AKI:

  Master Ekolise stood before our diminished group early on the first day of Spring. The pitter-patter of heavy rain echoed quietly in the large dining hall, a quiet growl reverberating across the lofty space. All were present, forty-three out of the hundred-and-twenty we started with a cycle of seasons ago. Not even the Leaves were given leave to abscond our introduction into the second year.

  “Good day,” the olive-skinned master began. Dark clouds observed us through the tall windows behind him as if in disagreement. “First, let me congratulate you all for reaching your second cycle here at The Academy. It is by no means a trivial accomplishment, and doubly so since most of you have an inkling of how dangerous your stay here will be hereafter. Now, I trust you have all had your fill?” In answer, eating utensils clattered onto plates, and half-empty mugs thunked down on tables. “Good.”

  A dwarfish Root emerged from a side door leading to the servant quarters, a stack of papers in hand. Methodically, slumped in that way Roots slumped when in the presence of Branches, he approached each of us, asked for our names in a voice softened to the depths of obsequience, leafed through the documents, and handed us one each.

  “On your personalized sheets,” Ekolise said, “you will find a comprehensive list of the classes available to you along with their respective schedules, locations, and recommended reading materials. Your marks have been attuned to allow or block entry to these classes. I insist you avoid trespassing into any you’ve not qualified for. Attendance is voluntary. Second-cycle classes are not segregated by dorms, and several masters will be present to accommodate the larger number of students. My fellow Masters and I serve two purposes— to provide personal guidance in the practical application of the Art and to address whatever queries you’ve extracted from any lingering ignorance the cornucopia of reading material has not cured you of. Instead of examinations, your admittance to the third cycle has but one requirement—survival.”

  Ekolise fell quiet in acknowledgment of the students’ eagerness to peruse their sheets. Excited exclamations and hushed discussions quickly filled the room. I glimpsed at my sheet and found, as expected, various classes for Alchemical and Auger Arts.

  Dako stood abruptly, a spark of triumph glowing about him. “I got it!”

  “Of course you did,” I said. “Besides having already been told so, your harmony is on par with most Seculors of House Grono.”

  Dako grinned back at me. “But I more than passed, Aki. In one cycle, I learned enough to merit specialization.”

  “Sit down, you oaf.” Sil crumpled her sheet into a tight ball.

  “Come now, Sil,” I said. “You do not wear jealousy well.”

  Sil's frown deepened. “Who does?”

  Dako settled back into his seat, his jubilant expression marred by a touch of guilt. But despite his desire to appease Sil's discontent, his overwhelming joy proved challenging to suppress—the grin he was struggling to wrench off his face did not budge. “What need have you of another Art? Only the weaker godlings try to diversify their abilities. When you have the gift of Meaning, there is little point to pursuing anything else.”

  Sil averted her gaze, her tight lips hinting at a secret or admission that would silence Dako and me. “Then consider yourself weak.”

  “Harsh,” Wiltos said. He’d begun to keep our company since our first cycle ended. Like us, he’d chosen to stay rather than return home. I suspected the thought of facing his family after the loss of his sister was too daunting a prospect.

  Dako held up his hands, leaning back as though dodging a blow. “I meant nothing by it, Sil. And remember,”—he waved a hand up and down his sheet—“no matter what it says here, my choices are set. And like you, there’s little I can do about it.”

  Sil sighed. “I know, I know. Ignore me. It’s just—”

  “I trust you’ve all had enough time to confirm what you already knew.” Ekolise’s accented voice muzzled all but the soft drumming of the rain. “Let us get back to more important matters. There will be two factors determining your continued enrollment.

  “Firstly, you will need coin. Your stay here is no longer free. The cost of your education itself is deferred to the day you graduate, whereupon you will be asked to settle the balance. Until then, you must pay The Academy for room and board at the end of every moon cycle. Anyone who fails to do so in time will be compelled to provide an indentured service to The Academy. Be warned, ninety-nine of every hundred die before accomplishing their allocated task. I suggest you swiftly accumulate enough to cover the cost of living at the start of every moon cycle and then limit the capital you spend to whatever surplus you manage to scrounge together.

