A Night in Silence (Short Story / Prologue)

LEVORIAN SLIPPED THROUGH THE OPEN WINDOW. The small latch keeping it locked had proved fruitless when it popped under a little pressure from his pick. He placed a toe on the marble tile of the Hold, then followed with the rest of his foot.

He waited the space of a breath, then closed the window behind him. It took a few silent strides to cross the small sitting room. Levorian chose this room for a reason: there was only one door.

All the bedrooms in this Hold were all on the second floor, but tripping a second story window invited more risk than he was willing to take. By starting in the seating room, he could get a measure of the place and make a hasty exit if he must.

He pressed his back against the wall next to the single oak door leading from the room and listened. A single moon was high in the sky—nearly full, the last time he checked. Nights like these were not good for sneaking into a place, but little could be done for that; he was already in.

The Hold was quiet.

Levorian stayed pressed against the wall another twenty breaths to give any curious listeners time to return to their dreams. He turned the door handle and pushed slowly. The room beyond was dark and quiet; he walked inside on the balls of his feet.

A large dark stairwell took up the center of the foyer. Two doors stood to either side of it, a pair of doors were opposite it, and a final one was tucked into the corner across from Levorian. He left his door ajar.

He spent twenty breaths at each door, listening. It was a patient business, but no hard thing was done without a little waiting. As he listened at the third door, counting his breaths, he was keenly aware of the beat of his heart. In such a large, quiet room, it was the only noise. Levorian closed his eyes and expelled it from his peripheral. No distractions.

With the final door checked, he faced the stairwell. The steps were made of solid cherry wood and bowed in the center. A thick red stair runner draped over the full flight, dark with use and age.

Levorian turned his ears to the stairs and applied pressure at the corner of each step. When he was sure of a solid foothold, he took one step up. It took ten minutes to climb to the top. He did so silently.

Corridors extended to either side at the end of the stairs. He turned left. The master bedroom was to the right, but he had no business there.

There were four doors in this hallway and a fifth around a corner. He listened to each with due diligence. Behind the fourth door was the quiet, patterned breathing of someone swathed in dreams. Levorian was about to move on after counting twenty, but he observed that his breaths had fallen in time with the sleeper’s. He crouched for a moment longer, then left.

The door around the corner waited for him. He crept over to it and listened. Behind this door was labored, uneven breathing. In the thirty-five breaths Levorian spent listening, the sound caught three times. He waited for a fourth, then removed a small bottle from the pouch at his waist.

He screwed a spout on the end and applied oil to the door’s handle. The bottle he returned to his pouch, then he wiped his hands on the white cloth wrap covering his torso and legs.

He grasped the handle, applied pressure up and toward the door’s hinges, and twisted slowly. The handle revolved silently, then stopped. He crept the door open inch after inch until there was enough space for him to slip through.

The man in the bed did not stir.

He lay uncovered, a blanket all bunched up at the foot of his bed. One of his arms lay over his stomach, while the other was over his forehead, covering his eyes from the beam of moonlight that cut in from a window above him.

Levorian stopped, hand still on the door, watching. But the man was not awake. Levorian took his hand away and crept in.

A small table crowded with mugs, towels, and a dish of water stood on the left of the bed. There was a chair to the right, positioned so that it could watch over the man.

Levorian studied the him for five breaths then removed two items from the pouch at his waist: a white folded cloth and a dagger. The cloth he unfolded and draped over his left hand, the dagger he held in his right. Its steel blade shone silver in the moonlight. He stood over the man and watched his chest labor up, then down.

Better to be done with it.

In one motion, Levorian muffled the man’s mouth with the cloth and thrust the knife into his chest. There was pressure as it hit the skin, then a pop as it punctured through.

The man jolted as the dagger struck true. His eyes snapped open and found Levorian’s face. He didn’t scream. The momentary horror on his face gave way for something else as his eyes fell over Levorian’s white wrappings and dark skin.

He reached out a hand—as most men do to toss off their assassin—but did not clutch Levorian’s arm. He held it cupped toward Levorian’s face.

Levorian pulled away from the dying man. The cloth slipped, and the man uttered three words through chapped lips: “I forgive you.” He gasped as his chest fruitlessly pumped blood, fruitlessly drew breath. Then his head slumped against the pillow.

A tear sparkled in the moonlight as it rolled down his cheek.

Levorian stood a foot from the bed and lost count of his breaths. A pool of red soaked through the man’s shirt. Levorian slid his dagger cleanly back into its sheath and picked up the cloth from where it had fallen. At the door, he almost turned and looked back at the bed.

Levorian was sure he did not know this man, but as he folded the cloth and returned it to his pouch, he wondered if he should have.

That was the prologue from a spinoff book in the world of Hearth that I wrote for NaNoWriMo back in 2020! In the original book, I didn't have a prologue, and the writing was much worse. This prologue I wrote in 2023 on a whim. I'm happy with how it came out.

For reference, this all takes place in Lothrame, which is in Eldenguard. In the coming weeks, you'll know much more about these places and Hearth in general!

If you'd like to read the first chapter of the book this is a spinoff from, you can find it here!

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The Final Hero: Chapter 4

"Questions"

Sai awoke in an empty room.

It was like he was floating as soon as he regained consciousness. Like there was nothing else, only him, and if he swam and swam for miles in the void he would find himself at the exact same patch of nothing where he had started.

He wouldn’t sit up. What was the point? It was all still empty and nothing and…

“Goodbye.”

Sai sat up in his bed, in his room, in the family home, and accepted that his father was gone. Like a wood joint sliding perfectly into place, the world clicked together around him, his furniture popping into view, then the light from the window peaking in, and then Sai was home.

He knew if he lay back down, if he slipped, he would fall through a crack in the boards and end up in that empty place again. So Sai put two hands beneath him, pushed up, and slipped his legs over the edge of the bed.

I’m not doing this, he told himself. I can’t. Have you already forgotten everything Dad said yesterday?

Sai got up. That little motion, slipping from sitting to standing, was all it took. He could do this. He would not have to search his heart to know the pain that was sinking into every part of it right now, but he would also not let it rule him.

Dad left; he always left. He had wanted to stay, and Sai would believe that. Sai’s eyes fell to the box on his bed, flat beside where he had slept. Memories replayed in his head: strange red threads, the thin blue one, then his father.

Then sleep. Then Sai was back out of the past and took the box up over his shoulder. He rested a hand on it and focused on the things he had seen last night: the threads. Like it was second nature, they appeared as he thought of them, so long as he was touching the box.

Red threads unfurled from his chest like a winter blossom, thin tendrils seeking the exit to his bedroom. He watched them, and in doing so found the thin white and blue thread again. He brushed it with his fingers, and when he did something resonated deep within his chest. Pulling away, it faded, and drawing close it reappeared.

