The Knife's Edge: The Ronin Saga

The Three Rules

One

Nine kingdoms will be deemed The Great Kingdoms, those who bear the eternal elements as their sigil: wind, sun, leaf, fire, moon, water, stone, flesh, and metal.

Two

The warriors known as the Ronin, with nine magical swords, will be bound to the kingdoms — each matched to their elemental power in turn. Baro will be the ambassador for the metal kingdom, Seth for fire, Hiron for water, Aundevoriä for stone, Aurelious for flesh, Dared for moon, Maris for leaf, Omni for sun, and lastly, their leader, Kail for wind. They will be the peacemakers of the land, the arbitrators of justice.

Three

A prophecy will be forever engraved upon the walls of each Great Kingdom, words to spell the future of the world.

The Tale Of The Ronin

Long ago, the world was in chaos. Kingdoms fought for dominion, and blood ran in rivers… until a robed figure arrived. Some say the figure descended from the clouds on a mote of light, others that he walked across the oceans, or appeared in a blaze of fire. Yet all stories agree that the nine were at his side.

The Ronin — nine warriors who each wielded an elemental power: wind, water, stone, fire, leaf, moon, sun, flesh and metal. Together, they saved the world from near ruin. As the ambassadors of each city, the Ronin protected Farhaven, the land of magic. If a king grew unruly or a land attempted to disrupt the peace, the nine legends would unite and with their combined powers end any injustice.

Yet nothing can stay good forever; and if great power corrupts, the Ronin were no exception. The supposed protectors of mankind turned and nearly destroyed the world, or so the stories say… At last, they were stopped behind a great barrier known as Death’s Gates, banished to a land without magic. The evil was thwarted but not conquered, sinking back into the lands, seething and waiting to return.

Slowly, the world rebuilt from the ash and rubble. Yet tales floated upon the winds as bards and minstrels spun accounts of the war and the evil sworn to return… An evil known as the Ronin.

The

Knife’s Edge

The Return

Kirin ran. Using the tooth of the battlement as a stepping stone, he launched himself at Ren. Steel clanged and metal sparked, and his muscles strained against his master’s parry. Today, Ren would lose and Kirin would prove himself worthy of the title of Devari.

Ren smiled through the mesh of their swords, his peppered beard rustling. You’ve got a gleam in your eyes today, my young apprentice. I like that. Then his eyes, the color of Cloudfell’s pale blue waters, narrowed. What have you got up your sleeve?

Me? Nothing, Kirin lied through his clenched teeth.

Ren returned a flat stare. You are perhaps the world’s worst liar, you know that right?

Kirin growled in response, still straining to hold Ren’s parry. He felt sweat dripping down his own brow in the hot sun, stinging his eyes. Opposite him, Ren was irritatingly cool. The cursing man hadn’t even broken a sweat. He could have been out for a dicing stroll, not locked in combat.

I think it’s admirable, really. One of your better qualities, Ren continued, taunting him, and leaned into the parry.

Kirin pressed back, pushing into his master’s sword, metal gnashing, and grinned. I’m going to win today. You know that, don’t you?

A flicker of amusement ghosted across his master’s face. Is that so?

It is.

Ren pushed harder, and Kirin lost ground. One piece of advice, my boy: gloat after victory. Never before. Then Ren swung and Kirin leapt back, barely dodging the man’s blade.

Seven hells, Kirin thought, it moved like the wind. Kirin eyed his master from a dozen paces away, trying to catch his breath.

They were alone on the ramparts. The fog of dawn still clung, the sun barely cresting the horizon. Despite the chill in the air, Ren was bare-chested, wearing only a pair of frayed pants. His frame had been tanned dark by the unforgiving sun; like the dark clay left to dry, crack and harden in famed Farbian earthenware. A long scar ran diagonally across Ren’s chest. A few more white lines marred his shoulders and arms. There was not a scrap of fat on him. Only his Komai braid showed his age. Black and streaked with white, the braid hung over his shoulder — its length denoting his high rank.

Standing in the dawning light Ren, leader of the Devari, and famed blademaster of Farbs, looked like something out of the stories.

For a dozen years Kirin had trained under Ren. Ren had chosen Kirin when he was only six summers in age. Out of a thousand young boys clamoring to be a Devari, he had been selected. Yet, even with an arbiter for a grandfather and a blademaster as a mentor, Kirin felt a failure.

Kirin, the boy who had been given everything, meant to rise above all the rest, was… overwhelmingly ordinary. With all that promise draped on his shoulders, Kirin felt like he was never enough. Weaker than most, clumsier with the blade, and slower to learn the complicated forms that all Devari knew. Only his ki, his power of empathy, showed promise. Even that was temperamental and wild as a spark-storm.

But today would be different.

Kirin’s grip tightened on his blade until it shook. Unbeknownst to his master, Kirin had been practicing day and night with the ki, learning to temper its wild nature. It was the one quality Devari most coveted, and his ki was strong, if only he could focus. If he could do that, Kirin could predict his master’s moves before they happened.

Today was that day. Kirin would win and prove himself worthy.

