AKI:

  I remembered the phantom’s whispers. They danced circles in my mind.

  “Calm yourself,” Sil said.

  “I’m trying.” I struck the work table with two fists. The reinforced wood ignored me. There it was: my anger. My pride, however, refused to heed my summons. “I’ve been trying ever since we started.”

  “There’s no need to rush. It takes time to develop control.”

  I shook my head. She didn’t understand. I had control. Once. And after the voice had spoken to me, I’d regained some measure of it. Now, I had to figure out how to get more. I tried to call forth more pride, only to find more anger take its place. Frustration offered no improvements, and after every failure, my anger grew, and my pride withered.

  Sil took out another blade of grass from a glass jar filled with hundreds. “Try again,” she said, then returned to her practice.

  I closed my eyes. A deep breath pushed back my frustration and allowed me to concentrate. There was something else I could try.

  The task was simple in theory. Draw and use the base matrix for Herbalist extraction. The matrix itself was easy—I’d long since committed it to memory. Drawing it with my sensus was another matter entirely.

  I opened my eyes and let my memory visualize the lines I needed to trace around the blade of grass. My forefinger touched down. Sensus blinked out from my soul too fast to feel or see. I made no effort to stop its violent rush. For it to heed my control, I needed to embrace its nature. My nature. I sketched the symbols of the matrix, trying to keep up with the flow of sensus. And it did, for a time, but my hand slowed, and the lines grew wider, thicker, and brighter. When I knew the lines exceeded the matrix’s tolerance for error, I stopped. There was no point in completing a failure. The more inaccurate a matrix, the more unstable the construct, and the more likely it is to be unsuccessful. Stray too far from the intended structure, and it might do more than fail. It might injure. And so I let my sensus fizzle out.

  “Do not waste your time drawing the matrix by hand,” Master Royce drawled. I looked up. He stood across my worktable, eyes drowsy and bored. “Such practice will not aid your progression, merely invite ridicule.”

  I sighed. “Yes, Master Royce.”

  He smiled at me. Logic told me he meant it as encouragement. My blossoming pessimism assured me it was a show of mockery.

  “Time and effort are the only ways to improve,” Royce said. “Persist, and your efforts shall eventually reward you with mastery.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Done,” Sil said, drawing our attention to another of her successes. That was her fourth. And from how rotten and brittle the lifeless blade of grass appeared, she’d done it well.

  “Excellent,” Master Royce praised.

  I was never one for envy. I think it was because I never encountered an advantage I lacked that was worthy of praise. If anything, I held contempt, not envy, for the benefits the godlings enjoyed; there is something distasteful about enjoying the fruits of another’s labor. It was difficult not to be envious of Sil. Still, I kept trying.

  Except for Master Ackhart’s class—he’d decided to spend another week expanding on theory—the rest of my classes went much the same way. Worse, actually. Master Fuller was incensed. As was I. If there was one Art I hoped to master quickly, it was the Auger Arts, but being a Lorail Fiora with pinnacle harmony seemed to count for naught.

  On our next free day, after a week of stagnation, I convinced Dako to spar with me as he had most nights, hoping to expend my frustrations. I should've known better.

  I swung a swift hook at his ribs. He slipped back, dashed in, and grabbed my throat, seemingly all in a singular motion. I slammed my forearm on the inside of his elbow, hoping to bend his arm, weaken his grip, and pull his face closer. It did none of those things. Instead, he pulled my arm over his shoulder, took my back, and wrapped me in a chokehold. I thrashed against him, flailing.

  “Stop,” Dako said.

  I did. He let me go. I slumped to the ground, tired, breathless, and more frustrated than when we started.

  “You’re a better fighter than most,” Dako said.

  I labored to my feet. “I think not.”

  “In terms of technique and instinct, you could well be a brother of mine. A lack of speed and strength can’t hide your skill from me.”

  “But it does keep me from being a good fighter.”

  “You won’t always be so slow and weak.”

  “Maybe,” I said, unconvinced.

  “If I were the gambling sort, I’d bet on it.”

  I forced a smile. “I don’t think I’m built for strength. That is why I want to study Duros Arts. Without augmenting my physical body…”

  Dako watched me for a moment, an odd look on his face. “Aki?”

  “Yes?”

  “Tell me you’ve noticed.”

  “Noticed what?”

  He looked me up and down.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Aki, you’ve grown half a head taller since we met.”

  “I…” I looked down at myself. Was I taller? I didn’t feel taller. And my clothes still fit. I said as much to Dako.

  “Trust me, you have. Servants have been adjusting your uniform periodically. They’re paid to notice these things.” He grinned sloppily. “Besides, a few extra fingers are but farts in the wind when you spend so much time standing next to me.”

