an immersive audiobook podcast experience from the visionary
storytellers at Vertical Media Book 1, Embers of Rebellion.
Chapter 5 Halcyon Once wood stacked the last dish in the
cupboard, he trudged down the cramped hallway and started
snuffing out candles with stubs of his fingers.
The warm lights stretched into shadows, then vanished.
The wooden floor squeaked under his weight.
With each doorway, the house grew darker and quieter.
By the time Ward slipped into his own bedroom, the only sound
left was the faint crackle of embers cooling in the hearth.
Sir didn't move from his spot. He kept his eyes closed until
enough time had passed to be sure Ward wouldn't notice.
Then he stood up, stretched his legs, and listened to the faint
Creek settling through the ceiling.
Ward's room door made a dull thump.
Sir waited a little longer, breathing in the damp air that
always crept indoors after sunset.
Then he bent down and started the routine Ward had drilled
into him. Knife, rucksack, blanket.
Don't forget the knife. Ward's only rule.
The room wasn't much to look at, not after all these years.
There was no clutter, not a single trinket or useless thing.
Sir's bed frame, the low table, the battered box at the foot of
the bed. They were all straight lines
joined at right angles, put together with his own small
hands. He'd never been given a toy, not
once. Ward had pressed tools into his
grip from the time he was old enough to punch a nail through
softwood. By his 10th birthday, Sen knew
how to keep a saw sharp, not how to throw a ball.
Sometimes, lying on the thin mattress, he'd glance at the
furniture and think, I built this before I even knew what I
was doing. He thought about that a lot more
recently, the thoughts coming sharper on days when Ward was in
one of his moods. A trickle of Starlight came
through the window. Sere had sewn the curtains
himself, red cloth cut from shirts Ward couldn't mend.
The stitches were crooked the first year, Neeta the second.
Almost perfect now. He ran his hand along the scene,
distracted, until the rough weave caught his palm.
He finished packing, rolled the blanket into a tight log, and
tied it off with twine. For a moment, he looked at the
small collection of his life's possessions.
Knife, blanket, rucksack. No pictures, no baubles.
He wondered if he'd forgotten something, but there was nothing
left in the room that was his. He slung the rucksack over his
shoulder, pulled on his boots, and slid open the side door.
With a small practice step, he eased outside and let the door
close behind him. The night was humid and close,
filled with the thick smell of wet dirt and wood smoke.
With each slow stride down the steps, Sir let the mental
picture of Ward fade to nothing. At the bottom of the porch,
Balu, Vt, Lavu, and Rolon waited in the dirt Rd., shuffling on
their feet. In the moonlight, their faces
were hard to see, just sets of eyes and teeth and elbows
jutting out against the shapes of the houses.
The bigger boys made a show of checking imaginary watches,
leaning on one another, cracking jokes in voices pitched to
carry. Balu pointed at Seyer's blanket,
pantomimed wrapping himself up to sleep, and Lavu made snoring
noises. Vitty swatted at Lavu's head,
missed on purpose, and smirked. Roland, shorter and slighter,
stood farther back, hands in his pockets, watching.
SER caught his eye, nodded tight and forced to smile.
He joined their huddle. Balu clapped a heavy palm on
Sail's back, laughing too loud, and SER grunted but kept his
posture loose. No point pushing back.
Balu was bigger and always looking for a reason.
With little ceremony, they started down the Main St. feet
crunching over loose stones and packed earth.
The sky was cloudless, black and high, sprinkled everywhere with
stars. Yellow light pooled in the
windows on either side of the road, flickering behind cloth
curtains. Quiet voices drifted out,
mothers over stewpots, someone tuning a broken harp, a dog's
bark fading behind a fence. The boys followed the rhythmic
sounds of their own boots moving as a tangle of elbows,
shoulders, and laughter toward the village edge.
They passed under the wooden arch of the front gate.
Walls built from spiked logs sharpened with axes loomed on
either side, casting striped shadows that stretched into the
jungle. Lavu was the first to duck under
the climbing vines, then Viti, who swaggered as if daring the
darkness to reach for him. SER and Roland followed with
silent steps, and Balu brought up the back, spinning the handle
of his rucksack in a lazy circle.
Deeper in the jungle, tall trees pressed in, crowding away even
the moon. A clutter of leaves cut up the
Starlight, sending speckles down to mottle the path.
The ground was uneven, but the boys knew every root, every dip
and turn. Their feet carried them over
logs and stones as if they'd made the trail themselves.
The path wound uphill, and with every step the air thickened
with the green sour smell of rotting leaves.
The boys talked non-stop, voices overlapping, words lost in the
threads of laughter and argument.
Balu tried to trip Lavu and nearly got a face full of mud
when Lavu darted away at the last second.
Viti lobbed a stick at Balu's knuckles missed, and Balu
threatened to leave Viti in the jungle alone.
None of them slowed down, even when Lavou veered off the path
for a shortcut and everyone else chased after, crashing through
ferns. All at once, the trees ended,
and the boys burst into the clearing.
Here, the junk and vines gave way to Flat Earth, scuffed and
packed by the feet of boys who'd come before them.
A faint ring of charred stones marked the remains of old fires.
The Cliff edge loomed a body's length away.
Past it, a solid wall of green forest rolled out across the
valley in the distance. As always, Mt Voor rose over the
horizon, its peak shadowy and red under a haze of sleeping
stars. Nobody spoke for a moment.
The wind pushed over the top of the plateau, cold and sweet.
The forest below rustled, and smudges of Starlight revealed
scenes in the trees like veins in a leaf.
Far away, the volcano gathered the shadows around itself as if
sugaring over At the base, orange pinpricks from the
distant lava fields winked on and off.
Sarah was the first to move. He shrugged the rucksack off,
picked out a spot near the fire pit, and tossed his gear down.
The others followed, arguing over whose tent went where until
Balu, the biggest end a debate with a grunt and a three-step
stomp toward the jungle fringe. Two battered tents went up fast,
familiar motions performed without torque.
Roland carried stones for the ring.