Kirin raced forward, ducking, dodging and slicing Ren’s blade, then clashing once more in a parry. Again? Ren asked, holding steel to steel. This didn’t work out well for you last time, my young apprentice. You should know never to do the same thing twice.

Kirin ignored him. This is it, he thought. This is my chance. While they locked swords, Kirin reached out with the ki. The ki was an invisible tendril, a feeler that sifted into Ren’s head, searching for a crack in his master’s armor. As soon as he touched Ren’s mind, he felt a wall, waiting like a centaur at the entrance to a maze. He feared Ren’s mind. That same wall always waited, impenetrable as once-Yronia, fortress of metal. Normally, Kirin would retreat at this point. But this is what he had trained for, and he attacked.

Ren’s eyes tapered through their crossed swords, as if he sensed Kirin was up to something. Kirin, however, kept his ki small, like a ferreting mouse, when —

He sensed it. A small crevice in the back of Ren’s mind. He pressed forward, slipping into the cleft in his thoughts and —

FEAR. Powerful and unyielding the emotion washed over Kirin. It punched the air from his lungs and his stomach churned as if were about to vomit. He felt it all as if it were his own fear.

Before him, Ren flexed, pressing against the parry and Kirin was flung backwards. Distracted from the fear, Kirin instinctively rolled to absorb the fall, then lay panting. His mind felt aflame. The fear. Light and heavens, it had been so powerful. It all happened so quickly. Perhaps a few breaths, no more. Kirin gained his feet shakily. What was that?

Ren arched a brow. What was what?

I… sensed something. What’re you hiding? Kirin asked. It felt… dark.

Ren glowered. You used the ki on me? Those pale blue eyes became daggers. You shouldn’t have done that.

I… I was only looking to sense your next move, I didn’t mean to pry. Besides, you always say to use all the tools at my disposal. Kirin rubbed his neck self-consciously as Ren’s gaze continued to bore into him. Devari weren’t supposed to use their ki against one another. The invasion was an affront.

My thoughts are my own. Slowly, Ren’s dark expression softened, dropping his mantle as Leader of the Devari, and becoming the friend and mentor he knew. Relax, boy. I’m impressed. You’ve gotten better. Much better. Training sessions with Forgha and Maerus? Those two, he gave his wry smirk, they have been hounding to see you beat me! Ha! Tell me, are they here? With the antics those two get up to, I wouldn’t doubt if half the Devari are hiding nearby, waiting to see the outcome of this battle, he said, looking about the empty ramparts. Well, am I right?

But Kirin wasn’t deterred by Ren’s attempt to divert his line of questioning. "Ren, what’re you hiding? What was that feeling? Kirin asked again. He shivered, and despite the rising desert heat, he wanted to throw on a heavy woolen cloak. Clutching his chest, Kirin whispered, It felt… old. Ancient even. It felt like death." Those words. Ancient. Death. They seemed to click together like missing puzzle pieces, fitting just right with the rumors that had been circulating through the city. It’s true then, isn’t it? They’re back…

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Don’t try to protect me. They’re back, aren’t they?

Ren sighed then turned, putting his hands on the rampart’s stone crenelation. He gazed out over the bailey’s walls. Over the courtyards where neophytes trained below, tossing magical balls of fire, water, or one of the other six elements. Guards clanged, sparring in the first bouts of the day. False Returns come and go like the desert winds, Kirin. As Devari, we are to be above such superstitions.

But you’ve heard something, haven’t you?

Rumors are rumors, Kirin.

You’re avoiding the question.

Ren turned on him. And you’re avoiding their name. Say their name, lad. Only a fool fears a name.

Kirin stammered, I can’t… No one can. We’re not allowed to.

Then I’ll say it for you.

Don’t —

— Ronin, Ren said.

Kirin’s breath caught. He peered around. The rampart was empty, and he breathed a sigh. They were alone. Yet to speak their name aloud was a crime punishable by death. The offense mostly went overlooked nowadays. It had been a thousand years since the supposed ‘death’ of the legends who nearly broke the world. Now only backwater towns or supremely righteous cities like Covai or Taer still enforced the archaic decree. Still, its utterance coincided with strange occurrences. Men went missing. Women had stillbirths. Food spoiled. Many equated it to superstition, to happenstance, but Kirin wasn’t so sure. He had heard a fruit seller say the word once loudly in a crowded marketplace, and the next day his wares had turned up rotten, larvae spilling out of dark eldermelons and limfuns. Still the fruit-seller had scoffed, repeating the forbidden word. The next week, the man had been found dead in the heart of the bazaar. No visible wound. Just dead. As if struck down. Kirin could still remember the stink of his body, foul and putrid as if it had been rotting in the hot sun, the swarm of black flies covering him from head to toe.

Master’s words snapped his trance, returning him to the moment, but his stomach still curdled from the memory, It’s only you and me up here, Kirin. And as for your question, I’ve outlasted a hundred false returns, each one more absurd than the last. Though a false return is nothing to smile about. Each causes its share of chaos. I’ve seen hangings, riots, even full-scale wars at the hands of a false return.

