Chapters

Yam 11

2.04

The creature had four little legs, but its fur was so fluffy and so dense that when it stood on the rear pair, you could barely see its paws. 

It had a tail just long enough to poke out of its oval cloud of fluff and wag when he spoke to it. 

“You are an abomination,” Yam whispered softly. 

The little tail twitched. 

“You disgust me.”

The tail moved faster, causing the beast’s round little belly to quake. 

“You make me believe in genocide.”

The beast’s entire body wiggled, and its forelimbs pawed excitedly at the air. 

“You are a crime against nature. Seeing you makes me hope there is no life after death so I won’t have to endure the sight of you in the the next life.”

That proved too much and the little creature dove at him. But rather than move in a baby blue blur of hidden claws and dripping fangs it made a waddling dash that only terminated when it tripped over Yam’s crossed legs. With a barely audible chirp, it hauled itself upright using the fabric of his wrap until it could lick at the corner of his jaw and rub its head against his face while whimpering for attention. 

“This,” Yam rasped, eyes fixed blankly on the distance, “is my hell.”

The creature let out a concerned squeak and redoubled its efforts to get his attention.

“This is my hell and—” Yam’s voice hitched, “a-and there aren’t even demon beasts to torture me.”

~~~

He regained his composure. Eventually. In the meantime, he scooped up the distressed little creature and held it in his arms. He was disgusted to find that he ended up petting it and was even more disgusted when he couldn’t make himself stop. It was too soft.

He insulted it a few more times, but no matter what he said it never turned savage or tried to leave him. Finally, he set the abomination back on the floor of his cavern, the one under his dormitory, and tried to think rationally. 

There was no point lingering over all the terrifying, lethal, and magnificently cruel beasts he had left behind. His heart already hurt too much. 

Instead, he needed to marshal his wits and decide what to do next. Could he sell it? 

Maybe, but he would need to learn what it was first. 

Yam looked over to see it sniffing around the cavern. A fat oval of light blue fur, the occasional purple spot, and big round eyes. If it would not shame his mother, he would have given it away for free. Maybe even have paid someone to take it from him. 

He stood up and stalked away, disgusted at the very thought. The creature let out a distressed cry, one that was muted and airy. It sprinted at him, which in this instance meant it made a slow and waddling gallop, so it could throw itself at his shins. 

It felt like being hit with a goose-down pillow. 

Yam slowly counted his breaths and waited until the creature had calmed down. It didn’t seem to like being alone. 

He grit his teeth. Of course it didn’t.

If he was going to sell it (and by all the gods he had his pride and he was going to sell it) then he needed to do research so he could figure out a starting price. 

Going to a shop would be too risky. Anyone trading in exotic beasts was likely to have a relationship with the Tooth and Claw. Which meant the most logical place to look would be in a library. But Yam knew that, if he was in a position of influence, he would monitor what was searched for in the libraries as closely as possible.

On the surface his answer was clear. He needed to return to the Understacks. 

While exercising, Coach Combs had said that it was a place where backup copies, reference texts, and miscellaneous materials for the other libraries were stored. The only students who ever went to the Understacks were those heavily invested in research or history. Coach Combs, who was still doing his own research when he wasn’t teaching courses, personally loved the Understacks. He claimed that, if you knew the tricks, it was the best places in the entire school for literature reviews. 

As he thought, Yam sat down by his pack and took out a small tool. It looked like a simple hand mirror: polished metal covered in a disk of glass. It was no larger than the palm of his hand. With some mental effort, he could cause small illusory lights to take shape in the glass. With some practice, he would be able to make those lines float out of the tool and weave themselves into minor illusions. Primarily it would allow him to add texture or colors to pre-existing items, provided they were no larger than a loaf of bread. But as his control grew the cant would become one of the foundations for true illusion magic.

He absently willed lines and shapes to form in the training tool and tried to be reasonable. Yam did not want to return to the Understacks until he could show the bookkeeper his initiative and value as an employee.

A job there could be incredibly important for his plans. 

In large part because his parents were unlikely to send him any more money, and the only way to keep up with the demands of Istima was to convert gold into energy so he could keep practicing. Beyond that, Yam absolutely needed to learn magic from all of the courts if he was to become Aehp the Eclectic Beast Lord. Provided he earned access, the Understacks would either let him directly access the knowledge needed or, at the very least, show him which tombs and materials he needed to steal.

That was why he had sacrificed some of his cash reserves for this training tool. After going through the books loaned to him by the bookkeeper he had realized that the glowing lines of light the ghost used were the illusionary interface of some sort of bibliomatic magic. 

Yam had to pause for a moment. Just the phrase ‘bibliomatic magic’ was enough to make him salivate. Imagine the knowledge he could find…

But that wasn’t the issue at hand!

He did not want to return to the bookkeeper, or the understacks, without having mastered this tool. He would learn everything from the books he had been loaned and would show insight as well as initiative by recognizing the illusion magic then taking it on himself to learn it. 

Yam would only return when it was a guarantee that he would be hired.

So, what were his options? He didn’t think he had enough to pay for discrete information gathering. He also didn’t want to just walk up and down the main streets of the city screaming to the sky that he needed information on an exotic creature he had ’come across mysteriously’.

With a glare, he turned back to the source of all his troubles just in time to see the abomination tilt its head back and, with difficulty, swallow a rough-edged stone that looked too large to plausibly go down its throat. Despite that, the rock disappeared with a few bird-like motions. 

Yam’s mouth fell open. 

The creature’s brows furrowed. It came onto its hind feet and pressed both paws against the pale fur of its belly. It looked up at Yam. That tiny little stump of a tail twitched weakly as it began to whimper, paws still pressed to its stomach.