  “There are many ways to earn coin. Almost all are open to you, so long as they are earned legitimately and not borrowed, stolen, or provided for by another. You may undertake missions listed by The Academy, engage in hunts for the city's Research Institute, participate in Colosseum battles, create and sell Alchemical tonics or Aedificator contraptions, find work in the enforcers' division of the Admin Institute, or various other viable means. Your options are myriad.

  “Besides coin, you will need strength. Whatever wing of the RAW Institutes you aspire to join upon graduating, you must survive trials of combat. Six rules govern these bouts. Firstly, no challenge can occur between students from different years unless authorized by a master and accepted by the younger of the two combatants. Secondly, all students must fulfill one offered and one accepted challenge per lunar cycle, meaning you are obliged to participate in two bouts every month. Further to this rule, you may only refuse two challenges per month. Thirdly, battles between members of the same faction do not contribute to your monthly quota, nor do they count toward your official record. Four—” Several hands rose, prompting Ekolise to pause. The master motioned for them to lower their hands. “I will explain factions shortly. Now, the fourth rule stipulates that all bouts are limited to mundane weapons. If you wish to use sensus-made or matrix-infused weapons, you must fund or create said weapon yourself. Five, you may surrender, but so too may your opponent refuse your surrender. Lastly, if your ratio of wins to losses falls below three to one for more than three battles, you will be charged a year's tuition plus an additional year for every subsequent loss. A victory will reset your ratio, but the incurred debt will remain. Note that these costs will not be deferred and must be paid at the end of the lunar cycle.

  “Now, factions. Though all your predecessors—and you yourselves soon enough—tend to assign specifics to the concept, your faction simply includes any student you are unwilling to kill. This will be assessed by the ancient soul Lorail had long ago infused into The Academy’s battle arenas. Do not try to trick the being. I doubt you’d succeed where Auger Masters have failed.

  “Finally, regarding assigned rooms. This dormitory has, as of now, been designated a second-cycle dormitory. Two changes accompany this reassignment. You may, upon request, change the Aedificator matrixes to enlarge or combine several rooms into one living courter, meaning cohabitation is now permissible. Also, all second-cycle dorms are open to all second-cycle students, given space is available and the required request has been made. Alternatively, and if you are skilled enough to amass sufficient wealth, you may rent one of the houses near the Market District of the city or one of the private residences north of The Academy’s Leisure Quarter.

  “That is all.”

  ***

  “Must the world wake with you, Dako?” Sil walked into the common room we’d configured into the center of our newly conjoined apartments, her damp hair still damp. She rubbed at her eyes, though we all knew she’d bathed, and the process had doubtlessly washed away the drowsiness Dako’s early clangor had exacted.

  “You ought to thank me.” Dako laid out a breakfast of meats he’d procured from the refectory on a new dining table. He’d fashioned the overly embellished table and chairs from log to timber to furniture, all in service to his newfound penchant for delicate crafts. “I’ll be saving you days worth by year’s end.”

  Sil ran a flameless Ignis matrix over her head, drying and straightening her hair until it dropped flawlessly around her shoulders in a stream. “You’ll turn me into a sleep-deprived, mumbling idiot by week's end if you persist.”

  Wiltos shrugged. “Sleep is overrated.”

  Dako slapped the much smaller boy on the back. “Words of wisdom.”

  “Because they support your absurd reasoning?” Sil asked.

  “Because they came from Wiltos here, of course. Besides Aki, who still shies away from confronting your ideas as often as I’d like, he is the most learned among us.”

  “Smarter than you by a genius or two, I’d wager,” Sil quipped.

  “Bouts,” I said. Silence struck. A heaviness born of gravity, of grave matters concerning life and death.