I’m not asking about rumors, Kirin persisted. Though I have heard them all… whispers that the elven prophet is on her deathbed, that the Patriarch is to decree this coming as a True Return, that Ester and Meneleas are shutting their doors to outsiders completely.

Esterians have always been a foolish, superstitious lot, and Menelians follow on their heels like trotting dogs, Ren said contemptuously. And I don’t know what you’ve been hearing, but the Patriarch has uttered no such thing.

Kirin continued undaunted. "All of Farhaven’s magical creatures are fleeing to their sanctuaries, Ren. The whole Citadel is in an uproar. Things I’d have to be blind to miss. I’m not asking if something is happening. I know something is happening. I’m asking what you think."

Ren turned away. He was silent so long Kirin didn’t think he was going to answer. At last, he spoke in a troubled voice, This time, something does seem different. I feel there is a deadly sliver of truth within the rumors. After two thousand years, I fear the Return has come.

The Return… The phrase alone was terrifying. Demigods that had almost destroyed the world. "Two thousand years the Ronin have been gone from this world. Why now?"

I don’t know, Ren said quietly.

The Gates separate Farhaven from Daerval and the Ronin have never crossed the Gates, right, Ren?

Ren put his hand on Kirin’s shoulder. Farhaven is safe, lad. Don’t you worry. Come now, the day is young and we’ve much training to do. You do still want to become a Devari, do you not?

More than anything.

Well then, come and hit me already. Prove your mettle.

Kirin charged with a fierce cry. After a flurry of strikes, feints, parries, and evasions, Kirin risked it. He knew the only way he would win is if he could sense his master’s lightning fast moves before they came.

So he reached out with the ki once more. Again, he was met with an emotionless wall, but he searched, hunting for that same crack when —

He found it. He entered Ren’s mind. The overwhelming fear that would buckle any normal man waited, but he went beyond that, into the man’s limbs. He sensed it. Block, parry, riposte. It was a dance that Ren knew to his soul and was performing instinctually. But now, Kirin could anticipate the man’s dance.

There —

As Ren stepped forward, Kirin felt the man’s muscles tense, readying for another cut. With one arm, Ren sliced. Yet this time, Kirin knew exactly where the blade was coming and he ducked beneath it. Just enough. Slipping the dulled training sword so slightly he felt it clipping hairs on the top of his head. With the extra time it afforded, his sword was already moving, and he sliced for Ren’s now exposed legs. Elation lanced through him. Ren had lost. He would pull the training sword in a moment and proclaim victory.

Abruptly, Kirin saw Ren’s other hand. The hand not touching the blade. His master had only had one hand on his sword. Why? No… He realized, watching as Ren’s other hand smacked a block of stone on the rampart’s wall.

Immediately, a sphere of dark purple appeared from thin air, hovering between them. The liquid darkness swiftly expanded. It touched Kirin’s outstretched arm and he recoiled, but it was no use. His muscles twitched as if suffocated in stone. The darkness slid over him like a second skin.

The world turned black as night.

Kirin felt weightless, falling.

The Eight Trials

Vera inhaled the incense that burned in the brightly lit room. On any other day she would complain about its putrid sting as she walked past the Oval Hall, watching the people flock toward the great chamber. Today, however, the incense smelled sweet. For today she would gain the title of the youngest Reaver in history… and then, Vera smiled, she would become a god.

Her face glistened with sweat. Eight women surrounded her, each standing on one of the eight points of the Star of Magha, which was set into the white marble floor.

The points stood for the elements of the Great Kingdoms; the only element not represented was the forbidden element of wind. Vera was connected to these eight women by the link — eight glowing golden lines that extended outward from her like spokes on a wheel. She stood at their center where sat the red flame of Farbs.

The women surrounding her breathed heavily, wearing looks of loathing. They fear what they don’t understand. She took in their stares. Merian stood on the emblem of flesh; Sara, water; Tamiko, stone; Resa, sun; Eliwyn, fire; and three women she did not know stood on the elements of metal, moon, and leaf. These women had little in common, except that they were years older than Vera, and that they despised her.

With a portion of the spark, Vera twisted a strand of water with a thicker thread of light. Immediately all traces of dampness were sucked from her dress, like poison drawn from a wound, and the gray wool was simultaneously straightened and smoothed. Pain erupted in her brain.

Merian snapped, Do not use the spark during the Trials for anything but the Trials themselves. The woman’s lips pursed, as if she was thinking of something truly cruel to say. And I would save your energy if I were you. You will need every morsel you can conjure in the next Trial, or you will fail miserably.

Vera brushed her fall of black hair behind her ears and rose to her full height. There was a fire in Merian she had not seen until now, and Vera nearly applauded the woman for showing her backbone at last.

Neophyte Vera, you have completed the seventh trial. The eighth and final trial will begin now, Merian said.

With the veil of obedience, Vera smiled. As you wish, Reaver Merian.

The women around her looked like coiled desrah snakes ready to strike. Vera grinned, inviting it, and together, the women attacked.

Spokes of light flew forth, striking from all sides. Vera threw up her hands, erecting a shield of light, but the attacks moved through her shield like water — too strong. She knew that eight Reavers could not be bested by any but an Arbiter in a match of raw power. The Eighth Trial was not a test of strength, but one of spirit. It was not meant to be won.