  I barked a laugh. “Who knew you could say so little to tickle me in so many ways.”

  Dako rubbed the back of his head, the gesture unusually sheepish for him. The move seemed both familiar and alien, like seeing the aged face of someone you once knew. “You very well know that none of whatever misconstrued nonsense you’ve thought up is what I meant.”

  “No doubt.” I stretched my shoulder. “Well, shall we continue?”

  “Why? It seems a waste to use the chamber for mere sparing.”

  I frowned. “Is it not meant for sparing?”

  “Not exactly. It’s meant to help you practice Duros Arts. Admittedly, such practice often involves sparing.”

  “How?”

  “The chamber allows those without sensight to see the matrixes you cast. All the other Arts have similar chambers. I’ll show you.”

  Dako shrugged the upper part of his uniform off his shoulders to let it hang from his belt, exposing his barrel of a chest. “Watch.” He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and explained as he demonstrated. “The matrixes of the chamber permeate the air with a special kind of sensus. All you have to do is let it in.” His body glowed. Slowly, the brightness dimmed, leaving behind dull, vaguely translucent skin. “And when you cast a Duros matrix…” Golden lines ran down his neck like streams of honey. Channels broke away into a network of complex matrixes that wove down his torso and arms.

  “A-amazing,” I said, awestruck.

  My friend opened his eyes, grinning. “I am, aren’t I?”

  “Let me give it a try.”

  Sitting cross-legged, I mirrored his actions, letting the ambient sensus suffuce my body. If we were anywhere else, or if someone other than Dako were present—excepting Sil and Knite—I’d never have done so. Protecting yourself from external sensus was second nature to those who practiced the Arts.

  The sensus soothed my aches and hardened my flesh, the whole of me attaining a toughness that promised to make less of injuries. I let out a contented sigh.

  “Pleasant, isn't it?” Dako said. “It does more than make your Duros Arts visible. Now come, let us begin your training in earnest.”

  Our practice didn’t change much. I found I was too unskilled to form the matrixes directly, especially while maintaining the concentration needed to contend with his attacks. We spent some time practicing Reaper Arts but soon returned to sparing without sensus. In the end, he bested me a dozen more times before Sil arrived.

  “I see you’re trouncing poor Aki,” she said, her amusement evident. She was leaning against the door, arms crossed.

  Dako grinned. “What better way to learn how to win than by understanding how to lose.”

  I sat up from the ground. My latest defeat had put me on my back. “At best, losing can teach you how not to lose. That isn't the same as winning.”

  Dako kissed his teeth. “And here I thought I’d finally said something profound enough to avoid commentary.”

  “It isn't without some truth,” Sil said. “Not losing is the foundation victory is built upon.”

  Dako looked at me expectantly.

  I pushed to my feet. “Sil, do you mind coming over? I want to check something.”

  Dako threw his hands up, puffing out a breath. “Nothing? Really? Nothing at all?”

  Sil sauntered over to me. I pulled her closer, and though I already knew, that little part of me that kept me from noticing had no way of denying it then. Where once I stood a hand shorter than Sil, we now faced each other eye to eye. I’d been reluctant to believe it. Being small was a constant in my life, a part of who I was. Matching Sil was nothing of note, but if I kept growing…

  “I told you,” Dako said.

  I nodded. “And so it is. It’s just… I don’t feel any stronger. Doesn’t bigger usually mean stronger?”

  Dako shrugged. “Usually, but hard as it is to believe, you’ve also grown thinner. It has likely offset much of the weight you might’ve gained.”

  I looked down, untucked my sweat-soaked tunic, lifted it to my chest, and rubbed a hand up and down my stomach. “Have I? Seems to me I’m as thin as ever.”

  “Your height is the only explanation for where all that food you’ve been eating has disappeared to,” Sil said.

  I waved her comment away, unwilling to be ribbed once more about my barbaric eating practices. “Anyway, where have you been all day?”

  Sil walked to the center of the chamber and leaned back on the wall, arms crossed, making it clear she had no intention of responding to my query. “Let’s see what the prestigious preparatory academy of Evergreen has taught you. I only caught the tail end of your last bout.”

  I looked at Dako, a quizzical brow raised. He just shrugged and went about readying himself.

  I lasted longer than any of our previous clashes. Much longer. Dako seemed determined to stay on the defensive, forgoing several chances to finish me—and those were just the ones I’d noticed. After a quarter turn, his triumph came by forfeit. For the first time since we started, I dropped to my rear of my own accord, or, more precisely, under the strict instructions of my exhaustion.

  “You were going easy on me,” I said between labored breaths, the accusation in my tone clear despite the distortion of fatigue.

  Dako smirked at me. “And you say not losing can't be the same as winning.”