Lavu gathered dry branches. Vt sat on his heels, picking
birds off his socks. Unpacking turned to mild chaos.
The tents rattled as Viti wrangled with an unruly rope.
Lavu pulled leaves from inside the tent and whipped them at
Roland, who yelped when one stuck to his neck.
Balu unrolled his pack, rummaging for something deep at
the bottom. He straightened, lifted the two
handed steel Mace and turned the heavy weapon over in his hands.
The thing was nearly as long as his arm, thick headed, pocked
from old blows, but gleaming where Balu had worn the metal
smooth. He gripped it by the handle,
flexed his fingers and leaned it against a stump.
The others watched with a kind of respect.
Balu's father had given him the Mace at 13, knowing what it
meant to hand over a weapon too heavy for most boys arms.
Viti unsheathed a hatchet, its blade dark blue except where the
light caught on a faint nick along the edge.
He ran his thumb across the surface, grinned, and set it
beside his boots. Lavu rested his machete on his
knee, the blade dull and pitted but the handle smooth from years
of use, beating back the jungle edge.
He'd used it so much that Sir sometimes forgot there'd been a
time when Lavu's family didn't expect him to clear paths with
it. Roland dumped his rucksack, let
the old slingshot fall onto his lap, and picked it up with a
slow smile. It was a simple thing, AY shaped
frame, dark with oil, strung with a band of rubber that
Roland had scavenged from a merchant's broken cart.
Sir watched as Roland slid his thumb along the split leather
pocket, checking for tears. He'd helped Roland build it,
stripping a Blackwood branch until it sat curved and even in
his palm, smooth and strong. Sez's own knife was nothing to
show off about unless you knew what you were looking for.
He unsheathed it, turned the blade sideways and let the
Starlight shiver down the edge. The bone handle fit his palm
tight, bone white, shot through with pale cracks.
The old man had given it to him, half as a gift and half as a
test, after a fight in the yard that had ended too quickly.
SER had never seen another handle quite like it.
He thought it was ivory, but didn't know better.
Ward, as usual, didn't explain anything.
He didn't have to, Sir, only knew.
The knife had cut everything he needed it to, from roots to
stringy garden snakes. He'd never had to sharpen it.
The night air deepened. Someone coughed.
Viti swung his axe lazily, chopping a dead branch in two.
Lavu used the machete to thump the earth between his feet,
leaving indentations that vanished in the dust.
Roland tried to skip a stone off the fire pit.
Rim Sir watched each boy move, calculating how long it would
take for the reckless mood to shift to business.
Balu took charge, as he always did.
Let's get moving. He said, his voice so deep it
rattled the stones. No point in waiting till the
damn thing hears us coming. He lifted his Mace, checked the
balance and nodded to the others.
Weapons found hands, blankets and bags dropped in a loose
pile, and the five fell into single file without a word.
Wordlessly, they traced A faint animal track into the
undergrowth. The knight wrapped around them,
thicker than before, Gnats biting air close and rank.
Only the beams of moonlight that cut between leaves showed how
far they'd come. It's crouched in thorny bushes,
barely a breath moving his chest, knife clamped between his
teeth, he pressed his face against rough bark, eyes
straining for movement. In the black around him, the
sounds of life had faded away. There was only his heartbeat,
the damp soil under his knees, and the knowledge that the
others waited. Not far off, he could hear the
snap and crunch of Balu's Mace, every swing meant to send noise
surging through the forest. Sometimes the head struck a
trunk, sometimes it hit the ground.
Each hit sounded a warning, meant to flush any creature
stupid or desperate enough to ignore the clamor.
The others were scattered through the brush, each playing
their part. Viti had found a bare patch to
kneel in, arms tensed around his hatchet.
Roland hid in the crook of a split tree, sling at the ready,
eyes too wide for the dark. Lavu hung back, blade resting
against his thigh. Once, the Hunt had seemed like
the center of the world. As younger kids, they'd gone out
dozens of times with nothing but sticks.
Now, with Twitama silent behind them, teeth in their hands and
real hunger turning the evening sharp, the game had changed.
Their target tonight was a fur bore, mother to a small pack.
Viti had tracked her through churned soil, found where she'd
rubbed the trees raw. Now she was supposed to blunder
into their net. Balu would scare her out and the
rest would drop her fast. The waiting made Sir's muscles
ache. His mouth tasted of metal.
He blinked sweat from his eyes and started to drift, mind
replaying the moment with the woman in the sword.
Her face hovered just out of reach in his thoughts, the dead
look, the shifting of her gaze right before he'd come to.
He forced himself to focus on the brush, tried not to shiver
even as the cold started to slip in through his shirt.
Leaves shifted in front of him, Sir tensed, right hand curling
tightly around his knife handle. Something big moved through the
brush. Not Balu, too quiet, not Vitty,
too heavy. He heard the ragged snort before
he saw it. Then, in a blur, the fur bore
barrelled out, eyes wild tusks gory with old blood.
Shit. SER jolted to his feet, knife in
hand, scrabbling backward as the animal came at him.
Roots caught his boots. He ran.
The noise split the silence wide open, sending birds flapping out
from the branches behind him. The ground thumped, the boar's
hooves close, heavy. Larvu shouted ahead.
Shit indeed. Roland yelled, his voice
trailing out from somewhere above.
Vitty, already hyped to the edge, shrieked.
Here we go, your mind tonight then the forest erupted, a mess
of shouts, curses, boys dodging through trees to duck a branch
stump catching his shin, and felt the hot breath of the boar
at his back. Viti flew by, aiming his axe at
the open air. Hare.
Wild Lavu, seeing the boar's backside, sprinted and latched
onto the bristly tail. The animal's scream rose high
and unearthly. The tusks slashed back, and Lavu
jerked his hand away just as blood spilled down his knuckles.
Fuck. Lavu hit the ground hard,
cradling his wounded palm. That bitch pig took a chunk out
of me. It's all right.
Viti's voice carried, gasping and out of breath.
I'm going to tackle her. They kept running hard,
hammering hard. He glanced over his shoulder,
branches breaking, leaves tumbling.