But Vera never lost.

Her gaze narrowed on Merian whose eyes blazed with hatred. Vera unleashed her bottled power with a scream, uncaging the tendrils of living darkness — but at the last moment she wove threads of moon to disguise the power’s dark form.

The spokes of light and the tendrils of darkness collided with a powerful boom, rattling the room. The link between the women shattered. But in the moment before its collapse, the darkness funneled toward Merian and sank its teeth into the wielder of the link.

A thunderclap blew the women back.

Slowly, they rose to their feet. A foul smell like burnt hair hung in the air. At her feet, Vera saw fragments of colored glass from the windows high above and shreds of priceless tapestries depicting grand scenes of the Lieon, the Great War.

Resa, a bull-like woman, seemed stunned. She spoke, Never has the test of light been countered with moon. Moon is the weaker of the two elements, but somehow… it worked. Truly remarkable — and worth the coming ceremony. You are now the youngest in history to pass the Eight Trials. Congratulations, Reaver Vera.

Congratulations, the other seven said, their voices a single hum.

Merian, sound the chime, Resa ordered. It is complete. The Citadel must know; the ceremonies must commence.

She hasn’t noticed, Vera thought. Neither had the others. There was a stark silence, and Vera smirked, reveling in their confusion. Then the eight women’s eyes widened in sudden recognition, their feelings connected through the link. As one they looked to Merian.

The woman knelt, her eyes wide in horror and Merian shrieked, My power! It’s gone!

Merian! The women swarmed around her, dropping the golden glow of the link.

Resa touched the sister’s forehead and recoiled. I cannot heal her. It is far beyond my skill. She grabbed Tamiko. Take her to an Arbiter, and quickly. Perhaps they can grab the spark before it is irretrievable.

She… it’s gone? But how? Tamiko stammered.

Vera smiled at the woman’s shock. Like a wide-eyed doll. Vera had always thought Tamiko’s hair and face were too done up to be attractive, though most of the men of the Citadel didn’t seem to mind.

Stop asking questions and go! Resa yelled.

Tamiko bolted to get help, and Resa turned to Vera, her eyes blazing.

Come to me, Vera beckoned.

Resa’s heavy steps reminded Vera of a cerabul before the charge, or one of the Devari guards’ stalking postures. As Resa approached, Eliywn rushed to Vera’s side. She straightened to her fullest height, which was a hand or two shorter than Vera.

Before Resa could speak, Eliywn proclaimed in a rush, She did nothing against the law of the Citadel, and she obviously didn’t mean —

— Leave, Resa seethed.

Eliywn bristled as if slapped, and she looked about to respond. The girl doesn’t know when to quit, Vera thought. Ignoring Resa’s direct order would bring on serious punishment, for Resa’s three stripes greatly outranked Eliywn’s one.

Vera touched her friend’s arm. Eliywn frowned but understood, and grudgingly took her leave.

What was that? Resa whispered, breathing fire. The woman’s body practically shook with desire to hurt Vera, likely not even with the spark, but with pure, animal-like rage.

What was what? Vera asked calmly.

The spacious hall was now filling with Neophytes and Reavers, their faces pale — no doubt from the sound of Merian’s chilling scream. Whispers spread like fire.

Heresy, Resa sputtered. "I don’t know what you conjured, but it wasn’t the spark. Now Merian might die, and if she doesn’t, the spark inside her is shriveled and likely gone from her forever! You desiccated her!"

The word gave Vera chills. Dessication — being deprived and cut from the spark, like a still-beating heart carved from one’s chest. For most Reavers, it was a fate worse than death.

Vera returned the woman’s wrathful glare with a small smile. Words would not affect some women, she knew, no matter how profound.

Resa grabbed Vera’s robes. You will pay for that.

Vera lifted a finger before Resa could strike. Ah ah ah. I think you’re forgetting, Reaver Resa, I’m no longer a Neophyte. Citadel Law states you cannot harm another Reaver without the tribunal’s consent. If you think I’ve done some wrong you must take your grievance to a four-stripe Reaver or above.

Lucky you, Resa sneered. "Rest assured, I will see this through. Reaver Ethelwin will be informed and will determine your punishment. But honestly? If I ever, ever see anything like that again, Citadel Law or not, I will personally pluck your haughty eyes from your head, without the spark."

Vera dipped her head, casting her eyes downward. Apologies, Reaver Resa. My power went beyond me, she lied. I will learn to control it. That much was truth.

Resa’s meaty fist rose, ready to strike. But then, with an unattractive snarl, she turned and stalked out of the chambers, following two women who carried the muttering, half-conscious Merian on a cloth stretcher.

For a brief moment, Vera felt a note of pity. No one should suffer that fate. She herself would take a thousand deaths before she would take a life without the spark. Ignoring the eyes of the others, Vera pushed her way through the whispering crowds of Neophytes and headed to her quarters.

The title reaver meant nothing. It was only a means to an end.

She hurried to secure her future.