  I waved him away. “I said it wasn’t the same thing, not that both can’t be true at once nor that one can’t lead to the other.”

  Sil walked over. “Dako?”

  “I know,” he said. “I let it go on so you could see.”

  “See what?” I asked.

  Sil looked me up and down. “Are you sure you’ve only trained in the preparatory academy? You’ve had no other masters?”

  I shrugged. “All I did was learn the basic manual. Nothing—” An image of an elderly woman came to mind. I shook my head and dislodged Diloni from my thoughts.

  Dako kissed his teeth. “Who’d believe that? Yes, your style is limited to the basic martial forms, but the skill with which you execute the movements and all the small nuances you’ve adopted speaks of a mastery that can’t be explained unless you’ve had further instruction. A master’s instruction.”

  Diloni, a master? I thought.

  “Mind if I cut in?” Sil asked.

  Dako nodded. “Be my guest.”

  Sil turned a rascal of a smile my way. “Care to dance?”

  I stood. “With or without sensus?”

  “Without,” she said. “Not fair otherwise.” I held my tongue. Arguing against the truth was a liar’s chore or a fool’s errand. Fail as I might, I always tried my best not to be either.

  Dako walked off to the side. Sil came to stand across me, still wearing a mischievous smile. On another godling, it might’ve seemed cruel, a promissory threat. On her, it was nauseatingly endearing.

  “Go!” Dako said.

  Sil hurled herself at me. I stayed where I was, taking a neutral stance. Her left shoulder nudged forward. I raised a forearm to block. She used the momentum of her feint to turn and go low, her leg sweeping towards my knee. I stepped back and away. Lithe and graceful, she went into another turn, rising like a cyclone. Her blow crashed into my guard. MY forearm groaned in protest.

  It needn’t have. This was a spar, not a fight. A spark of rage, and I attacked.

  My hand struck out, formless and limp. I sacrificed power for speed, and though the blow landed, it did little more than cause Sil to flinch. I threw out more such strikes: An elbow to her temple, a kick to her calf, and five other strikes I got in before the barrage finally caused her to lose her footing and stumble back. I dashed after her, not wanting to let her breathe. More strikes followed, the last of them a low kick where the sole of my foot struck her shin and pushed her leg free from under her. Sil dropped to a knee. Lost in an irrational hunger for victory that had likely been sparked by my outrage, I rushed onwards, summoning the entirety of my meager strength in an effort.

  “Stop!” Dako said, but it was already too late.

  An unstoppable force slammed against me. The tail of its passage flung me across the chamber. I landed on my back. Hard. The force rushed air from my lungs. Every breath waged war with my broken ribs, my chest a battlefield of agony. I gasped until I stole a lungful back. Stars danced in my eyes.

  Dako’s face came into view, hovering over me. “Are you alright?”

  “Yes,” I croaked, blinking away the sparks hounding my sight. Dako helped me sit up.

  Sil ran over, worry written all over her face. “Injuries?”

  “None that the chamber can’t heal,” Dako said.

  “What happened?” I asked, uncomprehending.

  Dako lifted me to my feet. “You both got a little overzealous.”

  I turned to Sil. “You did that?”

  “Who else?” Dako forced cheer into his tone. “You thought it was an act of nature? Well, Sil is, in a manner of speaking…”

  I ignored him and his attempt to lighten the mood, my eyes fixed on Sil.

  “Why?” I asked.

  Sil shrugged. I might’ve attacked her there and then, but for the guilt that kept her from meeting my glare.

  “No one’s at fault,” Dako said, his arm around my shoulders to keep me steady. “As I said, you both got a little overzealous.”

  I shrugged out of Dako’s hold and stepped towards Sil. I stumbled a little, but my anger kept me from falling. “Why?”

  “I’m not used to holding back,” she said. “And when you stood over me, hand raised…”

  “Finish your damn sentence, Sil! There was no need to put so much force into your first attack. There was no need to break our agreement and use sensus, nor so much of it that you nearly caused me injury.” I knew my anger was justified. I also knew its scale wasn't. But the pain reminded me of what I’d escaped, of who I was and where I’d come from, and of what it felt like to be powerless in the face of danger.

  Sil’s face twitched, half a wince. I recognized the expression. And with the recognition, realization dawned. My anger drained away.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  “Sil,” I said, my tone even and calm. At last, she looked up at me, searching my eyes. “I understand.”

  A look of puzzlement crossed her face. “Understand what?”

  “That the past rarely remains in the past.”

  “I’m not sure what you understood, but if you’ve forgiven my misstep, I’m glad.”

  I nodded. “I have.”

  There was no need to speak on it further. I knew how the memory of violence could rankle one’s emotions long after the body had healed.