No sign of Roland, only a flurry of movement as everyone piled
into the chase. Viti, never want to wait, lunged
as Sir cleared the way. The older boy caught the pig
square across the back and locked his arms around her
shoulders. The pig bellowed, pitching to
the side. Then, as fast as lightning, a
tongue of fire ripped out of her mouth.
The orange heat flashed across Viti's face, pulling a curse
from his throat. Viti tumbled off to the side,
rolling through wet leaves, shouting unintelligibly.
The boar never paused. Before SER even got his bearings
again, she crashed back the way she'd come, leaving mud and
broken shrubs behind. SER slowed, doubled over, and
coughed up the dust. Vitty, still cursing, smacked
his fists into the dirt. The others regrouped, Balu
grinning, La Voux gripping his bleeding hand and Rolon dropping
down from the lowest branches, a flush in his cheeks.
Balu shrugged, voice tired. Looks like she escaped to fight
another day. Fun, fun.
Viti shoved past Balu, whirling to glare at Roland.
This is war. He jabbed a finger at the path
the boar had taken. Next time I'll finish her
myself. Levoux laughed, showing bloody
teeth. Just not to grab her tail, you
dumb bastard. The group collected themselves,
brushing off sticks and burrs, and slogged up the hill to camp.
Sarah limped, wiping sweat off his brow, the scrape on his leg
burning with every step. The night was pitched now, no
moon, no breeze, only stars. The clearing was unchanged, 2
ragged tents, fire pit boots tossed in a heap.
The boys slumped to the ground, bellies rumbling, dust sticking
to their throats. Roland dug around the fire pit
for leftover coals, fingers black.
By the time he gave up. Balu stretched out, flat hands
behind his head, eyes closed. Nobody said a word about food.
Instead, they joked and teased. Talk drifted from fights in the
field to who could spit the farthest to stories.
Some true, most lies about girls they've never spoken to.
The kind of talk boys fell into when there was nothing else to
do. At some point, Vitty announced
he'd had enough. You bunch smell like burnt pig
and sweat. I'm sleeping.
He stomped into his tent, followed by Balu and Lavu.
Levou paused, eyeing SER and Roland.
You 2 not coming in? SER shook his head, tossing the
deerskin blanket down by the ashes.
Nah, stars are better out here. Suit yourself, enjoy the
mosquitoes. The tent flap sealed, muffling a
new round of laughter. SER stretched out, arms wide.
Roland copied him, careful not to touch.
The two watched the sky, not speaking, says thoughts frayed,
drifting between memories. The ache in his muscles, the
hunger in his belly, and the massive wheel of stars grinding
through the black. Nothing felt easy.
Life in the field, life at Ward's house, life in the shadow
of Mount Voor. But for a moment, lying under
that scattered light with a friend breathing beside him, he
didn't care. High above, something moved.
A flash of blue and gold gone again in a blink as it headed
for the volcano. Miles away in Lethia, the world
spun on a high room in the Black Spire, thick stone walls big
enough for three men to stand side by side.
Heavy curtains blocked all real light.
In the middle of the floor, a round table waited.
Green felt worn to threads piled neatly to one side, playing
cards, their backs swirling red and white on the other, A single
card, face up, the Queen of Diamonds.
A man sat at the table, Black robe, black gloves, a face white
as moon milk. The light overhead shaped his
features into something sharp. He tapped the table once, twice,
then pulled his fingers away and reached for the deck.
His hands moved fast. Cards flicked end over end, lip
to lip. The sound echoed of empty
chairs. Let's show the whole flop, he
said. The room didn't answer.
He liked the game, the feel of cards under his fingers.
He was a man made for small troubles and big chaos, never
satisfied. Sitting still, Lithia's air
always felt heavy, thicker somehow than anywhere else.
He'd learned to take pleasure where he could find it, mostly
by making other people miserable.
There was always somebody who could be set off, sometimes a
king, sometimes a beggar. He lifted the top card by the
edge, ran his thumb up the length and flipped it onto the
green felt. Next card, same motion.
Next. In the circle of lamplight the
cards gleamed, sharp edges thrown into relief.
Beyond the table, shadows ate at pebbles, stacked books, piles of
coins, dice that never rolled. Fair.
The deck was an old thing. Each card could change
everything if played in the right order.
He'd watched it happen often enough to believe it.
Come on, he muttered, more to himself than anyone.
No more waiting. 2 cards dealt face down.
His hands hesitated, then flicked them over. 1/2 The air
in the Spire went thinner, colder.
I got, he whispered, the words sharp.
He glanced at the cards, jaw flexing under pale skin.
Queen of spades, ace, Jack. The game had changed.
Stairs Breath slowed as he settled into the earth beside
Roland. No more talk came from the
tents. Only the jungle whispered a high
whine of insects and the distant Creek of bamboo pulled by the
wind. Roland kept still, except for
his fingers playing absently in the dirt beside his hip.
They watched the sky together, each boy silent in his own
thoughts. In Twitumam, stars hung thick
out here. The patterns looked sharper,
like the sky was closer and the world underneath.
Smaller clouds drifted slow, pushed by chilly air that ran
between the boy's blankets. Roland shifted closer, just
enough that their shoulders almost but didn't touch.
Azza didn't speak. He kept his eyes on a crooked
line of stars above Mount Voor, mouth pressed tight.
He counted the flashes of that cobalt bird flying E, waiting to
see if it would come back. He knew it wouldn't.
He closed his eyes for a second. Sounds from the jungle still
carried leaves brushing high branches, the soft chuff of
animals moving out of the boy's path, the snap of a twig deeper
in the trees. Every so often.
A night bird called, low and tremulous, carried far over the
canopy. Somewhere between the rise and
fall of that sound, Sir drifted. He woke sometime later to the
Press of cold air across his cheek.
The fire pit had gone out completely, only the haze of
spent colds left to signal where warmth used to be.
Roland snored gently beside him, mouth wide, one arm flung over
his eyes. Sir rolled to his back.
The clearing looked different after midnight.
Mist pooled along the grass, curled around the tent lines.