The Neophyte Palace

The corridor shook with the peal of tower bells, announcing the completion of the Eight Trials. Vera ground her teeth in irritation, and as she swiftly turned a corner, she ran headlong into someone and books scattered to the ground. She looked up to see the worried frown of Enise, a bookish Neophyte.

I’m so sorry, are you all right? Enise asked.

The girl looked every bit the startled bird. Sharp nose, a spiky fray of white hair-like plumage and bright, wide eyes. Enise was one of the few Neophytes who didn’t loathe Vera. She wondered if the girl had never heard the rumors. Either way, she liked Enise.

Don’t worry about it. It was my fault.

No, no, it’s mine — I know I shouldn’t read and walk. Ali — er, Reaver Aliye always yells at me for it.

Enise fell to her knees to gather up the fallen volumes. Vera knelt at her side and helped, noticing the faded gold titles. The Last Reliquaries of Tremwar. Accounts of the Final Battles of the Kimon. Tales of the Great Schism. The Battle of Gal. Letters of a General. The Kyomen Wars. A dictionary on Yorin, the old tongue.

Quite the collection, Vera said. Brushing up on your history?

Enise blushed. Just a little light reading. Ethelwin — I mean, Reaver Ethelwin lectured briefly on the betrayal and how they destroyed the world. She explained their heresy, but of course even as a girl I knew of their betrayal. Yet, I always felt something was missing — it was like an itch I couldn’t scratch. And then yesterday, during Ethelwin’s speech, I felt the itch grow. And I knew something was truly wrong with the stories.

You’re talking about the Ronin, Vera said.

Enise’s gaze flickered to the ends of the hall. Vera! You can’t say that name.

I’ve gotten in enough trouble today, what else can they do?

I… Enise chewed on the tips of her fingernails, glancing about, Dark things. I once heard Yidar, a baker and his wife saying their name loudly. I wasn’t the only one who heard. Word spread and the next day, Yidar and his wife were found dead in their beds.

Superstitious nonsense, she scoffed. Yidar’s rival probably did it, then blamed the Ronin. Besides no one will hear. She waved the rumors away as if they were a foul stench and then smiled, leaning in closer. So, have you found anything interesting yet?

Enise sighed. Not yet. Just the same history we all know. It’s strange, but it seems as if even these old things are missing pieces. Enise shook her head as if coming to her senses. I really shouldn’t be talking of this. Wait, why were you in such a hurry?

Didn’t you hear? Vera glanced upward.

You passed! Enise exclaimed to the pealing of the bells. Congratulations! When are the ceremonies? Are you going to…

Vera was only half-listening, as her attention was drawn to two Devari who walked past them, moving with deadly grace. Where many men dared to eye her slender form and curves, the Devari’s attention never came her way, their eyes always on their destination.

Enise, she interrupted, if you see Kirin, can you tell him I’m looking for him? I’ll be in my room. She thrust the books into the girl’s arms and left her kneeling wide-eyed.

Vera made her way through the corridors to the grand hall of the Neophyte Palace.

The hall was a cavernous place. The scuffle of slippered footsteps echoed as hundreds of Neophytes swarmed the broad floor, rushing to chores or lectures. In the center of the room was a grand staircase, each step large enough for a small house to sit comfortably upon. And above it all was a marble dome that featured a series of tall windows interspersed with larger-than-life portraits of the Arbiters themselves.

Only five Arbiters had ever been born, and each had lived for thousands of years. It was said that their lifespan was due to the power of the spark they held, for even the weakest Arbiter was stronger than a hundred Reavers working together with a link.

The thought of such power made Vera’s knees weak. She glanced to the painting of the man in grand flowing robes of layered black with a single red stripe on each cuff. The Patriarch. He was the oldest and strongest of all the Arbiters, the Guardian of the Citadel, and the only Arbiter to ever hold the mantle of Patriarch. The man was a legend. Almost as much as the Ronin themselves. Almost.

Vera crossed toward the central staircase. As she walked, she spotted a familiar face: Evalyn, tall, buxom, and never two steps away from her pet, Rosalyn. Vera hated Evalyn. The girl was admittedly beautiful, and powerful too, but she viewed everyone else like pieces in a game of Cyn, sacrificing Followers to get to the Mark. Not to mention, Evalyn had an obvious interest in Kirin, which put a sour taste in Vera’s mouth. So she was glad to see Evalyn turn the corner toward the courtyards.

At the top of the stairs, Vera had just turned down a crowded hallway when suddenly a presence ripped her breath from her lungs. At the end of the hall, walking briskly toward her, was a tall man in pitch black robes and gray cape with a flaring collar. He filled the corridor with his presence.

When his eyes fell on her, all others in the crowded corridor seemed to disappear. Despite all her confidence and power, in that moment Vera felt like a shriveled weed beneath his foot.

Arbiter Ezrah.

What was he doing down here? Arbiters kept to themselves; they were rarely seen beyond the restricted upper halls of the Citadel where great magic resided.

Dressed in similar flowing black robes to the Patriarch, cinched by a belt of gold, he stood at complete odds with everyone in the hallway. Gray-robed Neophytes or a smattering of red-robed Reavers. They could have been statues as he passed them by. On his cuff and hem he had the double-red stripes denoting his rank. Second most powerful man in all of Farhaven.

