd be a corpse."

Dako came closer. The smile he wore was… unlike him. It was a replica of Drulikir's, all the cruelty and madness included. And as he walked closer, he began to speak, each word a spray of acid. "I will not ascend to the next rung of ten. I will follow you. Every moon cycle for the next year, I will face you in a ring and prove you inferior. Each defeat will be more brutal than the last. More painful. More shameful. And when the last bout of the year arrives, when your misconceived sense of dominance has become nothing more than a shattered delusion, when you realize your nightmares are real and your will and mind have been crushed, I will kill you. Until then, thank you for your disappointment."

***

It was a faint discoloration at first. A hint of warmth beneath the Vapor's feet. It grew ever deeper, from a touch of orange to a lazy pink to a vivid red, until it had simmered into a red-rimmed white like coal when it had exhausted its absorption. Flickers of blue rose from the burning shards of glass it had made of the sand. Fire blossomed as if the very air could not help but burn. Amid dancing arcs of flame, the Vapor stood akin to a natural disaster, basking in his own existence as it displaced his surroundings with destruction—the heat spread like a swarm of distortion, a haze of ghostly heat that nipped at the other contestants and suffocated the closest of the spectators.

My breath caught. Heat threatened to scorch my lungs. I squinted lest the heat boiled my eyes away. Sparks caught on to the threads of my uniform, whiffs of smoke trailing off when the matrixes within extinguished the seeds of fire with the help of my sensus. My boots began to deform, warping as the heat of their transformation affixed my feet to the sand. Perspiration bloomed from my brow only to evaporate upon tasting freedom. Held tight against the pervasive heat, my lips began to crack.

"A rodent may only peak so far out of the grass before an eagle comes to pluck its life," the Vapor said. There was no ill will or pompous arrogance to him. Just certainty. Just the air of someone completing a menial but necessary task. "Valen, kind as he is, has asked that I nip at you so you might know to duck back into the weeds."

Reaper Arts blazed within me, my sensus running a maze of matrixes for durability and regeneration. But I kept my efforts below the skin, allowing his mastery of Ignis Arts to do me visible harm.

"What is your name?" I asked. I knew, but not knowing labelled him as insignificant. I had always been quick of wit and fond of games. This game of rhetoric the godlings frolicked with was child's play compared to the epic tales of empires their parents composed. Before the Ignis—Frink, I later found he was called—could reply, I continued, "No matter."

Frink snarled. The heat redoubled. The fire gushed forth ever closer. I ignored my blistering skin and surveyed my audience. First were the other combatants, a mix of powerful Leaf candidates and foreign prodigies. None fought. They watched instead, no doubt because they were instructed to: Leaves rarely left alone the chance to reaffirm the reasons others had for servility. Except Samiel, that is. Hungry curiosity hung from his open-mouthed smile and intense eyes.

I looked up into the stands. All of my surviving classmates were in attendance, including Valen, the Vapor Principle. Our gazes met. His cold eyes did not match his gentle smile, and I knew the magnanimity of his House was achieved through comparison. I continued to peruse the crowd, pausing on the other Principles, each surrounded by a bevy of underlings. Aelinder, the Alchemist, was seemingly asleep, though he might just as well have been ministering to his league of souls within his dreamscape. Jacksel, too, appeared uninterested as he tinkered with his sword, a long, serrated blade of blinding white. Lamila smiled at me coyly. Zalzii's arms were crossed, her hair shaved to bristles. Both like and unlike Valen, her smiling eyes did not match her pressed lips.

I raised my hand at the irate Ignis, palms facing him, and scoped his blazing figure from between my splayed fingers. "Your Principle has sent you to me for a lesson."

Gales spun around me, slicing through the inferno. I was an amateur in the Art of Zephyrs—Sil had taught me some, but a greater part of my efforts were on other disciplines. Thankfully, raw power did not need much guidance to rip away Frink's sensus while the wind carried away the heat he'd generated. Flames spluttered. Smoke dissipated. The heat lessened. Frink stared, dumbfounded. In fact, he was so bemused by the sudden turn in events that the blades of wind I shot at him went uncontested. They were dull affairs—which saved his life—but also large and powerful, and so managed to drive him from the circle of red. He staggered out, landed hard, and rolled a time or two.

"Whatever teachings he has asked you to impart," I said, "they fall flat in the face of my comprehension."

Whispers coalesced into a bustling racket of chatter. Many had jumped to their feet. All but two were gripped by disbelief; Sil and Dako had no reason to be. Edon and Samiel wore hints of surprise, but greater still were their pleased looks of vindication. Both had harbored suspicions for a great deal of time.

The next match.