Sai blinked and realized he had been crying without knowing. He wiped his eyes and strode for the door. Veins were not an option for him—either they were out of reach, or they were too heavy a thought for his heart right now. Carpentry and his work with Lev would take time out of his day, but beyond that, he would dedicate all of his time to uncovering this mystery his father had left for him.

There would be no failure in this, no matter how long it took. Even if it forced him out of comfort, like Dad said, and into a place where he could change. Even if it tried to kill him. He would know. So that once Dad returned, Sai would be triumphant. Sai inhaled with a hand on the doorknob, opened the door, and left the fear behind him.

Today, he would try.

Usually, the morning after his father left, the house was quiet. But not today. It had been long since they’d all felt the absence, and perhaps they all had a moment like Sai this morning. They would all move forward, one way or another.

Theo, it seemed, was moving forward by training. Sai heard his grunts through the walls, and the deep, reverberating pound of his staff.

Mom and Hanako were in the kitchen, Mom teaching his little sister how to slice one of the springfish Theo had caught into even chunks, and then to marinate them in a blend of spices and oil. Hanako followed along, face screwed up in intense concentration. The result resembled what one of the farm dogs two columns down leave of the fish, had it gained purchase for even a few seconds. Sai smiled despite himself and met Mom’s eyes.

She held his gaze a moment. In that heartbeat, there played on her face intense weariness, and deep, deep pain. Then she smiled and instructed Hanako again, and the two continued on with the lesson. Sai left the house in silence.

The wind was calm. Sai looked up; the green wisps had returned to their dance, swirling happily overhead now that the storm was a day past. He wondered whether any of the little eddies had gone with his father.

There was a tugging in his chest at the thought, but he straightened his shoulders and exhaled. Some, he knew, had remained here with him. And maybe, if he ever left, some would come with him, too.

Sai hefted the box, the strap digging into his shoulder, and struck out to find Lev. He had a question to ask.

 

“What do you know about relics?” asked Sai as Lev sealed the gearbox of one of Rakuken’s towering windmills. His friend dusted off his hands—though much of the grime remained—and arched an eyebrow at Sai.

“They’re certainly not my specialty, but, in a manner of speaking we have them all over Rakuken.” Lev patted the door to the windmill behind him. “All the windmills run on them, and you could say that each lightning rod is one, since there’s no one actively Controlling the wind in a cone, we just have to get the reaction started.”

Sai frowned and was reminded of the box hanging from his shoulders. “If not one of the three—Solid, Liquid, or Breath—then could a relic create another effect? Say, like threads hanging in the air?” Something akin to excitement bubbled in as he said the words, holding desperately to the hope that he still might have a chance at a Vein.

Lev’s brows drew together, and they together walked from the mill as its huge blades cut through the air overhead. “Threads? Perhaps that could be Solid, if they were physical. But this is all hypothetical without context; Sai, what are you really asking? Whether you might have a Vein other than Breath? I believe we talked about this before.”

Sai kept step with him, clutching the box on his shoulder. “No. I mean…maybe, but what I really want to know is if you’ve seen anything like it before. Threads, I mean. What are the for?” A broad-shouldered man passed by them with a retinue following earnestly behind him. It was the reza, Tharon. Sai watched him quietly; Lev didn’t pay him much mind.

“That doesn’t sound like a relic I’ve heard of. But again, I am no expert in that area. Perhaps you could talk with Rane; she knows more about this than I do. But she’ll want context, too, Sai. If you hint at some new relic and don’t tell her what you’re talking about, she’ll get antsy. You do not want to have an antsy Rane on your hands.”

Sai smirked. Lev pretended like his comment was one of exhaustion and frustration, built up over many arguments running deep into the night, but there was a fondness in it that he couldn’t hide. Even now, Lev was burying his face in his tool bag just so Sai wouldn’t see the signs. “Yeah, I get it. Thanks.”

Lev shook his head as Sai left. Sai wanted to go straight to Rane and learn more about relics, maybe make some headway on the box, but he couldn’t. Reza Tharon was climbing the bridge to his home pillar. He hurried after the group.

The reza was already yelling when Sai reached their house. “What, he’s gone again?” The tall man threw a hand into the air and scoffed. “The day before?” Sai hid the box behind his back as well as he could.

Mom was at the door, arms folded, face a mask of creases and barely restrained fury. “I will tell you again,” she said, her words growing clipped with her old accent, “my husband goes where he pleases. You hide on your little pillar, waiting for him to leave, before you come to me with a confrontation. He is not the coward. You are.”

Tharon’s fists balled. A thin man clutching a book behind him reached a hand to Tharon. “My reza, you cannot—”

Tharon wheeled on the man, eyes bulging out of his head. “You will not tell me what I can and cannot do!” He spun back to Selene and hissed through clenched teeth, “When he returns, oh…your husband will face consequences. He will not trample on my laws any longer.”

Selene narrowed her eyes. “I will tell him.”

Tharon exhaled, pushed the thin man out of the way, and stormed down the steps of their home. He saw Sai, scoffed, and shook his head. “Get out of my way.”

Sai stepped aside and watched the man go. His retinue followed behind, not meeting Sai’s eyes. When Sai looked back at their house, Selene was staring at him. Her thin blond eyebrows drew together, and with a sigh all the fury went out of her. “Come inside, Sai.”

He obeyed.

His mother slumped into the nearest seat beside their dining table and rested her head on the palms of her hands. Sai took a chair opposite her and lay the box next to him. Selene massaged her eyes then pulled her hands free and looked at her son. “How are you and Theo? You two haven’t talked yet.”

Sai nearly opened his mouth to ask, How did you know?, but that was fruitless. Mom knew everything. He settled for, “Not good.” When mom didn’t interrupt him, he went on,  “I keep meaning to, but he’s stubborn and spends all his time training to look good for tomorrow when I’m pretty sure he already got in.”

His mother raised an eyebrow. She saw right through him. “Theo would be none too happy to hear you taking guesses at his Choice.”

Sai’s cheeks flushed red in sudden embarrassment, and he looked away. “I mean, it’s pretty obvious. He wants to show me up and get into the corp when I couldn’t.”

“It’s dangerous to play with assumptions.” Selene laid her hands together on the table—one on top of the other. “I’ve told you that before. Don’t ignore it because it’s easy.”

“I know. But…fine, yes, I can talk to him. Better to get it straight now, before his ceremony.”

Selene nodded and lifted herself from the table. “That’s right. And take Hanako down to the shop tonight. She’s been good and could spend some time with you. I’ll get two jins for you to spend on her.”

Sai smiled as his mom walked away, weaving past the kitchen and toward her bedroom. Sitting there, arms and elbows on the table, feeling the wood grain under his fingers, Sai was hit at once with the realization that his father was gone again. And that tomorrow, his brother was going to have his Naming ceremony without Dad. Theo’s grunts and shouts echoed through the house, broken by short bouts of panting and the shuffling of feet. There was an anger in his voice.