He looked every bit the part. Silver hair with small streaks of brown fell about his shoulders. A flowing cape the color of ash, simple and unadorned, completed the look; it appeared weathered, and on its hem there was a crust of… clay? As if, Ezrah, a god of the spark, walked the streets of Farbs like a simple commoner.

As he approached, he had his arms folded and one finger tapped his lips, mumbling to himself, oblivious to everyone in the hallway. She wondered if he would stroll right into her if she didn’t move. Yet as he approached, she felt compelled to move from his mountainous presence.

As Ezrah strode past her, his lips moving soundlessly, Vera felt a chill, as if she had been dunked in ice water. The tolling of bells was absent. There was only silence and Ezrah’s quiet mumbling. A spell…

Then Ezrah passed, taking the bubble of silence with him. Vera took a breath, and the others in the hall came back into her awareness. Neophytes and Reavers whispered in fear and awe at having seen an Arbiter.

She left them, knowing what awaited her.

Today, Vera would unlock the sword’s true power. Today, she would surpass the limits of a mere Reaver.

A Night to Remember

Still moving, Kirin hit the ground. Instinctively, he tucked and rolled on the hard dirt. When he came to a stop, his stomach churned and the world spun.

The ramparts were gone, as if evaporated. The stone was now replaced with hard earth, and he felt bits of gravel beneath his nails. On his left, a stone’s throw away, a group of girls in gray dresses sat on a grassy knoll shaded by old silverroot trees. The trees’ bark glistened like a fish’s scaled belly. The girls listened attentively to an older woman in scarlet robes, who wove luminescent green strands of nature between her hands like a seamstress. As she did, a silverroot’s branch miraculously lengthened, bending to touch her outstretched palm.

Elsewhere, groups of women roved the courtyard, conversing lightly, ignoring Kirin’s sudden appearance.

He recognized where he was. It was one of the four courtyards of the Neophyte Palace, where female threaders of the spark trained. The palace itself loomed.

I didn’t know there was a transporter there, he told Ren, who stood calmly nearby.

Ren shrugged. I had to do something. That was quite the move. I doubt I would have evaded it. You moved like the wind.

I read your moves…

Reading is one thing, acting is another. You moved quicker than I’ve ever seen you move before.

Not fast enough, but I guess I’ll accept the fact that you had to cheat.

Ren gave a chuckle, then his eyes tightened as if he was trying to formulate something peculiar that he couldn’t explain. "Speaking of moving like the wind, for a moment there, I thought you weren’t moving, but shifting. Some Ronin could teleport at will, and not just to one designated area like a transporter, but anywhere. Quite the ability."

Kirin sighed in annoyance. Not this again. That’d make sense if I could harness the spark more than a trickle, Ren. A rock has as much natural ability as I do.

"No. A rock can probably harness more of the spark than you, he said, But you, Kirin, have raw ability."

With the ki, maybe, he replied. That’s it, Ren.

The man said nothing, only arching a dubious brow.

Kirin growled, frustration growing. I’ve been tested, Ren. Dozens of times, remember? So you can let it go. I’m no spark-wielding demigod. No Devari blademaster prodigy. I’m just… me. That’s it.

Ren only replied with a steely-eyed gaze as if conflicted. This was a conversation they had dozens of times. The result was always the same. Ren, like him, seemed confused. As if it didn’t add up. How could Kirin have an Arbiter Grandfather and be just… muckraker Kirin? A small part of Kirin understood. He even had a grudging appreciation for Ren trying to find something special in him. The rest of him it rankled. This time, it annoyed him. The man dug too deeply when there was nothing there.

At last, seeing this, Ren gave a slow, grudging nod and gripped Kirin’s shoulder. Forgive me. You’re right, lad. You don’t need to be anyone else but you. Not everyone is a Devari prodigy.

Kirin knew Ren meant well, and he nodded, as if accepting the attempt at a compliment. But deep down, the recognition that he wasn’t special stung, outweighing Ren’s approval and kindness. I’d prefer to be a Devari prodigy, than just me, he thought.

A voice called Kirin’s name. From the grand arched entry that led into the palace, Enise charged down the wide steps.

Enise approached. Kirin, she said. I — she struggled to catch her breath. Enise was a bookworm at heart, not a fighter. Ink smudged her fingers and there was even a black streak on her nose, as if she had scratched it while reading.

He steadied the girl with a hand. It’s all right, slow down. Catch your breath. After she did, he asked, Now, what’s going on? Is something wrong?

You haven’t heard?

Heard what?

Listen! Enise put a hand to her ear.

The sounds of the bells hit him like a hammer’s blow. She passed! He grabbed Enise’s hands and danced in a circle, sending her into a fit of laughter. I can’t believe it, he said. The youngest Reaver in all of history. Kirin felt his breath taken. He had never thought he would live to see this day.

He vividly remembered passing through the giant black gates of the Citadel as an orphan. Tired, hungry, and on the verge of death, he had entered a world he had always feared. A world behind cloud-scraping black walls, rumored to be full of the most powerful threaders of the spark. He could still remember the feel of his pounding heart as he took in the Citadel. It gleamed like a vast gem of obsidian, its red-robed men and women demanding respect just short of kings.