  “Bouts,” my friends echoed in unison.

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  “They’ll come for me today.”

  “For us both,” Wiltos said.

  Dako nodded. “They’ll send Froxil for you, Aki. He is not your match. You could beat him hogtied and blindfolded. And Hunder’s kin are failures. You may well find yourself the better of whoever cares enough to action his demise, Wiltos.”

  Wiltos and I nodded, but the contemplative look he mirrored back to me meant we shared a healthy dose of skepticism. Our breakfast was empty of words and full of thoughts.

  ***

  They were waiting for me in the courtyard. Vignil was at the head of their group; Froxil, Edon, and the rest of his band of merry killers arrayed behind him. The man himself was straight-faced. Calm. Bored. Almost serene.

  His confidence chilled me.

  “The time has come,” Vignal said. He placed a hand on Froxil’s back and sent him forward.

  Froxil stepped up to me, his gauntleted fists beating against each other, armored knuckles to armored knuckles. “I, Froxil kin Yabiskus, challenge you, Aki au Farian. Do you accept?”

  A moment of silence enveloped us. Dako’s hand gripped my shoulder. I breathed in deeply. Sil stepped up beside me, her arm brushing against mine, a gentle reminder that she stood with me. Even Wiltos, who shook with fear and seemed on the precipice of flight, had enough in him to glare back at the group of godlings.

  “Must we?” I asked.

  “We must.” Vignil remained unperturbed, as if his shrewd calculations had long ago foreseen current happenings.

  “For an act so small and unintentional?”

  “For the sanctity of my station.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “I suggest you do not.” Vignil indicated over his shoulder. “Samiel here is ready to offer you the second challenge.” The rat-faced Leaf leaned out of the small crowd and waved to me, all smiles. “And if you refuse him, you’ll find yourself facing me with no avenue of escape. Trust that making me challenge the likes of you will earn you an apt reward.”

  “Careful,” Dako said. “You’re sounding suspiciously like a Lorail.”

  Something rippled across the tranquil surface of Vignil’s face. “Brother or not, Leaf candidate or not, insult me again, and you will die this day. Our father would forgive me once he’s told of how gravely you offended me.”

  I leaned in to whisper in Dako’s ear. “What are you doing?”

  “Better I face him than you.”

  “I will not have you fight my battles.” I turned back to Vignil. “And if I so happen to defeat Froxil?”

  “A fight does not end when one party’s spare weapon fails.”

  “Well then,” I said, “I might just as well break this spare weapon of yours and take it out of our battle entirely.” I turned to Froxil. “I, Aki au Farian, accept your challenge.”

  The dueling courts bustled with activity, buzzing with cries and celebrations. A chance to settle rivalries and play games of power had driven students here before the sun birthed a new dawn. The opportunity to assess their competitors and enjoy a show of blood drove in more. All thirty-six platforms were in use, the spaces between them packed with hollering and hooting spectators. Amid the crowd of students, servants ran to and fro, organizing battles, clearing the dead off the platforms, or rushing the injured to the infirmary.

  Froxil approached one of the organizers. It was his duty as the challenger to request a dueling court. They shared a brief exchange, after which Froxil led us to a corner platform. The others merged with the surrounding crowd of onlookers. The Seculor boy and I joined the queue as a fresh duel commenced. Two pairs of students stood ahead of us.

  “In three fights, you die,” Froxil jeered, his voice giddy with anticipation.

  I kept my gaze fixed on the two combatants on stage. One was a short and sinewy Root, maybe a Bark or Heartwood, though unlikely; obedience, which the boy wore without thought, was more ingrained in Roots—having more intimately witnessed the might and vindictiveness of godlings, few had the heart to oppose them. His opponent was a statuesque woman, long-limbed, more handsome than pretty. A Bainan, if I had to guess. A Tripler. Her opponent barely reached the crest of her abdomen, seeming like a child. Most godlings were taller than commoners, but their extremes exaggerated the contrast. The Root appeared undeterred by the difference, his focus consumed by the Tripler.