  We weren't overzealous; we merely bore the sharp edges of a broken childhood.

  ***

  More students than I’d anticipated gathered for the test. But then again, with the second week of mundane lectures looming ever closer, many wished to free themselves of this assessment and, as such, of Jasom and his volatile sermons.

  The cantankerous master of languages entered, struggling under the weight of the papers he carried. With a grunt of effort, he let the heap thud onto his table, his age-spotted hand keeping it from spilling over. He looked about the room, mentally counting our number. A smile crept across his face.

  “Good,” he said. “If you all pass, I’ll be released from the rest of this year's lectures.”

  “We’re the last to take the test?” I whispered.

  “Not much of a surprise,” Dako said. “If you’ve managed to get into The Academy, chances are—”

  Jasom's stare bore into Dako, his hand hovering over his chest where the medallion dangled beneath his robe. “I will now hand out the assessments. Do not turn them over until I permit you to begin. Do not utter a word until you leave this room. You may depart if you finish before the allocated time—three turns for those of you who did not bother to find out.” He pointed at my friends and me, then across the room where Vignil and a Branch sat together. “Separate yourselves. Leave at least two empty seats on either side and one in front and behind. There will be no cheating on my watch.”

  We did as we were told.

  Jasom ambled throughout the room, handing out the assessment papers. When all of them had been distributed, he returned to the front of the room and gestured for us to begin.

  I was the first to finish. One turn, and I was done. Every head turned my way when they heard me stand and walk down the aisle. Most returned to their assessment after a glance. Three did not. Sil’s smile and Dako’s soundless cheer were welcome. Vignil’s vacant stare was not.

  My friends followed closely behind, both finishing shortly after me. We exchanged quiet congratulations before making our way back to the dorms.

  “I take it both of you were ready a month ago,” I said. “Why wait?”

  “For the same reason we haven’t taken the other assessments,” Sil offered.

  “Boredom,” Dako clarified, his grin rendering his answer a jest, though I suspect his answer held a smidgen of truth.

  Sil slapped Dako’s arm. “If Aki hadn't dragged you to the library every other night, I doubt you’d have finished so quickly.”

  Dako shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a Bainan.”

  “So, how did it go?” Sil asked me.

  “Well enough,” I said. “The—”

  My mind froze. Sil and Dako continued to speak. I heard not a word.

  A deceptively sweet-looking child stood leaning against the outer walls of our dorm, watching me. Dako shook me out of my trance. I tore my gaze away from the woman who birthed me.

  “What’s wrong?” Dako asked.

  “N-nothing,” I stuttered. “Go on ahead. I’ll catch up.”

  “Is that wise?” Sil took an exaggerated look around, her gaze passing over the small but noticeable—to me—form of Lorail. “I think it best if one of us stays with you?”

  “Trust me, I’ll be fine.”

  Sil shrugged. “If you say so.”

  Dako stepped closer to me. “No. I go where you go.”

  “Dako,” I said. “Leave.”

  He drew back from the severity of my tone. “But—”

  Sil wrapped her arm around Dako’s and gently pulled him away. “When have you known Aki to lie to us? If he says he’s safe, he’s safe.”

  Unwilling to put his greater strength to the task, Dako failed to resist Sil’s pull. “But—”

  “Or do you not trust him?” Sil released his arm then, knowing the question would crush his resistance. Much like myself, Dako yearned for a worthy recipient of his trust, and thinking he found one, which he had, he was reluctant to pull it back.

  “Be careful,” he said to me, his eyes not leaving mine as he trailed after Sil. “And quick.”

  I watched my friends disappear behind the walls of our dorms, only then turning to face the bane of my life. I bowed, my mind frantically building a wall of innocuous thoughts. “An honor, Your Highness.”

  Space melted, warping the distance between us to a fraction of what it was, reality itself bending to her will and turning twenty strides into one.

  “Son,” Lorail said, the affection in her tone as undeniable as it was untrue, “if there is anyone who deserves my attention, it is you.” She smiled at the unasked question that flittered across my thoughts. “Yes, indeed, I’ve been made aware of your potential. It gladens me to find you possess a greater depth than I supposed—pinnacle in all the Arts. Nothing of the sort has been seen since my youngest brother was born. Impressive.”

  “High praise, coming from such as you, Your Highne—”

  She waved the title away. “Call me ‘mother.’ That is who I am, after all. Your mother.”

  I bowed again. “As you wish, Mother.” I thought calling Kalin ‘Sir’ bothered me. Calling this… being ‘Mother’ sickened me so thoroughly as to shake the fabricated thoughts my mind wore as armor.

  “Tsk, tsk,” she said, wagging her finger. “Careful. You almost lost it there.”