This was the worst time to talk to him. Sai got to his feet anyways.

Theo attacked a leather and straw training dummy with vigor in the training room. The room was an addition by their father and mother, who enjoyed sparing in their youth. Then dad was out of the house, and mom grew older, and the room was passed on to Sai, Theo, and Mirai. Hanako was still too young to be allowed inside.

Long straw mats lined the floor, woven together with olive green bryne thread. Two large windows were set into the side of the room opposite the hallway, but the storm shields were still up and Theo hadn’t bothered to take them down, which cast the place in a dark haze. What beams of light made it through the slats in the stone shields lit up clouds of dust, kicked up further by Theo’s shuffling and swinging.

Sai leaned against the frame, not stepping inside with his boots still on. “Theo,” he said. Theo did not turn to him or stop swinging at the dummy.

“What,” his brother responded through breaths, “you actually want to talk about it?”

Sai’s eyebrows fell without him wanting them to. “You left before we got Mirai’s bow free. You left before we were free. Had that fire spread, what then? Would you keep running?”

Theo exhaled sharply and drew his sword across the dummy in a diagonal slash. He paused, narrowed his eyes, then swung at it again. “Would you have fumbled with the bow long enough to get both you and Mirai killed? I told you both to drop it. You didn’t listen. You did the stupid thing and fed Mirai’s fear, and tried to remove it without breaking it. What good that did.”

Sai’s fists clenched, but he breathed in, then out, and let the hands ease. In a fight, anger can mean death, his father reminded him. Talking with Theo these days was as close to battle as Sai would willingly get. Their afternoons of sparing were in the distant past. “Your Naming ceremony is tomorrow. I don’t want to have this between us when you’re through with it. When you’re a man. This…is a splinter that needs to be removed.”

Theo huffed and finally looked at Sai. “I’ve been a man for longer than you, Sai. Age does not matter. I protected Mirai until she stopped listening. She—you even—can’t act the fool and expect people to keep bending over backward for you. This will not be resolved until you understand the truth of it.”

Fire brewed in Sai’s stomach, his chest, ready to burst. He wanted to storm onto the mat, boots or no, and take up one of the training swords and fight Theo head on. That impulse was stupid, horribly stupid, and in trying to shove it down he lost control of his mouth. Out of the depths of his frustration, he found himself quoting his mother, “It’s better to fail trying than to not try at all.”

Theo threw down his sword and looked at Sai from across the room. His mouth, eyes, and brows were pinched in fury and disgust. “What’s better is to do the right thing, not whatever you think is nice,” he spat.

Sai stopped a retort from leaving his mouth. This was how it always was, these years. Yet the world waits for no one. Sai straightened his shoulders and turned, showing Theo his back. “I tried. That’s the most I can do.”

Theo did not respond.

Sai left the room and didn’t turn back. He couldn’t help him like this. He didn’t even know if Mom could. Still fuming, he stopped at the main room, placed a hand on the wall, and exhaled. Dad and Mom had taught them both, usually through the same means, and yet somehow Theo always took whatever position was opposite to Sai’s. He couldn’t stand it. Sai drew in a breath and put the thoughts away. He might not be able to reach Theo, but he could do something nice for his other siblings.

He found Hanako playing make-believe with Feyri, one of her friends from another pillar. Sai greeted the two of them and told Hanako about their plans for the evening. She stared up at him, mouth an open smile. “Yay! I want to get something for Theo!”

Sai put on a smile, but couldn’t help from remembering the bitterness in Theo’s face. “That sounds great, Hanako. Come inside when you’re ready.”

She nodded and scurried off with Feyri, mimicking firing a bow while Feyri danced back and forth like some predator. Hanako was likely playing her alter ego, Hirai, which she swore was not just Mirai with longer hair. Feyri growled and snapped, playing her part well, until the roles got all gummed up and both Hanako and Feyri were hunters and monsters at the same time. Sai watched the pair for a while before heading inside.

When Hanako was ready, he took her down to one of the lower market districts, and together they toured shops that sold toys, trinkets and snacks. Hanako gravitated to a stand selling instruments, and Sai nervously laughed at the owner and steered her away, reminding his sister of what she had wanted to get earlier. She quickly moved on and when they found a wooden cube puzzle that required one to remove the pieces in a certain order then put them back together again.

Sai only had to pay a half-jin for it, so he also bought a pair of deer rolls for them to munch on as they looked around. Hanako alternated between taking little nibbles of her snack and fiddling with her puzzle as they strolled through the market. Sai noticed a woman with long brown hair tied in a messy bun standing in front of a low stall. It was Rane, the relic specialist Lev had mentioned. She argued furiously at a long-nosed boy manning the stand, and there was an array of metal tools spread on the table between them. The boy had an stuffy, uncomfortable look on his face and kept glancing into the tent behind him to see when someone would relieve him of his post.

Sai approached as Rane was finishing her point. “Would you believe that?” she was saying, and set down a small metal rod with two handle-looking protrusions on its sides. “They don’t use brass for the inner casing anymore, just a copper-iron alloy! It rusts if you leave it out, which screws up the fragile mechanisms inside.”

Rane noticed Sai and the stall boy gave a pleading look to him with his eyes. “Hello, Sai. Hey Hanako!” Rane said.

Hanako glanced up from her puzzle, saw Rane, and gave her a hug. “Hi Rane! We’re looking for a present for Theo.”

“For the ceremony? That’s very nice.” Rane smiled at Hanako, then Sai. “How are you and Lev?”

Sai shrugged. “Okay, I guess. One of the lightning rods broke during the storm.” Rane’s eyebrows went up, but Sai continued. “Lev and I got a replacement, but he promised to take it down to you when he gets the chance. I had a question for you though, concerning relics.”

Excitement fluttered in Rane’s hazel eyes, and she abandoned her fruitless argument as Hanako wandered off to find a stall selling books. “I’m all ears.”

“My dad gave me this box—and no, I can’t open it—and I’m trying to figure out how it works. Well, more specifically I’m trying to find out what’s inside.”

“Without opening it?”

Sai grimaced and pulled the box from his shoulder, holding it out to her. “That’s the trick. But you can’t tell anyone about it!”

Rane’s eyes widened when they landed on the box. She splayed her fingers over it, face full of awe. “It’s axial wood! What makes you think it’s a relic?”

Sai was taken aback that she recognized the type of wood so much faster than he did. He collected himself and explained his experience with the box the previous night and that morning. Rane frowned and narrowed her eyes. “Threads dancing on the wind, huh? Could be Solid, or even Liquid, depending on how they looked. Can you show me?”

Sai focused on the box, remembering the threads, and they appeared. “There,” he said.

Rane blinked. “I don’t see anything.”