The chatter died into a tense anticipation. A woman faced me. She was a long-faced Lorailian, the faint brush of bronze on her skin indicating the heritage of her mother's slave. She was modestly dressed for someone of her House, her uniform whole and loose. Platinum strands of fine hair fell to her cheekbones, their subtle curves framing her face. She did not speak, though the Fifth gave her ample opportunity to spout the threats and promises I expected. None came. Just the wary look of a hunter reassessing its prey. For a month, she had considered me an easy target, a sure win. My easy victory over an opponent she'd struggled against had forced her to recalculate.

"Shall we?" I said.

Paintings blossomed. A wave of arrows, born at the pinnacle of their flight, descended, blotting out my vision. My hand rose once more. Pure sensus rolled outwards, conquering the space between us. The arrows disintegrated, torn apart by the greater force and density of my power. My sensus did not stop. It crushed her imaginings into motes of nothingness and continued onwards. My Tunnel wormed its way across to her gate. Her defenses were formidable—she was, after all, a Lorailian. Yet so was I. I was, in truth, more a Lorailian than she. My Tunnel hammered into her defenses, and though the clash was immaterial, a contest in the realm outside the physical, the Painter lurched back. She tried to Paint obstacles in my way, a series of illusions meant to misdirect or contend. My Tunnel bored into her, shattering her attempts with brute strength, and when her efforts were exhausted, it coiled itself before the base of her soul, an invisible and deadly serpent of intent, ready and willing to breach that which she was.

With a shrill, my niece scuttled out of the red ring, as much running away from my Tunnell as forfeiting the match.

Next.

The Alchemist grew into a giant. Purple-veined muscles wrapped themselves around his puny limbs and torso, the fibers of his flesh rippling. The Fifth allowed him the time to complete his transformation. Once the slight Alchemist had become a hulking behemoth, the bout began.

He lumbered towards me, his gait confident. I reached out and stripped the soul from his grasp, unprotected as it was. His tight robes, too large for his scrawny frame, relaxed, and he stumbled to a knee. More exhalations of surprise rang out. I took a step. The Alchemist fled, frenzied legs tripping him twice before he left the ring. My sensus was greater than his, but I doubt my control of Archanist Arts could compete. I'd taken him by surprise, and he let his loss of control cascade into a complete loss. If he were braver, he'd have known I'd not be able to recreate my feat had he taken measures to better secure the souls he had under his employ. He'd have lost, but he'd have lost with his pride somewhat intact. As it was, the boy would forever lament his cowardice.

Next.

The Hilsa did not attack. Her armor of twine glowed softly, alive and pulsing like the beats of a heart. "They say you are a godling," she said. Her voice lilted as if she sang the words.

"I am but a Mud," I said.

"According to who?"

"Godlings."

Her eyes drank me in and, having found whatever she sought, she forfeited without ceremony.

Next.

I felt the Golodanian's footsteps, their rumblings tickling my balance. With each step, his weight settled as if he were battling the earth itself. Sunlight set his skin across a gradient, from the pale, dull tan around his forehead where the most light struck, to the umber that filled the dark creases outlining the grotesquely defined muscles of his naked calves, the color darkened further by the shadow of his own bulk. Being who he was—that is, a descendant of The Golden King—his pristine skin, apparent strength, and stupendous weight said much about him, for his soul and body were one and the same.

"You are impressive, little man," he said. The rumble of his voice almost matched that of his steps.

I smiled. There was a carefree quality to him, an innocence far removed from naivety that, erroneously or not, came across as well-meaning. A victim of battlelust, much like his warmongering progenitors, but well-meaning nonetheless. I shook these silly estimations from my head, berating myself for repeating mistakes. Do not judge based on appearances, I thought. Therein lies the folly of being caught flat-footed. Do not forget who this man serves.

"Rather odd that you call me 'little,'" I said. "You stand a head shorter."

His smirk was playful. "But twice as heavy."

My laughter came without motive. "True."

"Let us see who is more impressive."

"I see you are abundantly self-assured."

"Not at all," he said. "I accept the possibility of a loss. I just don't care to expect it. It makes for a less-than-effective utilization of my strength."

"Not what I meant," I said.

One of his eyebrows rose.

"You called me impressive, then went on to compare us as near equals, essentially sharing the descriptor with yourself. That is rather self-assured, would you not agree?"

"Ah, yes, indeed. What of it? I am remarkable. Many of us are. We'd not be here if we were not."

I shrugged. "Fair enough. Your name?"

"Galgagor. Yours?"

"Aki."

"Well met, Aki."

"Likewise, though your choice of patron makes me uncertain."

Galgagor looked up into the stands, right at Lamila. "Honor has tied me to her."

"Honor withers in her presence."