  “Almost seldom counts.” I was cold once more. Indifferent. Detached. It came easier in her presence, my dire need for its stilling grip spurring my motivation.

  “But always telling. I see you are one of those few who hear it speak.” Her ability to sense the slightest fluctuation in my thoughts was uncanny.

  I shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  My cheek stung. The slap made no sound, nor did its passage stir the air. It just came and went without evidence, the pain the only reminder it was ever there.

  Lorail frowned. “Modesty is not a trait I wish you to possess. Discard it.”

  I gave her a slow nod as though my mind's coldness hindered the movement. “As you wish.”

  “Good. Now, how exactly are you planning to escape notice?”

  I looked around. North Guri—the curved road between the mind arenas and the northern half of the dormitories—saw decent traffic. Still, we went unseen. An odd thing considering those whose path led them near us somehow knew to give us a wide berth.

  My other cheek stung. My cold shell almost cracked, curiosity having distracted my concentration.

  “I grow bored of waiting.” Lorail was, being shorter than I, staring up at me. Somehow, it didn’t feel that way.

  I put a hand to my cheek but failed to rub away the pain. “I was told the assessors rarely converse with masters from other Houses.”

  Disappointment wrinkled her face. “My estimation of you is quickly fading. Yes, they rarely talk of students they’ve not yet enticed, but that is not the greatest threat you face—besides me, of course.”

  “I know.”

  The goddess narrowed her eyes and stared intently at me. Cold eyes. Merciless. Piercing. Like unfathomably sharp shards of blue ice. Then, quick as can be, she reforged that dangerously affectionate smile of hers. “You are so very good at that, you know. Not even my oldest could match you. Go on, then. Tell me what it is you think you know.”

  I took a deep breath, concentrating so the thoughts I wished to speak buried those I didn’t. “I know masters often collaborate for research, and a passing remark between them might unravel my secret. I know being seated among the higher tier in every class will set me apart. I know the assessors whose Arts I do not pursue might find my choice suspicious enough to investigate. I know—”

  Lorail started giggling. “Good. You aren't as foolish or na?ve as I’d nearly suspected. Let us return to my earlier question. How exactly are you planning to escape notice?”

  I paused, resisting the urge to squirm. “Well, would it disappoint you to know I have no idea? Not yet.”

  Lorail shrugged. “Not in the least.”

  “Then I have no idea.”

  Her hand rose and gently patted my chest. If she meant to soothe my concerns, she’d failed—only the cold of my indifference kept me from leaping away from her touch.

  “That is why I’m here,” she said.

  Lorail took back her hand and somehow fished a scroll from beneath her tight dress—the blue, lacey thing was entirely inappropriate for a body so young. I reached out and took the scroll, doing my best not to notice the disturbingly sexual way she wielded her boyish figure.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Instructions.”

  “On?” I began to unfurl the parchment.

  “How to obfuscate your harmonies.”

  I looked up from the scroll. “But it’s blank.”

  She shook her head, an amused smile tugging at her lips. “Of course. I’d created it just for you—only your sensus can reveal the scroll’s content.”

  I tested her claim. Lo and behold, a matrix diagram burned into view, complex and elegant, with a beauty and symmetry akin to art.

  I looked back up and almost forgot why I did. Lorail was gone, leaving behind a nagging feeling that kept telling me she was never there. I shooed the pesky thought away. Collecting myself and releasing the frantic grip I held on my mental defenses, I turned and headed to the dorms.

  Dako waited for me by the gate. “So?” he asked. And after a stretch of silence threatened to make the situation awkward, he added, “I see. Another tale for another time, then. Come, Sil is waiting for us in your room.”

  “Who were they?” Sil asked as we entered.

  Dako settled on the bed, the only place he could sit comfortably. “Who?”

  Sil was silent, her eyes not leaving mine.

  “You saw?” I pulled the chair from underneath her desk, turned towards the pair, and sat down. “How? No one else did.”

  “I didn’t see,” she said, smirking. “I deduced.”

  I sighed. “And now you know for certain. Clever.”

  “I’m nothing if not clever.” Her self-praise lacked the arrogant tone of a boast. “If you thought no one would dare attack you, it stands to reason there was someone there to make sure of it.”

  “Combat or matrixes?” I asked, changing the subject. Refusing my friends the answers they sought was quickly becoming an unpleasant but necessary reoccurrence.

  “So you’re asking us to choose between fun and torture?” Dako asked. “I vote for fun. After the sludge of tedium we’ve crawled through this past week, I reckon we deserve some fun.”

  “I half suspect the fun you speak of is spending the night battering me black and blue.”