Sir barely moved, measuring his own heartbeat, silent and
steady. Ward never would have allowed
him to stay out like this. But Ward had gone long to bed
and couldn't hear. The thought brought a dull
weight to Serre's stomach, the familiar weight that always
crept in when he pictured the empty house on the far side of
the field. The branch cracked at the tree
line. Serre's fingers went for his
knife, closing around the bone handle.
He stared out where the mist met the woods, counted his breaths
and willed whatever watched them to move on.
Another minute, nothing more, only the ordinary shuffle of
animal life. No threat.
He let his eyes fall shut again, but didn't sleep.
All hours before dawn passed that way, eyes open, listening,
thinking of the field and the blood hot rush of the hunt.
The faces of the boys in the dark, the days stacked behind
them like empty plates. No dreams came, just the cold
and the dull ache of limbs pressed to the ground.
A tinny whistle dragged Sere upright as morning crept along
the grass. Lavu trudged past, shoulders
hunched, lips curled in a lazy smirk.
Sun's almost up. Lavu called to nobody in
particular. Figure we'd have a quick one
before heading back. Balu emerged from the tent
behind, already armouring himself in loud bravado.
If Viti, stop snoring. He jabbed at the tent flap,
where Viti's feet now stuck out from beneath the cloth.
Viti rolled, hair plastered to one side.
I'll show you a quick one, Balu. You can fetch my boots while
you're at it. Zur pushed upright, blanket
falling aside, blinking the dew out of his eyelashes.
A stripe of sunrise lined the farthest edge of the forest,
painting the sky a flat Gray. Roland was last to wake,
scowling at the cold air, arms wrapped tight around his chest.
A sluggish silence hung over the group as they kicked out the
tents, folded them up, and stowed away whatever had not
been trampled in the night. Nobody wanted to speak of hunger
or failure. The fire pit, useless now, took
on the significance of any old memory.
Important for a second, irrelevant the next.
Balu hoisted his Mace and dared Lavu to another short match.
Both of them circled the edge of the clearing, taking blind
swings at shadows, their laughter bouncing from the
rocks. Roland dragged his blanket
across the dirt, trying to shake the worst of the wet from it
before stowing it away. So watched with half interest,
rubbing at the sore patch on his shin where the roots had grabbed
him the night before. He lingered near the edge of the
clearing, eyes drifting to the drop where the land fell away
into the trees below. Mist still clung to the middle
canopy, swirling in the first heat of day.
He traced the line of the jungle with his finger, found the spot
where their chase had run out of ground.
Viti threw a stone off the Cliff, waited for the soft crash
when it landed somewhere he couldn't see.
Everyone paused, just for a moment, to listen to nothing.
Breakfast was a silent affair. Each boy chewed strips of last
week's bread or gnawed the hard rind of cheese someone's mother
had tucked in their pocket. Barlow passed a grimy flask to
Lavo, who took a long swallow and passed it back without
looking up. By the time the tents were down
and gear stuffed in packs, the sun had begun bleeding through
the cloud bank over Mount Viewer.
The higher the sun went, the louder the insects became in the
Bush. The urgency built.
Someone would notice them gone if they missed midday work.
No one wanted questions. They left the clearing in their
usual order, Balu in front, Viti at his side, Lavu close behind.
Sarah and Roland brought up the rear, picking their way along
the old trail. It was easier going down,
though. Rocks turned treacherous, and
more than once someone's foot slipped and sent a shower of
pebbles skittering down the hill.
Conversation returned as the air warmed.
The older boys teased about the hunt, inventing stories about a
boar twice the size of any scene, with fire streaming out
both ends. There was laughter, easier and
sharper in the sunlight than in the close dark.
Roland sidled up to SER, voice low.
Think we'll ever get one? SER shrugged, not promising
anything. Roland chewed his lip, kicking a
clump of dust. I'd never heard a beast scream
like that before, not from so close.
He gripped his slingshot in both hands.
Good. Been worse.
Sir said he didn't mean the boar.
Back through the gate, the boys spread out.
The village woke with them. People already at work in the
fields, others building cooking fires.
Kids chasing each other through muddy yards.
Women scolded from windows. Men leaned on fences, watching.
Sir ducked past them with his head low.
Roland peeled off toward the little house where he slept on a
cot in the kitchen. Balu and Vitti staggered toward
the water through, and Larvu clapped says shoulder harder
than necessary, then jogged off, machete swinging at his side.
For a second Sir stood alone in the dust, breathing village air
thick with wood smoke and dung. Then, because there was no
choice, he walked home. Inside, Ward had already left
for the far field. The kitchen smelled of cold
coffee. Sara's boots made prints across
the swept floor, mud falling in neat circles around his steps.
He tossed his blanket over the foot of his bed, hid his knife
under the pillow, and washed his hands in the crooked basin by
the back door. He stood there, hands dripping,
chest tight. The light was different indoors,
grey and weak, filtered through his own stitching along the
curtain seams. He thought about the Cliff,
about the stars wasting themselves in the big empty sky,
about the woman in the blade and the volcano and all that hadn't
happened behind him. The world creaked on old wood,
old rules. He flexed his hands, dried them
on his shirt, and went out to the field.
Cross the land. The day slid forward, up in the
black Spire. The man in the black robe turned
the cards over and over, marvelling at the luck.
The queen of spades, the ace, the Jack.
He swept the three cards together, felt the points bite
into gloved fingers, and riffled the deck one last time.
The quiet in the tower pressed in, louder than any crowd.
He stared at the empty seats, the places marked in green, felt
for players who would never come.
The circle of pale light moved across the table with the
turning sun, coins stacked high, untouched.
A small knife scored the table top in three fine, slanting
lines. He traced those lines with a
fingertip, pressed the queen to the table, and drew the rest of
the deck to him. He dealt new hands to empty
guards, imagined their faces broken.
King, lost soldier, orphan, crying for what he'd never have.
Every game ended the same way. His hands on the last card, cold
wind scraping through the glassless slit behind him.
His eyes slipped shut. He listened to the breathing of
the stone, felt the room settle. The world waited beneath his
feet, turn by turn as he took his second step.