"The honor is mine, and it is, at my ardent behest and everlasting regret, unbreakable."

Galgagor lowered himself into a stance, bare feet set apart. The match began.

He rushed at me. Slabs of bone and flesh he called hands were held before him, ready to grab at me. I waited. He slowed, trying to identify my tactic. My stillness gave nothing away. His conviction led him onwards.

His hands thrust at me. I thrust mine in turn. Our grips met, one set dwarfing the other. Leverage was mine. Bulk was his. Teeth gritted, we leaned in, arms held out, holding each other at bay. There was astonishment in his expression—he'd expected me to compete with his physical strength with my Arts.

"Have you any more surprises?" he asked. I felt his voice travel from his body into mine, a vibration that loosened my teeth.

"None that I'll need to contend with you," I said.

"And you accuse me of self-assurance?"

"Rightly so. I dare say we've both spoken truths this day."

More sensus flowed into my Reaper matrixes. Galgagor took a step back. The veins on his neck and temples thickened with effort. More steps followed, and we edged closer to the boundaries of the ring. Eyes clasped shut, teeth gritted, veins popping, he kept struggling, lending more of his determination to the task. Then, suddenly, his grip went slack. I thought he had given up. He had, in a sense, but it was not his will that collapsed.

Galgagor toppled over, unconscious. I decided I liked the fellow.

Next.

The Kintalan. Her vines swayed from the small of her back like a pair of tails. Clotted flowers lay in her wavy, obsidian hair. A scent of wilderness permeated from her, of fields of flowers, dense forests, and lively creeks.

"You have the smell of a newborn," she said.

"I have no response to offer but to question if you mean to compliment or insult me."

"Neither. I am merely sharing a fact."

"But what does this fact say of me?"

"That you smell like a newborn."

I shook my head. "Is that a positive or negative trait?"

"What would the answer say of me?"

"That you have spent too much time among Islanders."

The Kintalan's lips pursed into a tight line of disapproval. "Newborns do not decay."

"To live is to decay."

"To be divine is to forever grow."

"Divinity is perfection—perfection does not grow."

"I see why they call you the Heretic."

"Enough words. Let us be done with this match."

The Kintalan smiled. "I shall offer but a few more—I forfeit."

Next.

The second Golodanian, born of the land and people but not of its rulers, was quick to bow out. Lean and tall and fast as a whip, yet he was no match for Gargagor, and so no match for me.

Next.

An Aedificator decked in sleek metal rattled into the circle. The miniature links of her chain armor shifted like cloth as if motes of metal were woven into fabric. It was a wonder of his Art and unlike anything I had ever seen. It was also useless against me. Gales of furious air like the belching breath of a volcano enveloped her. She conceded when the metal of her armor began to melt and eat into her flesh.

Next.

The last.

Samiel.

He had refused the bout to ascend to the top ten in the last moon cycle. I had a feeling I was the reason.

"Shall we give them a show?" Samiel wore a whimsical smile, yet there was a hunger about him, a deep curiosity unsated, some madness-inducing desire pounding away at the seams of his control.

"You will lose."

"If what you've shown so far is the extent of your abilities…"

"You are my last statement, the final message."

Samiel cocked his head in confusion. "A message?"

I sighed. "Fate is cruel. It just so happens you are the only Leaf who'll allow me my intentions."

"And what is it you intend?"

"To show the world what I am capable of."

"That is my wish. Fate has offered me what I wanted. If that is cruelty, then I am a glutton for punishment."

"We shall see."

Subtle changes took hold of Samiel: his figure narrowed ever so slightly, compacting muscles and spreading them across his bones evenly; his eyes shone, sensight blooming at the center of his irises; tendons stiffened; blood rushed; and his skin took on a leathery appearance, hardening into a substance tougher than metal, a high-tier matrix that generated and compacted folds of skin while interlacing a mesh of enamel. He hopped in place, limber arms testing his unnatural flexibility.

The Fifth began to speak. Samiel was already in my face—one lightning step covered the distance in less than a blink. His fist met air. Mine met the underside of his jaw, lifting him up and back.

Samiel spared a moment for surprise, but he had his wits about him, righting himself mid-flight, landing, twisting, and ricocheting back at me with another attack. I caught his foot where it met his leg. Alchemy lent me fire, and the blistering heat parted his foot from its whole, dropping to the floor in a cloud of ash. Samiel screamed. Wind drowned out his shrieks of pain and flung him backward.

Despite the pain, Samiel tried to find his balance, scraping back his composure. I did not let him. A Pondus matrix dragged him to the ground, and he hit the sands with a wicked force. Bones broke. Organs ruptured. And in that heightened spike of pain, my Tunnell hit.