  Dako grinned. “A little. The chamber’s healing makes it a worthy challenge. But seriously, you’ve become a rather competent opponent of late.” He waved an arm up and down my length. “In no small part due to your body finally doing its utmost to catch up to your age.”

  I stood. “Well, I’ve got to make a quick trip to my room. I’ll meet in the refectory. We can go to the Duros chambers from there.”

  As soon as the door closed behind me, I rushed to my room. Thankfully, late afternoons on free days saw to it that my path was empty of students—there were too many places to go and things to do in The Academy for them to waste time in the dorms.

  The letter was where I’d left it. I pulled on my desk drawer, raised the false bottom I’d carved from a large cut of firewood one of the servants helped me find, and took out the folded paper. Hesitantly at first, but soon in its more natural rush, sensus infused the expensive parchment, lighting up two lines of text:

  ‘If you require guidance, confide in Brittle kin Bainan. If you require aid, seek out Illora kin Lira.’

  I stared dumbfounded. I’d met the first and knew from the second’s name that Knite’s advice was poor. Was the letter fake? Unlikely. No one knew enough to set such a trap. Was Knite mistaken? Doubtful. If he was anything like Merkus, the only mistakes he tended to make were those he’d made on purpose. Then how? How did he recruit his enemies’ daughters, one a Fiora, a Leaf, the other a Seculor, a granddaughter of Lorail?

  Exactly, I thought. Weren't Knite’s enemies linked to him by blood? Weren't mine? Then the question is not who but why. What drove the greatest Pondus alive and a daughter of House Lorail into aligning with The Dark Prince?

  Ultimately, I came to the only conclusion I could: I trusted Knite. So, trusting him, I burned the letter but kept the words they held in mind.

  ***

  Dako threw a fist at me. I knew it was coming. His cocked shoulder, drawn elbow, and rotated waist made his intention known. Seeing it coming didn’t help any.

  I threw up my forearms, bone, muscle, and skin clumsily hardened with Duros Arts. Dako had been going for my face more often of late, forcing me to split my concentration—two localized matrixes were barely within range of my capabilities.

  The blow, seeming to ignore my defensive matrix, nearly broke my arm, creaking the bone to its limit and flinging me back. I landed well enough, a push on the floor with my good arm leading me into a somersault. But then, flinching as the jolt of pain from landing urged me to clutch my injured arm to my chest, I faltered. Dako’s fist was an inch away from my nose before I had the time to recover.

  “Huhuhu.” Dako’s laughter was insincere, meant to anger me, to force me to make mistakes. I knew, yet I couldn't help but let him. The man had a way of getting under my skin without seeming to know how. He wasn't subtle or incisive, and there was little malice in his jibes, yet I found myself susceptible to all his ungainly attempts to unbalance my concentration.

  Despite the pain, I leaped to my feet and rushed at him. Dako glided out of my way, delivering an open-handed blow to the back of my neck. I collapsed. The world lost clarity. I heard myself moan. I blinked away the pain and tried to stand.

  “You’ve got the skill,” Dako said, “and soon you’ll have the strength and speed, but that anger of yours…”

  I got up to my hands and knees, then punched the floor in frustration, grunting when the pain in my hand flared back to life. “I know.”

  “Good,” he said. “Fix it.”

  Sil walked over from where she watched us. “How about a break?”

  I rolled over and sat cross-legged. “Yes, a break.”

  “Cooler heads almost always prevail,” Dako said. “You must learn to control your anger, to isolate it from influencing your actions.”

  I sighed and rubbed the back of my neck. The ache was already disappearing. “I used to have a grip on my emotions, but now…”

  Sil sat beside me. “What's changed?”

  “I have.”

  “Then change back.”

  I laughed. She made it sound so easy. “Even if I could, I’m not sure I’d be willing.”

  “Why?”

  “It would mean losing my potential.”

  “Potential?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see,” Sil said. She had started to recognize when her line of questioning was digging deeper than I wanted it to.

  Heavy breaths slowed my heart and gave me the calm I sought, lessening the flame of my anger. It was always lit now, always ready to transform into an inferno. That thought stoked the flame further, forcing me to flee to other matters before the spark erupted into a blaze.

  “Do either of you know Illora kin Lira?” I asked, my fleeing mind blundering into matters best left unshared.

  Dako, who’d joined us to form a loose circle, leaned back on outstretched arms. “I don’t often have reasons to mingle with godlings from House Lorail. If anything, I’ve plenty not to.” He spat on the ground. “Those soul-burrowing snakes are a loathsome lot.”

  “I do,” Sil said. “A little.”

  “What can you tell me of her?” I asked.

  Sil shrugged. “Not much. She’s granddaughter to Lorail by way of The Slavemaster, Lira. If the rumors are accurate, she’s a talented Telum and, like her mother, a prodigy in Tunneling.”