  He lost. She was, in fact, an Auger. I knew because the boy lifted his sword the moment the duel began, but instead of raising it to attack, he stood, poised to slit his own throat.

  “Yield or die,” the girl said. In my eyes, she was no longer handsome, this sister of mine—or, more likely, niece. Only ugliness remained as she reveled in invading the man’s soul and turning him into a grudging puppet.

  A tear streaked down the boy's cheek, the fight in him broken. Sobs accompanied his submission. I gritted my teeth when she forced the boy to kneel and kiss the ground.

  The following pair of combatants were both godlings. One carried an oversized hammer chiseled with Aedificator matrixes. How he had obtained the funds and time to craft such a weapon was beyond me, but he had. The other boy, a Zephyr, his hair and clothes fluttering under a wind no one else suffered, carried a pair of wicked twin swords mundane in origin. The godlings were evenly matched for a time, but ultimately, the Zephyr severed the fingers gripping the colossal hammer, disarming his Telum adversary. The larger boy surrendered the moment he lost grasp of his weapon. I doubt the Zephyr would’ve acknowledged his resignation if his opponent was a Root. But then again, he was of House Manar; he might’ve.

  The third match was between a reluctant Root and an excited Alchemist. A single bite from the venomous fangs the godling had adopted sent the Root to her knees. She died soon after. Horribly. Her screams sang a lengthy song of agony only the soul could interpret. All the while, the Alchemist studied his victim, noting the effects of his work.

  Our turn came. Not a speck of worry stained my thoughts. Anger ruled. My gaze lingered on the lifeless body of the unfortunate girl as a servant dragged her away to whatever abyss The Academy threw its countless dead into. Someone nudged me from behind. I glanced back. The godlings next in line nodded toward the stage. I looked. Froxil stood in the arena, waiting, a smug smile adorning his face. I hadn't noticed him leave my side. Seething, I stepped forward. Bloodstains marked my path, its life corroded into a brownish rust. How many Roots had died? How many had endured humiliation? How many cradled their stillborn hopes?

  Froxil’s scar contorted to allow his vicious smile. But then he noticed the way my eyes traced the blemish’s course around his cheekbone, saw my lips tighten into a snarl, saw them quiver with anger, and knew whatever victory he was expecting, whatever fear he thought I harbored, did not exist. The tension in Froxil’s scar bled into other parts of him, growing as it went.

  The servant dropped the flag to commence the duel. Froxil didn’t hesitate. He pounced at me, the erratic frenzy of his sudden assault driven by panic.

  Dako was wrong; Froxil had prepared. My sensus hit an impregnable barrier. A glimmer of metal caught my eye, hidden beneath his collar. I was forced to dodge before I got a good look at the defensive trinket.

  Reflexes honed through countless practice sessions with Dako had me react without thought. My mind entered a trance. I deflected his strike and retaliated. He stumbled back. An opportunity, thought the killer in me, the warrior I’d honed into a weapon, into a transient persona personified by an instinct honed by repetition and battle. I pressed onwards, my attacks flowing into each other, refusing Froxil a reprieve. He stumbled back, balance faltering evermore, his arms flailing in a desperate attempt to regain control. I threw a fist at his unprotected chest. All the correct muscles synergized, from those controlling the twist of my feet and hips to those snapping my arm forward. The joint and fingers of my arm hardened. Bone covered my knuckles in a protective casing. Muscles were preternaturally contracted. Tendons tightened.

  I connected.

  Froxil stared at me. I stared back. My eyes trailed down to see my arm buried in his chest. I pulled it back, feeling pulverized flesh slide and broken bones scrape. He staggered but remained on his feet. Blank faces stared at me through the bloody cavity I’d made.