The world settled to somewhere far below.
The sun rose and touched everything but him.
A grey unease moved through the morning light as Sir trudged to
his place in the field. His boots picked up wet black
earth. The sky over to Itoma hung flat
and colourless. The grass lay beaten, pressed by
night rain that had come and gone in the hours before dawn.
Familiar tools rusted hoe bent. Rake stood where he'd left them
the day before. He wiped the last sleep out of
his eyes and started working without ceremony.
The soil clumped beneath his blade.
He carved rose through it, setting a slow, ruthless rhythm.
Each stroke sent sharp pain through the scrape on his shin,
but he kept the muscles steady, eyes skipping between ground and
horizon. It had to be done fast and clean
before Ward came through to check.
Farther up the field, a pair of thin oxen jostled against each
other, their harnesses creaking. One of the Narelle brothers, a
year older than Sere, hunched over a cedar, muttering to
himself with every plod of the animals in the muddy rose.
Sere recognized the lines in the boy's face, drawn and harsh lips
always tight. The Narelles kept to their own,
rarely speaking outside of what needed to be said.
The village clung to its silence while they worked.
Sun edged higher, blinding as it crested over the row of stunted
trees that marked the far side of Ward's land.
Sweat formed under Seer's patched shirt.
In the middle distance, sound drifted, the high clatter of
someone fixing a tenement fence, shouts from kids forced into
early chores. Once, the shriek of a chicken
carried above, the wind fading almost before Seer could look
up, he finished the last row. The dirt stuck to his hands and
gathered under his nails, turning skin to a kind of armor.
He wiped his palms on his pants, checked that the Roe was
straight enough, and moved to dig weeds from the next patch.
The day passed in work, nothing but the motion of labour to mark
one hour from the next. His thoughts flickered back,
always to the night before. Roland snoring, the smell of
smoked earth, the giddy crush of the hunt.
At some point, Ward appeared at the edge of the field and
watched. His face showed nothing but
calculation. When Sir turned to nod, Ward
jerked his chin at a patch of wild beans that had broken
through the tilled earth. Without a word, Sir moved to
clear them. That was their system.
No praise, no complaint, just the sideways language of hands
and glances of small corrections that stung as much as a switch.
By midday, says back ached and his mouth tasted of dirt.
He leaned on the handle of the hoe, looking for purpose in the
orderly rose. Beyond the fields, Mount Voor
filled the sky, it's shape a constant.
Older than the village, older than Ward's rules, older than
anything Serre could name. He wondered how far away the
volcano truly was, if anyone had walked to its slope and come
back to tell about it. Ward called him from across the
field. Breaks over.
Come on, no softness in it, just the demand of work.
Sarah wanted to spit, but didn't.
He gathered his tools, followed Ward past the patchwork fences
and across the grit path toward the house.
Inside, the kitchen smelled faintly of onions and mould, the
windows streaked with last night's dew.
Ward set out bread and a jug of Waterdale.
They sat at the table, eating without looking at each other.
Serre remembered the edge in Viti's voice when he joked about
war. He remembered Roland's quiet
questions and the scrape of Lavu's blade on the jungle floor
that was their world. Nights made for chasing what
couldn't be caught, and the ugly morning after work without
promise, no reward waited at the end.
Not for boys and not for grown men only.
The pattern of days. Field to home, meal to worry,
sleep to hunt to field again. Ward finished first, chair
scraping the floor as he rose. Don't forget to wash the basin,
old muds caking. He didn't look back as he left.
Sir Chude swigged his drink and worked the kinks from his neck.
He washed up, scrubbing the black from his hands, watching
the water swirl in chipped porcelain.
Outside, someone was shouting. Maybe roll on, maybe someone
else. SER leaned on the sill, elbows
digging into stained wood, and let his gaze travel over the
yard. A pair of crows picked at
garbage where the grass stopped and the dust started.
Somewhere a dog barked, cutting through the low hum of voices.
He dried his hands on his shirt and stepped out, back into the
Blair of afternoon heat. Downriver, the village centre
was waking up. Merchants with shabby wares
staked out corners, shouting over one another.
Little knots of children begged for coins or scraps.
Old women sat under awnings, pulling at threads and gossiping
about whose roof would leak next.
The skirted the edge of the bustle, careful to duck past the
older boys. He passed by Lavu, who lounged
near the water through with a swagger, tossing his machete
from hand to hand. Balu snored on a bench, hat over
his face, oblivious. Vt, down by the edge of the
trading stalls, argued with a red faced peddler over the price
of eel jerky. No one called out to Sir.
He didn't expect it. He moved with the quiet
confidence of boys who'd learned to keep to themselves.
Sometimes he watched Roland the Runt get caught up in a tangle
of older kids. Roland's voice carried, but
never far enough to help. SER kept moving, not wanting to
explain the bruise swelling tight around his eye or admit to
anyone, friend or otherwise, how close he'd come to being gored
the night before. He crossed the square to the
storage shed, where a crooked sign hung by a bent nail.
The door stuck, as always. He braced a shoulder against it
and shoved until the warped wood finally gave way inside.
The smell of grain and mould filled his nose.
Sacks slumped against walls too deep, patched and repatched with
dirty string. He found what Ward had told him
to get, a crate of clay bottles, heavier than expected.
He hefted them out the door, stacking them one by one under
the mud crusted awning of the shed.
Sweat trickle down the back of his neck.
The work burned, but it was better than sitting idle where
Ward could see and find other jobs.
Afterward, Sere let himself fade back through side alleys, where
broken cobbles cut up the dirt and shadows ran thick.
He stopped once to drink from the pump, then skirted the edge
of the fields. It was easy to disappear there,
no one to boss him, nothing to say but the private language of
insects and the brush of weeds against his boots.
Distant clear in the sharp afternoon, a bell rang from the
church on the far rise. The echo came thin, a reminder
of how hours passed when nobody cared to count them.
He found a place near the rocks where the water cut along the
boundary of Ward's land, a gutted stream half choked with
grass and trash. Sitting there, Said drew his
knees to his chest, eyes on the floe.