Samiel fainted.

Silence. Utter stillness. Then, the pregnant pause gave birth to a god.

A girl appeared. Radiant. She slipped down from the sky as if the noon sun had sent a tendril of its presence to grace the mortal plane. Her hands were clasped behind her back. Desolation spilled from the ice-blue globes she had for eyes, a slow, mournful promise of death and worship in her smirk. Her hair danced above her as if she were drifting in water. And as she descended, she grew into a woman, into a figure worshipped by many, feared by more, and recognized by all.

Lorail landed beside me, and the air trembled from her mere presence. A moment of attention was given to the crowd as she stood beside me, and then her attentions were mine, unwilling as I was to be gifted such a perilous thing.

The world was silent. It watched us, saw us. The similarities were evident as we stood side by side and then face to face. I noticed them, too. She had my eyes. Or was it me who had hers? Perhaps we both possess Merkusian's or The Old Queen's? Whatever the case, we shared that trait and more.

I had just made my prowess known, marked myself the preeminent student of our cycle, Leaf or not, and Lorail had come to claim that glory as her own. She ran the back of her forefinger along my jawline, her eyes—my eyes—delving into me. Her touch was warm, yet it ran shivers down and into me. I stood rooted, unmoving, my breath trapped. A multitude of thoughts flashed across my mind, a storm of urger. I was anger and fear, pride and shame, violence and peace. I was turmoil.

"You have done well, son," she said, breaking the silence. "Unlike others." She glanced at Lokos. "Exact the promise I made him."

Lokos was on one knee, kneeling. "He may yet—"

"His task was clear," she said, ice in her tone. "As was his failure. I do not take kindly to failure."

Lokos lowered his head further. "By your command, Mistress. He and his adoptive parents shall be sent to The Bridge."

Even as the peril of my mother's attention returned to me, greater thoughts exploded across my soul. The realization struck me, drowned my being, and threw my body off kilter. I stumbled. My vision blurred. The blood in my veins seemed to stop flowing as my heart ceased. One thought caused all of this: Wiltos!

"I had heard he latched himself to your coattails," she said. "That is unfortunate."

"Leave him." My throat clenched without my permission, and the words croaked out of me in a staggered whisper.

"Sentiment, Aki?"

I felt her hand on my thoughts. A coldness came over me, some semblance of control organized by instinct. I obfuscated my intentions and memories. She smiled, proud.

"Very well," she said. "You may have him."

"And his parents."

"Do not push my benevolence. I have very little of it."

I looked away. Lorail might've thought me abashed or fearful. I was merely trying to curb my bloodlust.

"Rejoice," Lorail said. "I have come here today to confer upon you the position of a Leaf candidate." She turned to the silent, dumbfounded crowd of students and Fifths. "This here is Aki kin Lorail, son of House Lorail, and my Leaf candidate, with all the implications such a position holds."

***

I stood on Wiltos' new balcony. Chatter, laughter, the trot of horses, the screeching of carriages, and the occasional shout drifted up from the busy thoroughfare below. The deep purple of the evening had just begun to contend against the oranges and reds of dusk. Edon was right—the scent of freshly baked goods was pleasant. As was the sight of Discupulus.

Wiltos and I were alone. I'd asked Malorey to leave. Her first reaction was to deny me. She must've seen the stray thought of killing her come and go because her refusals died on her lips, and she left the room without another word. Lorail's presence had made me murderous.

I turned away from the pleasant scent and sight. They'd not deter me from facing the conversation I'd come to have. Wiltos sat catatonic. He remained seated on the edge of his new bed, hands in his lap, mute since that morning. His eyes were open but unresponsive.

"You are not going to The Bridge," I said.

Wiltos' eyes widened.

"Your parents, however…"

Tears began to stream down Wiltos' face. He'd retreated into stasis when his failure to appease Lorail had condemned him and his parents to a miserable death. My words, that spark of hope they contained, had brought him back, and now the anguish claimed him whole. I let him cry. He cries into the evening, deeper into the dark of night, and yet past the crack of dawn. He cried until his tears dried, and then he cried some more.

As I watched the sunrise, waiting, I heard him speak.

"How?" he asked.

I turned. The worst of the sorrow had passed. Scars had begun to form, and beyond the shine of Wiltos' spent tears, a hardness formed. I knew then that though Wiltos had not died, the boy I knew had.

"How did you manage to spare my life?" he asked.

"Where you failed, I succeeded. My reward was the abolition of your punishment." I looked away, ashamed. "It did not, however, grant me the lives of…"

"Where I failed," Wiltos muttered under his breath. His head snapped up, wide eyes staring.

"Yes, Brother. We are more than friends. We are family."

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