The red threads were there, waving out from his chest, and the longer white one was still visible, this time arcing across the market and toward the bridge off of this pillar. “I…you don’t see them? Right here?” he waved a hand over his chest.

Rane sighed and cocked an eyebrow at Sai. “That’s not funny. Did Lev tell you to do this?”

“I’m being serious! You can’t see them, but they’re there. I…okay. I’m sorry for bothering you, but do you know of any other relics that could do something like that?”

“I’ve read of some designed by the Alliance that command more than the three states of matter, but I doubt we’d have something like that all the way out here. They’re far to the east across the sea, and you know the reza when it comes to imports.”

Sai glanced at the white thread again. It ran off of the plateau and toward the gate connected to the mountain. If he wanted to travel across the sea, that’s where he’d have to go. Sai frowned. “My dad travels a lot. But…anyways, thank you for your help, Rane.”

She nodded absently, still stuck in her thoughts. “See you around, Sai,” she said.

Sai slipped the box over his back and found Hanako handing their second steel jin to a stall owner, who in turn gave her a book. She smiled and showed it to Sai. The cover of the book read, The Troubling History of Threyda, an Anthology. Hanako held it close. “Theo mentioned this last time we were here.”

Sai smiled at her and ruffled her hair. While he was here, he put a hand down on the stall’s table and leaned in. “Do you have any books on relics? Like, any that don’t deal with the states?” Maybe he could find one here, in Rakuken.

The man shook his head. “The reza don’t like Alliance books too much. You could check the trade district, but you’d probably have to request it. That’s a pretty penny, ordering books.”

Sai let out a sigh and thanked the stall owner. It had been worth a shot. He couldn’t afford getting a book delivered here just for Tharon to turn it away. Hanako was already flipping through the one she had bought, and Sai squeezed her shoulder.

“That’s a perfect gift.” In truth, he couldn’t see what Theo found so fascinating in these books. He and Mirai hunted together: that he understood. Hanako was young enough that make-believe in the outdoors still captivated her. But Theo desired to do two things in his free time: read and practice, like he was training for something. But Theo had already passed his test.

Sai grimaced as they left the market. Tomorrow would be the day, and neither he nor Theo could hide from it anymore. They would both be fully accepted, Named adults. Which meant that, if the time came and they had to work together, they could not squabble like boys.

From tomorrow on, if they fought, they would fight as men.

That's chapter 4! We're back to the present day for a bit. There would normally be another character's perspective in the book by now—Avis, a hunter of valkrin in Carlen—but I'm not as confident about her opening as I am Sai's. Eventually I'll post it to give a taste of her character as well.

As far as Sai's story goes, the most I'll post on the blog (most likely next week) of the story is Chapter 5! The rest will have to wait for the full book.

Cheers!

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Hello 7th (Short Story)

Darkness covered the small urban town like a thick layer of ash. A man struggled with the lock on a breaker box, huddling against the wall between two houses. He could barely make out his trembling hands by the dim light of a nearby street lamp, desperately trying to fit the small, cheap key into its lock. He got it in, and glanced left, then right.

The cramped alleyway was empty. With a click, the lock snapped open in his hands, and his eyes were drawn back to the task at hand. The door to the box opened, revealing rows of switches all in the “on” position. He downed a dry, strained swallow as he ran one finger down a list of labels to the right of the breaker.

The man’s eyes landed on the numbers “21” and “Bedroom 3” and he flipped the corresponding switch on the left. A deep clunk sounded from the box; he slammed the breaker closed and turned away.

There was someone behind him. A sharp, intense point of pain shot through his back. He gasped and tried to reach it, but all he felt was his warm, damp shirt now sticky with blood. The man dropped to his knees and let out a final clutching gasp before crashing to the earth, dead.

Light trickled in through half-open blinds covering a window. It cascaded over a pile of dust-covered books, clothes, and barely scribbled-on papers. One beam pierced the stagnant air, landing squarely on the dozing eyes of a young man. Shaggy rust-colored hair surrounded a slim, round face that scrunched up at the bright light interrupting his sleep. He shifted to one side before bringing an arm up to cover his eyes.

A low groan sounded from the depths of Finn’s stomach as he rolled away from the sun. His eyebrows lowered slowly as he removed his arm from over his eyes. Then he shot upright, mouth agape, and stared at the window.

He found the phone strewn at his feet, scooped it up, and tapped on its blank screen. It didn’t turn on. “Oh…oh crap.” Finn cast the blanket from his legs and tugged on the phone. It was still plugged it, but dead of charge.

Its power box was firmly in the outlet, and unplugging it and plugging it back in didn’t help. He muttered something incoherent, scrambled to his feet, and accepted the fact that he was completely and utterly late.

If the sun had already risen enough to cut through his windows, it wasn’t 7 AM as he’d set his alarm. No, it must be at least nine o’clock—an hour after English II started.

With no time left to lose, he dug through nearly empty drawers for a set of mismatched clothes and rushed out the door. The university he attended was only a half-mile from the townhouse he stayed in, so travel was never much of an issue. However, being late was another thing entirely.

Usually, he would head to class the normal way—on the sidewalk and through the courtyard at the center of the university. He prided himself on not taking shortcuts and destroying someone’s perfectly manicured bush. Today was different. The shrubbery would have to endure.

He shot a glance at his digital watch. 8:54. By now his best hope would be Calculus; English was a lost cause. As he entered the classroom, a buzz spread around the room. He took a seat in his normal spot—all the way in the back. As he unpacked his bag he overheard a group of women chattering on his right.

“Did you see that girl this morning?”

“Yeah! Just looming in the courtyard. Have you ever seen her before?”

“What was she doing out there?”

Finn found an outlet next to his desk, jammed the charger in, and sighed as the Apple logo on his phone popped onto the screen. So it wasn’t totally dead, thankfully.

Besides a heated scolding from his English professor on the way to his next class, the rest of Finn’s day edged on mundane. He took a lackadaisical approach to classes so missing something like English didn’t bother him. He didn’t like spending too much time at college at all; it made him feel depressed. Every day, attending the same classes again and again. He hated the monotony. 

With an overwhelming anxiety of the future looming over him, he began the short walk home. His watch read 6:32, just enough time to get back and settled before sunset. He took the path through the courtyard this time; no need to ruin the foliage any more than he already had. As he left, the conversation from earlier bounced through his mind. He subconsciously glanced around the empty courtyard. No strange woman in sight.

He let out a sigh of relief—one he didn’t know he was holding—and continued towards home. The tiny, paranoid voice in his head wouldn’t win this time. The only thing left would be to uncover the morning’s mystery. He arrived home shortly and started his investigation of the house. Upon a quick once-over, he discovered that the breaker on the had tripped.

See? He assured himself, Nothing suspicious.