He discovered he had a grandfather that day. Ezrah had taken them in, clothed them, fed them, given them a roof over their head. Years passed, and Kirin grew from a boy to a young man, and still he had always felt at odds with the Citadel. As if he was a fake in a world of power. But not Vera. She had embraced their new destiny. At first he had been jealous, but now, he was simply proud of her.

She wants to see you, Enise said.

Kirin turned to Ren with a chagrined look. May I?

His master laughed and waved him away. I’m done with you for now. The girl is waiting. Go to the Oval Hall and celebrate. And tell her congratulations from me.

She’s not in the Oval Hall, Enise said. She left.

She’s not staying for the ceremonies? Kirin knew Vera wasn’t one for fanfare, but this was the Trials! She had been dreaming of this moment since they were big enough to don the smallest of gray robes. Why?

Enise shrugged. All I know is she was headed for her room in a hurry.

Then to her room I go. He turned to Ren. "Rekdala forhas," he said solemnly, gripping Ren’s forearm arm in the traditional Devari salutation.

Till death with honor, my friend, Ren replied.

Will I see you at the Patriarch’s meeting?

Ren rubbed his jaw. You will. He wants me there, as well as the commander of the Citadel Guard, and all other captains, though I’m not sure why. Now run along before I change my mind.

Leaving Ren and Enise behind, Kirin ran out of the courtyard and vaulted up the stairs. Inside, he navigated through white hallways, heading to Vera’s room when —

Kirin turned a corner and almost ran headlong into a woman. He was two hands taller than her, but somehow he felt the shorter of the two. She was well built, with slender shoulders, a slim waist, and a pretty face. The problem was she knew it all too well. Wearing a low-cut grey gown, Evalyn’s chest heaved from running. Kirin cleared his throat, purposively focusing on her eyes. It wasn’t a sore sight either. They had a bright, honey-hue. A safe place to put his gaze. With thick lashes and a plucked brow, Evalyn was like a manicured doll; and very far from his type, which he had made well-known. Unfortunately, that seemed to only vex the girl who was used to getting everything she wanted; worse still, his disinterest, if anything, seemed to encourage her, making her advances a sort-of cat and mouse challenge. A challenge he didn’t have time for.

Hello, Kirin, she said with a haughty twist to her lips.

Morning, he said, then turned to the girl tucked behind the woman, and gave a deep bow, and couldn’t help himself from adding a smile, Good morning, Rosalyn. How are you? Rosalyn was pretty and smart. Sadly, she was also Evalyn’s shadow.

Rosalyn smiled in return, but when Evalyn looked back at her, the girl’s smile quickly became a frown.

Kirin sighed. Listen, I’d love to stay and chat, Evalyn, but if you’ll excuse me I was just on my way —

— To see Vera, Evayln interrupted. I heard there was an accident. Do you know what happened?

Kirin’s heart clenched, his blood chilling. An accident?

That’s what I heard. I do hope she is all right, Evalyn said. She lowered her voice to a whisper. I heard that someone was desiccated.

A flush of fear shot through him and he gripped Evalyn’s arm. Who was it?

Evalyn looked taken aback, her bravado gone. "I’m — I’m not certain. I only heard someone was. She winced as his grip tightened, her arrogance fading to a look of pain. Kirin, you’re hurting me."

He let go and moved around her, continuing his sprint through the halls. He prayed it wasn’t Vera. What would Vera do? She’d always said she couldn’t live without her power. Light and fire, let it not be Vera. That meant it would have to be someone else. How much better was it that someone else was robbed of their spark?

When he reached her room, his senses flared. He touched the door’s warm handle; it sent a tremor up his arm. Without a second thought, he opened the door.

He froze.

Black tentacles hung in the air. Dark feelers slithered over the walls, and when one of them touched a dresser it snapped like dry tinder. Crawling over the ground and walls, the feelers looked like a tree’s roots coated in oil — viscous and black as midnight.

Vera knelt in the center of the room, hunched as if hurt. From her back, the darkness unfurled like black wings.

Vera! Kirin dashed forward, moving to free her when his ki shouted in warning and his mind reeled. The darkness coated the floor, spreading slowly. Kirin reached out and as the ki touched the darkness, he sensed its raw, overpowering emotion.

Death. That was it. Whatever it was sought to nullify the spark, to end all life. It was baffling. All things with emotion carried nuances, but not this: the wave of emotion the darkness sent was complete and singular. There was no anger, no vindication, simply an ungodly will to snuff his and anything nearby’s life-force.

Kirin leapt, jumping to a spot free of the darkness, a clear patch of stone. Then again, and again, getting closer to Vera. But the darkness spread quickly. With his next giant leap, he teetered, nearly touching it then —

Suddenly, the darkness shot out and latched onto his boot. Kirin tried to yank his foot free, but it felt rooted. No… he breathed as the darkness clawed higher, touching his calf, then higher still. Slithering, undulating it coated his leg like a thousand spiders made of ice; and wherever it touched, the frigid numbness deadened his muscles.