  “Ah, her,” Dako exclaimed. “I know a little.”

  “How?” Sil asked, one perfect eyebrow arched. “Third years generally live in the Southern dorms.”

  “Wait.” I held my hands up. “She’s a student?” Sil and Dako turned to me, a little surprised.

  “Yes.” From the look in Sil’s eyes, I was about to endure another string of questions. “You didn’t know? How exactly did you come by her name?”

  I ignored her questions. It was the quickest way to cut the string short. “Tell me of her,” I said to Dako.

  Dako tilted his head. “There’s not much I can add to what Sil’s already told you. She’s a better Telum than most, better than some of those I’ve faced from House Grono, and out of the twenty or so Tunnellers who’d visited the compound to test our mental defenses, she was by far the most powerful.”

  I stood and tested my injuries with a few stretches.

  “Care to tell us why she interests you?” Sil asked. Maybe I’m wrong about her knowing when to stop, I thought.

  “Another round before we retire for the night?” I asked Dako.

  Sil stood and watched me, her blank expression hiding frustration. I noticed she was shorter than me now, the top of her scalp only reaching some point along the height of my forehead. Sil noticed, too.

  Dako lumbered to his feet and rolled his shoulders. “Why not?”

  ***

  No one could defeat me. A part of me was proud. A more foreign but burgeoning part thought it was to be expected.

  Master Fuller had paired us off to practice our defense. My first partner was a dark-haired Root. Michel was her name. She was initially timid; my pale features had her thinking I was a Branch. Recognition ruined that.

  We sat across each other, our backsides resting on our heels. Beneath us were soft mats made of some flexible plant matter. Scores more of these mats were arrayed about the room, each bearing the weight of a student.

  “I’ll go first,” my opponent said, and before I could agree, she came for me.

  My defense barely went up in time. I waited for the intrusion. Then I waited some more. The pressure was there, pushing against the bundle of sensus I’d hastily erected, but where I expected the pressure to mount, to dig further, to penetrate, it remained outside my defenses, unable or unwilling to invade.

  “So it’s true,” she said, ceasing her attempts. “You’re a cast-off.”

  Anger came to me, swift and hot, and I responded in kind. My sensus lashed out. If the violent thing had one redeeming quality, speed was it—speed, volume, and purity. A thick whip of sensus latched onto her naked nape. Michel squealed in surprise.

  I don’t know what I had expected. My only thought, so bright with anger that no other could compete for my attention, was to punish, to teach the bitch the folly of arrogance. I had certainly not expected to penetrate her soul so easily nor planned for what to do if and once I had.

  My sensus came in like uncontrolled chaos, spreading wherever there was metaphysical space to spread. Rocked by the force of my invasion, the Root leaned back, then slumped forward, unconscious.

  I felt more than I saw. Understood more than I knew. Broken pieces of who Michel was came to me: Her father was a native whose family had built a merchant empire with the contacts he and his ancestors had fostered during their long history in Evergreen; she loved fruit, the sweeter, the better; a younger brother, useless and spoiled; a mother more cold than cruel, lost to endless bouts of intoxication. I felt my sensus sink deeper. She was a Root. I had known this, but I hadn't understood. The pressure of her father’s hopes, her brother’s jealousy, the—

  Something yanked back my sensus. It recoiled and slapped my consciousness back into me. My eyes drew open. The Root had collapsed. Master Fuller stood over her, trying his best to hide his smile.

  “The exercise is to break her defense, not to rampage through what she is defending,” he said.

  I bowed my head. “Apologies, Master.”

  He glanced down at the unconscious form of the Root. “Well then, we’ll have to find you a new partner.”

  Servants came and carried the Root away, likely to the infirmary. A familiar face took her place.

  Edon smiled at me, the expression strained. “It’s been a while.”

  I shrugged noncommittally. “I suppose so.”

  He frowned. “If I could’ve helped…”

  “There’s no need to explain.”

  “I suppose if anyone would understand, it’d be you.”

  I shook my head, making plain my disagreement. Just because I understood didn’t mean I approved.

  Sensing my disapproval, Edon said, “First Froxil, and then Vignil, both of who are of my House and line. You must see—”

  “I understand.”

  “But you—”

  “Let's begin.”

  Edon sat, jaw clenched. “Very well. Would you like to go first?”

  “You may.”

  He smiled, and I almost forgave him for his betrayal. Recollections of our time in the preparatory academy came forth. Their number constituted the bulk of what I held in my scarce repository of pleasant memories. But then I remembered his willingness to throw away our friendship, and the felicity of our time in the preparatory academy only served to cut me deeper.

  “I’ll be gentle,” Edon said. Those words served to burn away the last of my urge to pardon him.