But that small voice said otherwise. Why just his bedroom? What about the rest of the house? Why did one of his roommates flip his breaker? Just to screw with him? He’d have to ask Paul when he saw him next—he would likely know which hooligan would try something stupid like that.

Finn rubbed his forehead. It didn’t really matter, did it. Just another stupid prank. He shook it off, walked upstairs, and entered his bedroom. His watch read 6:57.

“That was smart, Finn—using the cycle to avoid me like that.”

Finn froze. His earlier speculations came crashing back like a tidal wave. That wasn’t one of his roommates. It wasn’t even someone he recognized. And this wasn’t a co-ed townhouse. Then who…? He turned as the voice continued.

“I have to admit, I didn’t expect you to catch onto the cycle so fast, but it appears this you just undid all your precious work.”

His eyes landed on a woman—a woman around his age with cold blue eyes and long brown hair. Her slender face pierced his vision and sent a shiver down his spine. Was it déjà vu? Had he seen her somewhere before? He stepped back and fell onto his bed. The woman glanced at the small, delicate watch attached to her wrist. She sighed and pushed towards him.

“Time’s up. I wish it didn’t come to this, but I’ll have to figure this out next time,” she said.

Finn shoved himself backward off the bed, fell to the ground, then scrambled to the far side of the room opposite the door. The woman walked towards him calmly and smoothly.

“What do you want from me?!” Finn asked, frantic.

The woman eyed him, callous, and unholstered a handgun from her hip. Finn’s eyes widened. “What the hell?”

A pressure akin to a sledgehammer smashed into his chest. There was a searing, twisting pain in his lungs, his heart, and he pulled at his sticky shirt trying with everything just to keep breathing.

The woman knelt down beside him, blotting out the dimming light from the window, and pointed the pistol at him again. Bang. Finn spewed blood and his head lolled to one side. Faintly he heard the sound of ticking.

Then he was dead.

 

A shaft of light cut the morning air, landing inconveniently on Finn’s eyes. He groaned and shifted to one side, flopping an arm over his face to shun the early light. It was early, right?

Wincing, he sighed and felt around for his phone. Nothing. His eyes shot open and darted around his bed. No phone in sight. And something…something smelled horrible.

Finn covered his nose, threw his feet over the edge of the bed, and sat up, glancing around the room. His door was slightly ajar, and…

He stopped, mouth dropped open, and screamed at a picture straight out of a nightmare. A large, chaotic splatter of red painted the far wall, and on the floor… He shot to his feet and bashed against the wall on his right.

“What…what?” was all he could say. He screamed it. “WHAT?!”

That was…that was him. His body, strewn limp against the far wall of his bedroom. His head lolled to one side, eyes lifeless, not even closed. There were…flies buzzing around his corpse. He was going to throw up. A single thought barreled through his head: It’s not real. It can’t be.

He burst through his bedroom door, down the steps, and out of the house. A burning acidic taste rose in his throat. He couldn’t get the image out of his head. Was that him? Did he have a hallucination? What was going on?

Acid bubbled into his throat again, forcing him to bring a hand to his mouth. No. That stench, that sight, was very real. He couldn’t avoid that. Something happened; something impossible. A doppleganger? Was he wearing a mask?

Before he knew it, Finn was in the courtyard of his university. Subconsciously, he wandered to the place where things felt most stable, maybe searching for an ounce of the mundanity he had only yesterday. He found none of it. None of his classing were appealing. He tried to sit through Calculus and had to get up and leave in the middle.

Wandering through the courtyard again, he remembered the body and felt the acid rise into his esophagus like a volcano. He rushed to the nearest bathroom.

The restroom was empty, but he only had enough self-control to reach the nearest stall before the acid bubbled up and out of his throat. Even on an empty stomach, he could only dry heave. He was sick. He had to be. Then he remembered the body and dry heaved again and again and again.

Sometime later—he couldn’t distinguish how long he spent knelt over a toilet—he stepped outside and took a deep breath. With a hand on his chest and his nose pointed upwards, he sighed.

That wasn’t real. It couldn’t have been. He couldn’t accept the fact that what he saw was real. It just didn’t make sense. So, in his mind, it wasn’t real. He was only sick.

“What did you see?”

A voice to his left made him clutch his chest again. The cold tone of her words sent a shiver down his arms to his fingertips. The woman from before.

…before?

Finn couldn’t think. A thought niggled in the back of his mind telling him that—despite everything he knew to be true—he was lying dead in his room. But that was insane, and Finn wasn’t insane, so he turned slowly around and looked at the source of the voice.

It was a young woman about his age, brown hair and blue eyes, with a green book bag thrown over her shoulder. She cocked her head and raised a perfect eyebrow. “You’re acting differently from how you usually do. What happened this morning?”

“I…what? Who are you?” And how do you know about this morning? Finn struggled to form any more words. His mind screamed for him to run.

“Was there something in your bedroom?”

She knows.

Finn twisted, stumbled, and ran. He barreled through the courtyard and out of campus. The woman knew. She knew about his morning, the body from earlier, his path to school, everything. Somehow, something impossible had happened. Again. The woman sprinted after him.

“How did you kill…me? The other me?” Finn yelled.

The woman lurched to a stop behind him. “Kill…other you? What do you mean?”

Finn looked ahead and kept running. Even if there was a misunderstanding, he couldn’t shake the feeling deep in his chest. If he could outrun her, maybe he had a chance to think things through. His eyes shot to a group of students loading onto a bus. 

There!

He slipped into the crowd, crouching as he did to blend in. He barely caught a glimpse of the woman as he boarded the bus. She was caught in the group left behind, forced to wait for the next one. He pushed through the crowd to the very back and took a seat. Nerves buzzed through the roots of his hair to the slits under his fingernails.

Holy actual hell, he thought as he clutched his head with one hand and his stomach with the other. My body…is real. It’s me. And that woman has something to do with it.

The thought of his dead body rotting in his bedroom was still disturbing and quite frankly unbelievable, but he wasn’t dead. That meant he had a chance.

Finn waited for a few stops to pass before exiting the bus. It dropped him off far from home, but at this point that might be a good thing. He entered a convenience store nearby to wander the aisles and think. Eventually, he decided some food would help his mind. Maybe if he waited until nightfall, she couldn’t follow him. He could get back home in peace and…clean up.

Finn bought a sandwich from the counter and, after eating, decided to keep moving. Maybe going home wasn’t such a bad idea. If the woman followed the bus stops, he could head directly home without worry. He pulled the hood of his jacket over his head.

It was a long jog, but with food in his stomach, the run was manageable. Along the way, his mind slowed from its panicked state. He could find a way out of this—no, he would find a way out. If for once in his life he could succeed at something, he wouldn’t mind going back to the mundanity of school for a few years.

Rapid footsteps sounded behind him. A cold sweat broke out all over his body, but he didn’t look behind him. If he started running, and she hadn’t already recognized him, that would tell her for sure.