Kirin howled in terror and anger. Vera was still half-a-dozen steps away. Too far… Then he remembered. He opened his mind and pictured the leaf. As he had been trained, he threw his rising terror into the floating leaf. Then he took a slow, plodding step. Then another. One leg at a time, stepping through the dark liquid, letting it rise higher, he pushed his way towards Vera. Finally, he reached her.

Vera! He fell to her side, lifting her up and —

Every muscle in his body went rigid, and felt the cold wash of horror down his back.

In Vera’s gut was a sword — stabbed deep into the soft part of her belly as if she’d somehow fallen on the blade then sunk to her knees. Her slender, artful fingers held the sword’s handle in a death grip. As if trying to free it from herself or as if having stabbed herself?

As he touched her, Vera gasped, pulling in a ragged breath and looking up.

Oh gods…

Her skin was pale. Black veins spread across her face and pulsed in her slender neck. Gray knew a poison when he saw it, and whatever evil was inside her was spreading through her body, consuming her life. She wasn’t dead, but she was dying. Worse, the sword’s sharp edge gleamed despite the darkness, coated in blood.

Kirin… she said and blood trickled from her mouth. I don’t… I don’t want to die.

Kirin’s heart hurt at her fearful words and terrified expression. It’s okay, he said softly. It’s going to be okay. You’re not going to die. We just have to get you out of here. I —

But she interrupted him. Vera gripped his shirt with surprising strength, pulling him in. I shouldn’t have done it, Kirin, she said with unexpected conviction. I wanted to see… You can’t blame me though, she said with a bloody, mischievous smirk. It promised me more, Kirin. So much more. At this, her eyes lit with a dark hunger, before she groaned loudly and doubled over, sobbing in pain.

Stop talking, he pleaded. It’s not your fault. I’ll fix this — I swear it. Then his mind began to scan her. His whole body felt numb — his mind distant, almost detached as his Devari training kicked in as a spark of fire takes to a pile of wood shavings.

Devari’s — while they had special abilities — were warriors above all else. And a great warrior knew almost as much about what to do if you sustained a serious injury as about inflicting one. He couldn’t move her, that much he was certain. Her spine could have been injured, and a simple tweak could cause paralysis or worse.

He shut his eyes, redirecting his thoughts.

Stop it! He yelled angrily at his foggy too-slow thoughts. Stop thinking about what you can’t do, and do what you can — knowing that when it came to a serious injury, time was his most valuable currency, second to doing something incredibly stupid and making the injury worse.

If he pulled the blade, it might be blocking some arteries or veins and it could cause a gush of blood to issue forth. He couldn’t leave it there. His mind shouted the obvious answer. He needed to find a Reaver — only they could stitch organs and stop the bleeding. Yes, a two or three, definitely a four-stripe Reaver or any with the talent for the element of flesh could heal her. But he couldn’t move her like this. He needed something, anything to stop the tide of blood that would issue out from her once he removed the blade.

As he was thinking these thoughts, he hadn’t realized he’d been moving. His blade was off his back, now in his hands, and he’d ripped off his cloak. Holding the fabric down with his foot, Kirin cut a long jagged strip from the hem of the cloak. Then he rushed back to Vera. She was no longer sobbing. Instead, she was motionless, head down, chin to her chest, and arms limply hanging at her side — like a puppet with its strings cut. But she still had a pulse. He had no time to debate. He grabbed the hilt to remove it, and pain shot up his arm, bursting inside his skull. His vision went black. But he held on, pulling the sword from her gut. Vera let out a gurgled cough.

At the same time, he felt the darkness reach his torso. The tentacles now engulfed the room.

Voices sounded and five men burst through the open doorway. Two wore shining plate — palace guards; the other three wore the dark brown leather and black mail of Devari, his brothers. Forgha, Mearus… and Ren. They stood in the doorway, eyes wide, swords raised.

Seeing Ren, hope bloomed inside him.

Ren was here. Ren would save him. He would save Vera. Kirin realized every blade was directed at him. He glanced down at the sword in his own hand, covered in Vera’s blood, and understood. It wasn’t me! He looked to his master. Ren, you have to believe me!

The tendrils waved in the air like black snakes waiting to strike. I believe you, Kirin. Now put down your sword and drop the girl.

Ren, please, she’s dying, you have to help! he pleaded, cradling the frail body in one arm. In his hand, the sword seethed, as if eating the light in the already dark room.

Ren’s eyes narrowed. We will, but first you must drop the sword! Don’t you see? Whatever is attached to you and killing Vera stems from that blade. Drop it, and we will save Vera.

But something felt off to Kirin. Ren’s words, and the world around him, seemed fuzzy, as if he was seeing it all through another’s eyes. In his gut, something burned.

In his arms, Vera’s body went slack, and he looked down just in time to watch her breathing slow, and then stop. No… Something came over him. It flowed from the sword and into him, dark and powerful, plying him with promises. He had been weak, pitiful, but this promised something more. Promised to change him. To make him special. There was a presence in the back of his mind and it spoke, not in words, but emotions: I can help.

The sword? Uncertain, tentative, Kirin