  True to his promise, Edon was gentle, even when trying not to be. I felt little of his efforts despite his apparent exertion. The pressure was there, more than the Root’s, but not so much as to worry me.

  “Gods, Aki,” Edon said. “If I didn’t know you better—”

  “Are you ready?”

  With a sigh, Edon closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and retrieved his sensus to build his defenses. “Yes.”

  His resistance crumpled in an instant. What little control I had made sure I didn’t recklessly delve too far, not as I’d done with the Root, but it was enough to see, to sense the shame at the forefront of his thoughts. I was about to retreat when more of him brushed past, the chaos of his soul shifting new parts of him into the small space my intruding sensus occupied: The insidious pain caused by a dismissive mother, her every word a token of her disappointment; the simmering anger and frustration of being underestimated; the nagging regret of having to hide his abilities; the pleasure of why he did. I flinched. There was a darkness to that last fragment, filled with a malevolence I’d never have associated with my old friend. It piqued my interest.

  I went a little deeper.

  “No!”

  Edon’s sudden cry drove me out of his soul, more from shock than force. What was I doing? I had always feared becoming my father, indulging the limits of my station, but the horrible possibility of being beguiled by the nature of power had never occurred to me. Not until now. Not until I so casually decided to invade his soul. Edon’s soul. Someone I’d once called a friend. Belatedly, I realized I’d violated that dark-haired Root and thought nothing of it. There was a part of me giddy with levying out that violation, a part that rejoiced in meting out what I considered due punishment.

  “Again?” Master Fuller asked.

  I paid him little mind; a haggard Edon watched me. There was a look in his eyes, some hard emotion far removed from the tentative hand of friendship he’d approached me with. He climbed to his feet, gave me a withering stare, and stalked off without a word, fighting for balance as he did. I stared after him, ashamed of myself.

  My third partner, who’d elected herself as such, was a Lorail Seculor—besides me, Fioras from House Lorail always came from Halor and wouldn't be in my dorms. I didn’t recognize her, but in a class of over a hundred, there were bound to be a few I’d not yet seen. Tall and thin and fragile, she still struck me as deadly. It was in her calmness, her surety, the way she wore her fragility like a weapon, a trap to ensnare unsuspecting fools.

  She came and sat across me. Master Fuller, who’d chosen to stay and observe, jerked like he was resisting an impulse.

  “So,” the Seculor said. “Shall we begin?”

  I nodded, numb with the guilt of being my mother’s son.

  “Please do not cause injury, Illora,” Master Fuller said, unusually polite.

  My eyes widened. Illora’s narrowed in response.

  “Leave,” she commanded, a whisper, quiet and sure. It was clear she wasn’t talking to me. And as though he had to wrestle free from the idea, Master Fuller nearly did as instructed, taking a few steps back before unshackling the urge to obey.

  “You’re Illora kin Lira?” I asked, stealing her attention.

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know him?”

  A dainty crescent of pearly teeth adorned her face, a playfully wicked thing that’d strip the apathy from the most stolid of men. “He’s… an employer of sorts. And you?”

  “A friend.”

  Illora barked a laugh. “Not likely. The man has no friends. The closest thing to a friend he has is a crazed cousin of mine, and I hear that is because her brand of insanity amuses him.” She looked toward Fuller like she wanted to share more but couldn’t.

  “You’ve met him?” I asked.

  “I have.”

  “Then you know he’s not at all like they say he is.” I’d taken the opportunity to peruse the library for mention of him. If he were anything like the man portrayed in the libraries, I’d fear the man, the god. Maybe I did. Maybe I should.

  Illora shrugged. “In some ways.”

  She tried for my soul then. Her attack lacked a matrix to give it direction, the same blunt sort we, as first-cycle students, were practicing. Still, it packed a far greater force than Edon and the Root offered, even combined.

  “Ah,” Illora said, then in a much quieter voice, “a fellow pinnacle.” I felt the hum of a complex matrix being weaved.

  “Stop.” Master Fuller's delicate voice suddenly became far more assertive.

  “Did I not tell you to leave,” Illora said.

  A furious Master Fuller grabbed her wrist, wrenched her to her feet, and leaned in as he pulled her closer. Softly, soft enough not to be overheard by the mass of students who’d noticed his sudden and near-violent action, he said, “I serve House Lorail. Try for him again, and in the name of my master, I’ll serve you death.”

  Illora pulled back and stared into his eyes, shocked. “You serve my grandmother? Directly?”

  Master Fuller gave her the faintest of nods. “As we of our House all do, in one way or another.”

  A tense breath or two passed before Illora took her eyes off Master Fuller, turned to me, and said, “We will speak again.”