The steps slowed to a walk, but he swore he heard panting. If he turned back to check, they would know for sure. He kept a brisk pace, making sure not to show signs of the near-panic attack that was going on in his mind.

Stay calm…look normal.

He kept jogging. The sound behind him quieted then faded into the distance.

Home was only a few blocks away. By now the sun was hitting its peak—it was almost noontime. He’d worry about the classes he missed later. Heading back to school was not an option.

Finn passed by a variety of houses, each different shapes and sizes. They had all looked familiar yesterday on his jog to school, but something was different about them now. He didn’t know if it was the adrenaline pumping through his veins or the experience that morning, but he was no longer at ease on these streets.

A few minutes later, he reached his own house and approached the front door. It sat closed, as he left it. His hand trembled. It was time to confirm it—to find the truth and examine things for real. He shot a glance behind and found no sign of anyone trailing him. With a deep breath, he reached for the doorknob and twisted.

It opened quietly, swinging easily. He didn’t know what he expected, but he sighed nonetheless. His eyes turned to the stairs, then to his bedroom door. It was slightly ajar; his shoulders and neck tensed at the thought of entering. That small voice was not so small anymore, and it told him to march up the stairs and open the door.

The floorboards of the steps creaked under his feet. As he rounded the corner, it hit him. A stench—one of a rotting corpse—blasted his nostrils. He held his eyes tightly shut; he couldn’t bear to look at it yet. But it was very much there. Real. Dead.

Feeling the wall, he made his way over to the bed. If he could cover it with the blanket, maybe he could open his eyes. He reached for the corner and pulled the sheet off, tossing it to his right. The blanket floated to the ground, hopefully covering his body.

Finn peaked through one hand to check. His eyes were greeted with a mangled lump covered by a blanket. So, it was real, and most likely still him. The smell had gotten so strong that he had to hold his nose closed, but at least he wouldn’t puke. He had to find some way to get rid of it.

Somehow, someway, you died. Or…other you died. But he would make it out alive. He had to. If it was just the woman after him, he could deal with that. Right?

Finn stepped out of the room—still holding his nose—and shut the door. He needed a break from the stench. Maybe then he could think.

A sound came from the first floor. His eyes shot down the hallway towards the front door. Nothing. Was that my imagination, or did I just—

A second sound, this one more distinct. The sound of metal being wrenched from metal and a hinge squealing under pressure. The back door.

He hesitated for a moment, glanced back at his room, and rushed downstairs. His best bet would be to face the intruder head-on, and, if his suspicions proved him correct, stop the woman in her tracks.

He grabbed a broom sitting next to the staircase and unscrewed the top, leaving him with a metal rod. It was better than nothing. He heard footsteps and pressed himself against the wall.

If I can surprise her, maybe I have a chance. The footsteps grew louder, closer. Just a little longer.

He sucked in a breath and charged around the corner. There was the woman, creeping through the door. Finn screamed and brought the metal rod down onto her head. But she caught it, deflected it to the right, and jabbed something hard into his chest. Finn coughed and stumbled back, but dodged a swing at his head.

He planted the heel of his shoe into her stomach and kicked, throwing the woman out of the back door and onto the ground. It was the only way out. Finn roared and charged through as the door swung in at him.

The woman kicked the door and it slammed into Finn. But it didn’t bounce off like he expected. And…now there was a wicked ache in his side. He blinked down at his stomach to see a gnarled mess of metal that was once the patio handle jammed into his side, bits of skin and guts screwed up and torn apart.

He gaped, gasped for breath, and tried to scream but found no breath in his lungs. The woman snarled and kicked the door back out, which ripped the mangled handle free along with part of Finn’s stomach. He lurched over, coughed, dropped, and the woman got to her feet.

She raised a blunt wooden stick, spat, and bashed his head in.

 

An alarm blared in Alice’s ears. She shot up in bed and reached for her stomach. The pain was gone, but the memory was not. Her eyes glanced at a small table to her right. The digital alarm clock on top of it read 6:30 AM. She sighed and pulled hair out of her eyes. That was too close. If he had escaped again, I don’t know if I could have caught him.

Alice pulled herself out of bed, held her head, and considered her options. The body in his room is going to cause problems. I’ll have to remove it to have any chance of doing this right.

She picked out a blouse and skirt, tried them on, and checked herself in the mirror. How many loops has it been now? Her body didn't show the countless wounds she had taken, but her mind... She exhaled, stretched, and knelt for her shoes. Currently, he’s getting up at 8:25. If I factor in travel time, he arrives on campus at 8:55. After Calculus, he comes straight home. That’s roughly an hour and a half to get in, remove the body, and get out. I can do that.

Alice slipped into a pair of flats and turned to her cabinet. It seemed that no matter what she used to kill him—blunt objects, guns, a sword, once, or even electricity—he always came back the next day. And always his room was the same as the loop before.

Today a pistol would suffice. She holstered a Glock 19 in her calf strap, locked the safety, and threw on the rest of her clothes. There were be further cycles to try other methods; right now she just had to return his schedule to normal. No more mistakes. No more waiting around. Tomorrow she would confront him and talk to him.

Alice left her house at 7:01, exactly one minute behind schedule. With eyes trained on her watch, she bolted down the steps of her apartment complex and out into the street. Finn’s house stood a few minutes from the university. With the right path, she could make it there in three. She shot a look at the crossing sign across the street.

Two streets away, she thought. A loud horn blared on her right. 

Then the whole world was spinning. Alice rammed into a windshield, smashing it and sending glass everywhere, then rolled off and dropped to the hard asphalt. She wheezed, head throbbing like hell, wet, dripping, pain everywhere. She felt crushed bones, cut skin, torn skin all up and down her back and face.

“Oh…oh hell,” she whispered. “Not here…” The pain was overwhelming. Was this how he felt? All that work, all that planning. And it was all…for nothing.

Someone rushed up to her; a man with a tussle of brown hair and green eyes. He knelt beside her, asking if she was alright. Alice wearily looked up, barely able to keep her eyes open, and saw the face of the man that had gotten her into this in the first place: Finn.

The first looper. The man who would grow up to be so much more, so much worse, now that she had failed. He was trying to help her. With the last of her strength, she shut her eyes and let out a pitiful whimper. A single thought slipped through her head before she lost consciousness forever.

How damned ironic.

I submitted this story to the Lorian Hemingway short story competition in 2020. Needless to say it didn't win (it didn't even get on the shortlist!) and I can see why. But the idea of time loopers who get to keep one thing over the loops (for Finn it was his bedroom, for Alice it was her memories) has always interested me.

The story isn't too polished, but I have ideas and plans to turn it into a much fuller story, with several other short looper perspectives, and an intro on how to kill a looper, permanently. I absolutely love time travel stuff, and this was one of my first forays into it.