Mud slipped past, swirling around stones carrying leaves
and bits of feather pulled in from upstream.
His jaw throbbed from the blow he'd taken on the hunt.
He touched the side of his face, let the pain settle there.
He listened. Rats in the brush, a splash as a
frog leaped into the brown water, the flutter of birds from
the top of a lemon tree. They sounded close, unconcerned.
Tere thought of the stories the boys had spun the night before,
voices wild and oversized against the safe dark.
Nobody admitted to fear after, not out loud, but each of them
glanced at the ground or at the night sky a little longer, as if
the shadow of the fair boar lingered.
Trails of ash from their abandoned fire covered the back
of his hand. A stone rolled in the dirt
behind him. Roland again, always quiet in
his approach. The younger boy hovered at the
edge, looking like he'd been kicked awake but didn't want to
leave. You hear about market trouble?
Roland asked, voice barely above the buzz of insects just passing
through. Sir lied.
Roland tilted the mud, not looking up.
Someone's goat got loose. Someone crashed a crate of oil.
Vt says there's going to be a fight.
Tear shrugged. He waited, not wanting to ask
what Roland really meant. They both stared at a spot where
the water caught the sun, rippling shadows onto the roots
of the Willow tree. Roland spoke again, quieter.
You ever going to tell what you saw about the sword?
SER watched a bit of clouds slide across the sun.
Don't think I will. Roland huffed in
dissatisfaction, but said nothing more.
The two sat in companionable silence, listening to the day
crawl forward. The wind moved softer now,
smelling of cut grass and the Tang of burned trash from the
edge of the village. When the bell rang again, 4
strokes for the afternoon, Roland got up.
Word'll have your skin if you're late.
Sarah wiped his hands on his knees, stood up, and followed
Roland back up the path. Heat pressed from above, thick
on shuttered roofs, feet dragged in tired, familiar roots.
By the time he returned home, Ward's voice was already cutting
through the open window, sharp, impatient, asking about the
bottles, the time, the idle lapse in duty.
SA answered with as few words as possible, moving through each
motion so Ward wouldn't find reason to strike out or lecture.
He spent the rest of the afternoon in the small yard,
splitting, kindling, mending broken fence posts with bits of
twine and bent nails. Sweat streaked dust across his
cheeks, and when he paused, he felt the hum of exhaustion
strung through every muscle. No one came for him.
No one offered news or comfort or blame.
Even Ward disappeared after a while, leaving Sir the fading
light and a job half done. Around the time dusk inched over
the tops of the trees, he stopped to lean and catch his
breath. Inside, the candles would need
relighting. Soon the room would sink back
into the cycle from which it had started.
Sir ran his finger along a crack in the fence post, tracing it
top to bottom. Tomorrow there would be more
work. There was always more.
The space between the clearing on the Cliff and the space by
the water was gone. Night pressed in from corners,
marking the return to the fields, the house, the world.
He could not choose. He looked up once, searching for
stars too early to show. The sky was empty, a flat,
scraped Gray. He went inside, up in the black
Spire, the world's heart always colder than anywhere below.
The man in black sat at the same green table.
The twin cards, Queen and Jack, lay untouched under the lamp's
dirty shade. His hands dealt endless rounds
to players who would never come, pushed coins that no hand called
for, practiced vows and threats in silence.
He hummed softly under his breath, a tune with no words, no
tune at all. He waited, as always, for the
sign to tell him when to move. The day drained from the city.
The Spire remained sunk in permanent dusk.
It did not matter to the dealer, only the game, only the next
hand. He drew another card, heard the
soft papery scratch. Never looked up.
In the kitchen, Sere rinsed his hands in a chipped metal basin.
The water came out cold, biting the cuts where the rake blisters
had split. He dried his hands on the rag
hanging from the oven door. Night pressed at the windows, a
slick shape against warped panes of glass.
Shadows flickered in corners, stretching and pooling where
candlelight could not reach. Ward clumped in from the back,
boots leaving patches of muck on the floorboards, jaw working as
if chewing the words before he spat them out.
You finished those fence posts there?
Nodded, eyes down, body angled small.
He wiped the last of the dirt from his palms and braced for
inspection. Ward stalked past, checked the
line of the posts through the narrow window, grunted.
Eat, Ward said, pulling 1/2 loaf from a basket.
Not much left. He poured watered beer into two
tin mugs. SER took his and sipped, tasting
stale grains, only grateful that Ward's mood sat quiet for once.
They ate in silence, bread chewed down to tough crusts, a
few slices of pale cheese cut so thin the rind showed through.
Ward crunched, always looking past Sir, eyes fixed somewhere
neither present nor absent. Sir tried not to think about the
boar, about the blank spot in the jungle where his nerve had
thinned, about the heat on his back as he ran.
His bruised eye throbbed if he chewed too hard, so he took
small bites slow. No one asked about the dark mark
beneath it, Sir Guest Ward had seen, but cared little.
The meal finished quick, Ward stood, dropped his plate in the
basin and wiped the crumbs off his shirt with a dry palm, voice
fading as he pushed open the door to his own room.
Sebastian busied himself at the sink, rubbing plates together
until they squealed, waiting until the door clicked shut.
The hush that followed filled the house.
It was a hush that blanketed, heavy and pressureless.
He doused the candles one at a time.
The warm light twitched and shrank until only the steady
glow of embers in the hearth marked the shape of the room,
surpassed by the cold boards in the hall troubling over each
step. So nothing creaked loud enough
to rouse Ward in his bedroom. The air was thick with his own
old sweat, sour from working clothes and unwashed sheets.
SER dropped onto the bed, the nailed together frame groaning
under sudden weight. The red curtains at the window
hung shut. The world outside blinked with
insects and low animal cries. Inside, darkness stitched him
into the room. He set his knife out, sliding it
beneath the pillow and ease down onto his side.
The pressure in his chest throbbed.
Hunger. Fatigue may be fear.
His thoughts scattered. Raw land.
Small voice on the riverbank. Balu's jeering at the Cliff.
Viti's curses as the pig burned past him.