  A roar of a hundred voices erupted. Roots cheered. They took pleasure in witnessing the demise of a godling. So did most godlings. Those outside our dorms thought of me as one of their own. If they knew I was merely a Heartwood…

  Froxil crumpled, his eyes vacant.

  I scanned the crowd. My friends stood beside my enemies. Dako's lips were pressed into a line of worry. Sil was shaking her head. Wiltos stared wide-eyed. Vignil observed me with a calculating gaze, his mind working behind his impassive exterior. Samiel, with his unsettling smile, regarded me as if I were a fascinating specimen he yearned to study. Edon watched me as if I were a stranger.

  I ran.

  My feet pounded against the ground as I raced toward the safety of the dorms, jostling past the crowd. Scenes blurred past me; I was augmenting my legs without thought, without effort, and despite the restrictions of my mark. Finally, I reached the solace of my room and slammed the door shut behind me. Time seemed to warp as I caught my breath.

  A knock came at my door.

  “Aki?” It was Dako. “Aki, can I come in?”

  I did not respond. The door creaked open. I sat on the edge of my bed, fragmented thoughts consuming my mind. One stood out.

  “They know,” I said.

  “They suspect.” Dako sat down beside me.

  “What am I to do?”

  “Pay the price.”

  I looked at him, a flicker of anger igniting within me. The worry I had seen in Dako's eyes was gone. That angered me more. “You’ve counted me dead, haven't you? You think me weak? You think they can stop me?”

  “Aki,” he said, his tone soft. Understanding. Aggravating. “You did not flee from them.”

  Suddenly, my anger was gone. No, not gone, just redirected toward its rightful place: Myself. I’d run. I’d run like the fearful little Mud rat I was. I’m still useless, I thought. Still his son. Still—

  “What did you do?” Dako asked, breaking me out of my self-recrimination. It wasn’t an accusation.

  “What do you mean?”

  Dako nodded at my bloody arm. “What did you do?”

  I splayed and then curled my fingers. Flakes of brown-red cracked and floated off my hand. The blood had dried. How much time has passed?

  “I killed Froxil,” I said

  “What is he?”

  “A miscreant?” I tried.

  “Yes, that too. But what is he? What is his father? What is his father’s father?”

  I saw where he was going and said, “Froxil is a godling. A Seculor.”

  “How did you kill him?”

  Memories of the battle flashed before my eyes. “Swiftly.”

  “And so, who exactly did you run from?”

  “I ran from Vignil.”

  “No, Aki, you didn’t. What did you run from? I was watching you. Whose face caused you to run?”

  “Edon’s,” I whispered. “He looked at me like…”

  “Yes. So, what did you run from?”

  “I ran from becoming the very thing I hate.”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought I’d dealt with this?”

  “No,” Dako said. “You thought you had banished it, but this fear cannot be so easily dismissed—shouldn’t be so easily dismissed. You have embarked on a journey to claim your freedom, and freedom always exacts a price. This fear, my friend, is one of the costs you must bear, for gaining power always brings the chance for corruption. Have you not wondered why so many of our kin are the way they are? Hard as it is to believe, there was a time when Vignil was my friend. More than that, he was… not who he is today. He was… better. Kinder. Power, or the promise of it, took that from him, and he is less for it. We—you and Sil and I, and even Wiltos, maybe even Malorey and Illora—seek the same power, just for different reasons. We must be careful as we tread our paths because it is easy to fall into the sweetness of power, of freedom, so deep as to leave ours and enter another’s, strip from them what we ourselves seek. Do not fall, Aki. Please. If not for you, then for me. I do not wish to bear another loss, to make another friend an enemy.”

  I nodded mutely, the glassy shine of my friend’s eyes pulling me back to sanity. He was right. Not entirely, for I was not seeking freedom as much as I was seeking revenge, but he was right. It seemed my pride was not enough to eclipse everything else I was. Nor was my fear. Not with Dako at my back. Not with the weight of the silent promise I’d just made.