I hope you enjoyed!

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An Account of the Burning of Verim (Short Story)

To whoever finds this note,

It is easy for men to take sides.

But to take a side quickly with too little information leads to heedless death, and we need no more of that in this world. In reading this, my only request is that you hear me out. I wish for you to avoid my mistakes; I made many.

The burning of Hold Verim was not among them.

You should know of the High Lord Rello Verim. In all likeliness, he will be in your history books. You would know that he funded the Outer Cities, gave the people jobs, positions, and shelter. You have probably been told of his wife, Thelya, and her generosity to the tenants beneath her.

You do not know the countless deaths buried under their rule. Would it not be for my choices—my efforts—you would never know. But I survived while they burned alive. I do not regret a second of their pain.

Rello was a cruel man who overworked his tenants and crushed any that spoke back. His classist organization led to countless fights between the tenants, clawing at each other’s throats to achieve another rank in his program. Their reward? Enough food to last another week. I watched women disappear after his gaze fell on them, whisked away in the night. I saw boys barely old enough to work brought to the brink of death through exhaustion be hoisted up, faces dunked in water, and thrown out into the fields again.

I also remember Rello’s screams as he cried out to me for mercy. I sealed his cedar doors with an iron bar, trapping him and his wife in the Hold that would become their grave. I remember the horrified look in his wide, fat face as he burned.

Thelya seemed the better of the two at first. While Rello purposefully ignored suffering, she rode out into the construction sites with jars of water. That is what was recorded for future historians: the tragic tale of a lady kind enough to bring parched servants something to drink.

I will tell you the truth of it. Thelya found men deep in desperation, near death, thirsting for even a sip of water, and abused them. She played games, laughing with that shrill voice whenever they failed another one of her impossible tasks. She saw us as nothing but worms to be ground under her tailored slippers. Men will do anything if it purchases them repose. Thelya was merciless.

As was I. The water she kept from the servants, I repaid her in oil. I saturated their rugs, their rich clothes, their bathing halls, with the stuff. I forced it down their rich throats until they wept. And when I set it alight, Thelya finally felt some reflection of the pain known by my brethren for years. It was not enough.

I watched as the Hold burned. The flames are seared forever in my eyes and on my soul. Even as I write this letter, I see them still. Dancing. Burning. No one was left alive of their Hold. And after it, I turned to the servants and set them all free. I do not know if they have survived.

I will not deny my actions. I will not pretend they are wrong, or that I have any shame in them. I did what is right, and that is all any man could wish to do.

Von dan Bremmer,
    Builder and destroyer of the Outer Cities.

This was another short story penned in my writing group! This letter is set in the world of Fate of a Failed Dragon (Hearth), though it's hard to tell from the chapters I've posted. Speaking of, if you'd like to read the first chapter of The Final Hero, you can find it here!

Once you get Avis' perspective, this will start to make more sense. But for the future, Von dan Bremmer (not to be confused with Bremmer the immortal from Ready for It) was a Caelish slave who used his Solid Vein to build the Outer Cities before he was put to death for his treasonous actions against the Arden Alliance.

This letter was written by him in prison minutes before his hanging.

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The Final Hero: Chapter 3

This is a bit different from chapter 2, so don’t worry if you feel lost at first! Throughout the book (annotated there, unlike here), there are first person chapters where Sai tells his story to someone. Here’s the first:

 

"Winds and Their Riders"

I don’t have so much of a story as moments that I will always remember. I would guess many people’s lives are like that: a collection of memories, of moments. They’re worth remembering for the hard times. For when you’ve fallen too far and that ever-present light of hope has dwindled to a glimmer, and you can’t remember what it feels like to have the sun on your skin or dirt between your toes.

Where to start?

My father told me that stories are the most important form of art, because without them we have no way of learning from others mistakes. After many of his long adventures, he would sit the four of us round the hearth and tell us a story. Some were heroic, others gripping and tense, but most were sad. I’m afraid mine may be more of the latter.

But…not this one. From when I was young, my father taught me to stand back up. Not how to win a fight or how to convince someone against their will, but to stand up when I’ve fallen down. It didn’t seem like the most useful skill at a time where my siblings were nurtured toward oration, or hunting, or even how to bake bread.

But I can say looking back that my father had a plan for me. And it began with getting up. Because, as my father said, there’s not much you can do with your butt on the ground.

That to be said, I never won a fight against my brother.

Most siblings fight with words or fists, but my brother Theo and I fought with wooden sticks and strict rules. You’ve got four limbs, and if one gets hit twice with the stick it’s “out”. You can’t use it and must hold it behind your back or not stand on it. Our father taught us this game once we were both old enough, say, when I was ten and Theo was nine. It was good practice, and I blame whatever semblance of skill I have in the sword on the long evenings and sometimes nights that we spent duking it out. Against all odds, I always found myself on the losing end.

That’s not to say I never got close.

One such time was eight years ago, when I was eleven. There were pads on our sticks, sweat dribbling from our necks and over our arms, and a redness in both of our cheeks. It was the middle of summer, and even up on the mountain it was blisteringly hot. Jets of steam sprayed from fissures in the rock, laid by our ancestors years before.

As one would expect, neither of us were wearing shirts.

That made it particularly obvious when one of us got hit. I had fallen backward upon blocking one of Theo’s vicious strikes, and he pointed his stick at me and laughed. That perturbed me.

My knees felt like mud, but I jumped to my feet and returned my practice sword to guard position. “Ready…” I started.

“Go!” Theo said, and lunged at me with that grin he gets when he knows he’s going to win. He was only ten at the time, but that didn’t stop his ego from growing at least three years in age.

I flicked the jab away and swung at the meaty part of his sword arm. He caught my wrist with the opposite hand, then walloped my forearm with his sword. I nearly dropped my weapon in surprise, but Theo just hopped back and pointed at it. “That one’s out. You gotta switch hands!”

“I know,” I muttered, and switched the sword to my left hand. I’ve never been much good with my off hand; Theo knew this. As I tested the sword’s balance in an attempt to stall, I complained, “How are you so good at this already?”

We played every weekend when Mom didn’t have us out chopping wood or hand-planing beams of the stuff for her projects. But when I wanted to take a break for the Season of White,  my brother had taken my practice sword and found opponents elsewhere. I already knew the answer to my question.

My brother decided to be snarky. “It’s easy,” he said, hopping from one foot to the other, “Just pick an open spot and swing.”

I grumbled and fell into a guard stance with my sword held at an angle. Our father had taught us three stances: guard, offense, and balance—each with different strengths and weaknesses—that we were supposed to test out and learn the flow of.

Always the rebel, my brother created his own. He held his sword in both hands, crouched low, and smiled. “Come on!” he said, “It’s no fun if you don’t try and attack me too.”