The woman's eyes in the sword. He tried not to picture Ward.
Most times he succeeded. Sir listened, waiting for the
shape of sleep, His body tucked, smaller blanket drawn to his
chin, the bed frames, corners pressed at his knees.
He focused on counting his own breaths.
He waited for the world to fade. From outside came the muted
sounds of tui toma at rest, A dog's bark, distant laughter
stripped down to noise, the dry squabble of branches against a
window in the gathering wind. Above.
Somewhere the stars came out again, cold and unseen by anyone
downstairs in the fields. The last of the workers.
Shuffled off the crack of a whip and a cough, The day had emptied
itself. The dark took the corners of the
house, painting everything spare and plain.
Sir lay silent, tangled in the rough blanket, waiting for dawn
and the next round of tasks, knowing the days would keep
coming, each a repetition, and that the hunt in the jungle, the
run beneath the volcano, would only ever be brief and borrowed
in the Black Spire, that room where dusk never left.
The man in black leaned back from his cards, gloved fingers
tracing a circle in the green felt.
He set the deck aside and fished inside the folds of his robe for
a dull coin. He flicked it once against the
tabletop, the ring echoing off stone.
Nothing changed. The cold outside the window kept
silent. He pressed the cards into a neat
pile, straightened the queen and her ace and Jack, and stacked
the rest. He waited, just the way he had
always waited, for a cue for the world to turn, for something in
the pattern of play to give him an excuse to get up and move.
The air inside the Spire smelled of cold, polished stone and the
salt from his own skin where it tightened over gristled hands.
There were no visitors and never would be, only the echo of the
dealer's breathing, the promise of the game and the possible
trouble the night would bring. He lit a candle, watched the
flame find its length, and shuffled the cards again.
The room flickered in the yellow light, cards crisp in his hand.
On the table, the Queen watched. Outside, the city dimmed and the
world steadied itself, unwatched in jerked awake.
Sometime before dawn. Jaw aching from 1/2 finished
dream, the raw quiet of the house pressed in, even the wind
from the trees gone still. His blanket bunched at his
ankles, the old mattress clumped in hard knots beneath his
shoulder blades. He sat up slow and rubbed his
temple. No use trying to chase the dream
back, whatever it had been. The woman's face, the glint of
silver, the jungle mist. They tangled behind his eyes,
blurry, fading the longer he stayed awake.
He swung his feet over the side of the bed, his boots weighted
crooked as ever, left scattered where he'd kicked them off the
night before. He stuffed his sore feet inside,
winced, stood. His stitched curtain glowed
faintly around the seams, regular as the heartbeat in his
ears. He moved without hurry,
gathering his knife, tying the belt.
The house stank of smoke and cold grease.
Sir crossed to the main room, stepping over the plank where a
nail always found his sock. He eased candles back to life,
their flames snatching at the shadows one piece at a time.
Ward's door creaked. Sir froze.
A cough sounded, then nothing. He moved again, slow.
At the kitchen table, a battered board carried the remains of
last night's bread, grey and stale.
He broke off a piece, mouth too dry for chewing, and forced it
down with a drink from the water jug.
No breakfast, no voice. Ward wouldn't bother with talk
this early. He shrugged into his jacket,
stuffed the rest of the bread in his pocket.
He stopped in the doorway a moment, eyes on the dark yard.
The sky was pale with the thin promise of sunrise, but not
warm. Outside, the dirt yard was
empty. The path LED off across the
field, only the faintest sign of footprints showing where last
night's mud had dried and cracked.
The world felt hollow in those moments before Tito Mar woke.
He liked this hour best. Nobody calling out, nobody
watching. Sir jogged to the far fence,
knelt and checked the posts by hand, pressing at the corners
where he'd fixed them the afternoon before.
His repairs would hold. Ward would say nothing if he
found the work good. Sometimes Sir wondered whether
Ward ever noticed, or if work simply erased itself each day,
existing only to be repeated. He worked through the routine,
checking the tool shed, hauling the water, dragging fresh wood
to the kitchen. By the time the sun finally
broke above the trees, his back was wet and his hands streaked
with dirt. The ache in his shin from the
boar chase flared up every time he knelt at the fence line.
He paused and looked toward the volcano.
The same Ridge, the heavy blue-green mass rising above
Tuatoma. A block of cloud caught on the
Crest, shadowing the slope. He wondered if the others were
awake, if Roland had already slipped out, if Balu slept
through chores, if Viti was eating breakfast or plotting
revenge on the boar that got away.
He heard shouting from the distant Rd.
La vu's voice first, then VTS, both slinging curses that
cracked over the fields like thrown stones.
Sir straightened, squinting through the morning haze.
The boys jogged down the lane, La Vu waving a stick, Vt
rallying behind with wild energy that never seemed to flag.
Sir finished his section. Of fence and made his.
Way back, Ward had started chopping onions in the kitchen,
eyes already red and streaming in the glare.
If Ward noticed Sir come in, he didn't show it.
You'll take beans to the market? Ward said, voice rough.
No arguing. And give this to Jaro's woman.
He pressed a cloth bundle into Sir's hand.
Sir held it, warm and soft inside.
A loaf, maybe, or cheese wrapped for barter.
He wrapped his own rucksack and stuck the bundle inside, the
kitchen filled with the usual sharp tangle of tasks and
smells. Ward cooked in silence, always
with a rhythm, knife against wood, spoon scraping old enamel,
heat rising off the blackened stove.
Seow pulled his boots back on, shrugged into his jacket, and
headed out before Ward's mood shifted for the worse.
The lane to market was thick with new sounds, buckets
clanging, chickens scrabbling for stray seed, the thump of
carts rolling over rut after rut.
He let himself merge with the slow trickle of townspeople.
The market sat clogged at the center, a patchwork of stands
set up under patched tents, voices arguing.
The air stank of pickled fish and cress.
Tear dropped off the bundle with Jaro's wife, a stone faced woman
who never thanked anyone. He set down Ward's beans at the
main grain exchange, waited for a chit and pocketed it, careful.