That got me. I ran at him, tried to feint with an attack from above, then switched and cracked my sword against his right sword arm. He stepped back, stunned, and nodded in confirmation of the hit. We continued.

Theo swung at my new sword hand and I bat it away. He swept my feet, and I jumped and jabbed at his receding hand. He flicked it away and snaked out for my shoulder. I blocked high, swung low, and caught Theo’s right leg on the meat of the thigh with a thwack.

When I stepped back to confirm, he tried to swing the sword at my outstretched hand. I hopped away and pointed the tip of my sword at him. “Hey! Right leg?”

Theo grit his teeth, regained his composure, and nodded with a frown. “Right leg.”

I dashed forward as soon as his stance was up. Theo blinked, frozen for just a second, then swung wildly toward me. I bent, slid, and tripped Theo with my sword as I passed. He tumbled, rolled to his side as I tried to strike, and recovered.

When he rose, he wasn’t smirking anymore.

I dashed at him, and we danced left and right. Theo jabbed at my arm, I cut at his leg. At some point he got in another hit on my arm, but we didn’t stop fighting. We were panting, fuming, letting it all out without hold of stances or rules.

When we got hit, we didn’t put the limb away. Arms that were long gone swung out, grabbing for a fistful of shirt or hair as we fought with everything within us. I thrust at his arm, but he flicked it down, then drew a strike across my face. It caught my cheek, but we kept going.

I tried to hit his side, but rather than try and avoid it Theo got even closer. I hit him, but up in my face, he snarled and rammed the hilt of his sword into my stomach.

It knocked the wind out of me. I folded over his sword, coughing, and he threw me to the ground. I ate a mouthful of dirt, rolled, and dropped my sword.

Theo stood over me, looming. “Alright,” I said, and held up my hands. “I forfeit.”

Now, children get angry over silly things. We had both gotten pent up at times, frustrated at each other for a thousand unresolved reasons. Little cords, never untied between brothers. That’s the sort of look I expected in my brother’s face: one of frustration. But I still remember the look in his eyes. They were cold—hollow, almost—as he panted. He cocked his head to one side, chin up.

Then he stepped away and flicked some sweat at me. That imperceptible look was replaced with a grin. “I accept.”

I exhaled, sat up, and the two of us laughed.

Two hours later, we sat around the hearth with my father, nursing bruises and listening to a verbal beating. Our father heard of how we broke the rules and went at one another without restraint. “That’s how you get hurt,” he said, pointing at the blossoming bruise on my stomach. “Stick to the rules, and you’ll learn. They exist to keep you safe.”

But for a moment in the rush, I had seen my brother look at me like an equal. The moment at the end, I buried until later. But in the middle, it felt like that was how it was supposed to be: standing toe-to-toe, fighting for all we were worth. I don’t know how long it’s been since Theo looked at me like that: like his brother, like family, like a rival.

After the chastisement, my father—always keen to pair justice with encouragement—still asked how it went. We both excitedly told him our version of the fight as he slowly and liberally applied whiteberry paste to our bruises. The stuff is fantastic, if you’ve never used it. Numbs the pain with the added benefit of a slight healing effect. Great for kids who often return home with bumps and bruises.

Mirai probably used more than the rest of us combined.

But that’s beside the point. This was when my father first decided to talk to us about Veins. Theo and I had both seen them before around Rakuken as they were used by Wargraves, farmers, and of course, my father. We had asked both Mom and Dad, and had gotten the surface-level explanation. Magic, and something out of our reach. They were the stuff of heroes.

This was where my love of them truly started[1] . Later I would see feats of my father’s abilities, and marvel at the intricate workings of Lev’s contraptions or Rane’s relics, but sitting there, surrounding the hearth, was where the fire was lit.

It started when my father had finished applying the white paste on me, and was adding the finishing touches to the pelt on Theo’s leg. “How can I get powers like yours?” I had asked.

My father had been cooking a hare on the fire of the hearth, and turned the spit slowly with one hand as he handed the jar of paste to Theo. “A Vein, you mean?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I keep losing to Theo, and I want to be pick him up and throw him over when he cheats.”

“Hey!” called Theo, but he was grinning.

Kai smiled and flipped his hand palm up, gesturing the two of us over to look. He drew a triangle in his palm, stopping at each of the points. “There are three, one for each of the states: solid, liquid, and breath.”

“That’s everything, isn’t it?” said Theo quietly.

Kai held up a solitary finger. “Everything physical. Parts of the world do not fall under a state, such as light and fire, that we cannot control. Beyond the things between, Veins have the ability to interact with all matter, so long as it is within their state.”

That’s when I asked the question that had been burning in my chest for too long: “Which one do I have?” I’ve mentioned that Kai had a Breath Vein, though I assume you already knew that. My mother was a Vein as well, so it stood to reason that I would inherit one.

“We don’t know yet,” said my father. “Part of the decision is up to you, should you have one. The Choice comes when your Vein awakens, where you will decide between Foundation or Control.” My dad rolled up his sleeves and held out his arms. Theo and I scooted in as a green light shot through his veins, running up from his fingertips to his shoulders. “I control Breath, and as such…”

The glow in his arms grew, and the previously still air of the living room surged toward his hand, drawn to the light. My father supported his right arm on his knee as it lost muscle, growing thin and gaunt. In response, the wind did not just run toward his, but started to circle around it. In that moment, it was like a miniature storm had grown in our house, localized around the hearth. The wind buffeted the fire and tossed our hair.

Theo and I laughed, feeling the wind. Little wisps of light from my father’s veins trickled out and mixed with the wind, which I now know was him imbuing it with a little of his Identity, giving the wisps a piece of himself. In this way, they were visible to Theo and I for just a moment before they slipped back away into the realm of the invisible.

But for that short moment, I saw them: the winds dancing and playing to some unheard melody. They were so free in that second, in that heartbeat, that I captured the memory of that day with both of my tiny fists and never let it go.

When my father released the wind, he sucked in a deep, extended breath. “That’s the consequence,” he said, breathing hard. “Every second uses your breath. Thus the name.” He smiled, and droplets of sweat glistened on his forehead.

Theo and I were utterly enamored with the concept. We asked him everything, receiving in return how Breath didn’t just control the air, but all gasses, and how it would trade the fundamental force of life, Vis, for control. We asked about Founding, and how they grow matter, and any other question that had been itching to be asked.

We didn’t understand most of the answers, and wouldn’t for some time. But I was focused on one thing: how I could, as fast as possible, become a Breathbinder like my father. So I could see those eddies on the wind again, and perhaps ride with them on the currents of the mountain.

And, of course, so I could beat my brother.

There’s chapter 3! It’s fun to write both first and third person, because I get the best of a more flexible and intimate style with first person, as well as an easier book to write with third. I’m definitely more comfortable with third person, though.

Continue on with chapter 4 here!

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