He caught sight of Balu's bulk out past the cloth vendor,
already haggling for Stew. Vt waved him over, mouthful,
scarfing stolen bread. Lavu leaned against a fence,
bored machete tapping dirt with a steady rhythm.
Roland weaved through the crowd, weaving past heels, always one
eye on Sir for a sign. Their eyes met.
Sir nodded, small. Rollin grinned back, pushing
through the Cellars even as an old woman cuffed him by the
collar and shook a warning in his ear.
Together they drifted out of the crowd, pressing into a shaded
alley, away from the brunt of the bustle.
Vitty spat crumbs, wiped them on his sleeve.
Lost her then. He said, not naming the boar,
not needing to. Levu pushed hair from his eyes,
looking away. Could have done with meat.
Balu just barked a laugh. We'll try again.
Be less screaming next time. Roland nodded, eyes shining.
Next time. SER didn't answer, just tapped
his fingers on the wall behind him.
He watched their faces catch the slant of sun through the gap in
the awning. For a minute.
It could have been any morning in any part of the world.
Not boys with bad chores waiting.
Not empty plates, not old wounds or old fears.
Just them. A bell rang, harsh, pulling them
back to the field, to the chores, to homes that waited
with open mouths for every scrap of labour they had left.
They scattered without speaking, used to the flow of market and
morning and small escapes squeezed between the cracks.
Sir left last, slower than before, pushing through the hot
crush of traders and mothers and carts.
Overhead, the sky was cloudless blue, sharp to the horizon.
He set his path for home in the black Spire.
The man in black watched the candle end, the Wick just a curl
of smoke. He traced another pattern in the
dust. Cards shuffled, coins slid.
He waited, not with patience, but with hunger.
The world balanced, games turning light outside, growing
until it pressed even at the line of his black robe.
He waited, hands steady, for anything to change.
Sir's route from the market traced the rut that circled
Twitomo's edge, past sagging fences and the scarred trunks of
trees scored by knives. He watched his own boots avoid
the deeper puddles, weaving a path through chicken droppings
and the scattered bones from last night's dinners.
No one greeted him, just sidelong glances from old men
hunched on Stoops, women squinting as they adjusted their
baskets. Halfway home, he cut across a
patch of half dead grass. He stopped to watch a gang of
younger children muddy to their knees, chasing after a ball made
from strips of leather. The ball broke open when someone
kicked too hard, scattering stuffing the kids peels mixed
with an old woman's scold. Sir looked away before one of
them could ask him for help. Across the square, Balu's deep
voice drifted, carrying through the hum of the market's clean
up. He stood with his back to a
peddler's cart, gesturing wide as he spun.
A tail the size of the Knight's fur bore growing with every
retelling. Lavu nodded along while Viti
picked over spilled fruit, pocketing what he could when the
peddler turned her back roll and perched on a crate at the edge,
smile hidden behind his hands. The comfort in their laughter
barely touched Sir as he walked out of earshot.
A burst of cursing from behind a stall made Sir glance back.
Ward's neighbor, an old man named Kel, shook a stick at a
dog who'd gotten into a sack of dried fish.
The dog dodged, ears flat, a flash of fur and ribs darting
between carts. Kell's curses trailed off as he
spotted Sir and eyed him like he might be to blame.
Sir kept moving, mouth shut, head down.
Ward's yard came into view with the house set sideways to the
road, battered doors sagging on its hinges, front step angled
where last year's frost had split the wood Moss pattered the
stone foundation. The porch was littered
splinters, bent nails, short lengths of twine.
The only sound came from inside Ward's heavy footsteps, cut with
a cough and the scrape of a chair against the warped kitchen
floor. Inside, the dim light fell on
the battered table where Ward sorted root vegetables into
piles. A few more sacks waited, their
contents bulging under frayed cord.
SER dropped the chit from market on the shelf by the door.
Ward grunted. Put those boots by the fire.
You track mud in here again. I'll have you clean it with your
teeth, Sir. Unlazed his boots, set them on
the slab by the hearth. He took a rag and wiped the
grime from his hands and wrists. Ward tossed A misshapen carrot
onto the pile without looking up.
Beans weighed short. Norrell probably pinched A
handful. You check the sacks next time.
They are. Nodded, wordless.
Dinner came from the leftovers. Boiled roots and hard greasy
sausage cut thin. Ward ate with his elbows wide,
biting in silence after Sere cleared the dishes, keeping his
steps even, his hands quick and careful with the cracked
crockery. Ward disappeared to his lean to
off the back room with a Lantern muttering about Broken hinges
washed looking out the window. The sky had turned a pale,
bruised blue. Clouds slid in from the West,
promising rain. Lamplight glowed from the
neighbors homes, far and close. He dried the dishes on his
shirt, stacked them and poured hot water over his hands to
chase the chill. The day folded in around him,
work contracting to a small patch of kitchen, night
gathering at the panes. Somewhere near the stream, a
voice called out, a bark of warning, maybe, or a child being
chased. Farther off, another dog yowled
close by. Ward started hammering.
The sound carried through the floorboards, regular and
patient, as if nothing in the world could alter his rhythm.
Sir sat on his bed, knife on his lap, boots at his feet.
He did not like the Lantern, did not open the window in the
narrow room. He listened to hammering and
rain and thought about the Cliff, the jungle, the chill in
his bruised eye and the weight of work lined up for tomorrow.
He pressed his thumb along the blade's edge, feeling the Nicks
and the smooth, worn grip. He sat that way for a long time,
knife balanced in his hand, until the sound of rain on the
roof thickened and Ward's hammering slowed.
Shadows filled every strip of floor and the night came in
solid, closing the house in for good.
Up in the black Spire, the man in black turned over the deck
and dealt the newest hand, cards slapping on the faded green.
He didn't look at the faces, he only watched how the light bent
at the corners. Coins clicked between his
fingers. He waited.
The rain came in thin streaks against stonework, and the
shadow in the room never shrank. Sere did not sleep early.
Neither did the dealer in Lithia.
The night stretched on, old as the land, patient as the next
breath as every card that might yet turn.
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