~~~

“Move or die!” He bellowed as he ran. Though, in reality, it ended up coming out as more of a wheeze. 

He crashed through the front doors of the Understacks and didn’t bother trying to talk to whoever was manning the desk. He dipped to the side where there were several chairs were set against the wall. Still sprinting he leaped, planted a foot on one of the chairs, and threw himself into the air. While he was in flight, he pulled his legs up above the level of the small wooden gate next to the entrance desk.

Yam fixed his eyes on a point across the room and twisted space savagely. There was a moment of blurring colors, and then his feet hit the floor at the opposite end of the room. 

He stumbled but kept running, slipping across the smooth floor as he took corners and navigated himself deeper into the Understacks.

The young Len came upon a door and used one hand to hammer at it, the other clutching the little creature to his chest desperately “Bookkeeper! Bookkeeper!”

A chill in the air was all the warning Yam got before the bookkeeper flickered into existence several long strides from him.

“What is—”

“Please!” Yam held the creature in front of him, both arms extended.” I don’t know what it is but I think it needs help!”

“Oh,” the ghost blinked, “my.” 

~~~ 

“And what is her name?”

“Abomination.”

The bookkeeper chuckled, drifting in an invisible breeze as they stood in a small and cluttered office. “She is quite fearsome, I’m sure.”

“No. Just hideous.”

If anything, that made the bookkeeper’s smile widen, “For someone who claims to hate this creature so much, you seemed quite distraught.”

Yam opened his mouth, paused, and frowned. It was an animal. And it might have been sick. Somethings just were.

Plus, he had fond memories of the caravan’s animals back from when he was younger and sickly. Before he had been old enough to take the mammalian path and get a body that was more hearty, he couldn’t always go out to play with the other children. But he had rarely been too ill to bring a handful of grass to the horses, to brush the hounds, or use a string and feather to play with one of the cats. 

But this wasn’t a cat that kept mice from their stores or a horse that carried them town to town.

“I don’t understand how something like that could ever survive in the real world,” Yam muttered, turning his head to glare at a stack of books, ”It doesn’t belong in Istima and it’s an affront to nature.”

“Ahh, yes, of course,” The bookkeeper nodded.“That makes total sense and doesn’t seem at all like a disproportionate reaction. Certainly not towards a creature you just went through extreme inconvenience for.”

There was nothing to say to that. So the young Len settled for a sullen silence. 

“Why didn’t you go to the Spring Court?” asked the bookkeeper.

Yam dropped his eyes and worried at the arms of his chair. “I panicked. And I had already been thinking of coming here to learn what it was.”

“You don’t know what it is?” The ghost lifted an eyebrow, causing a small distortion and translucence to move through his face. 

Yam shrugged, keeping his eyes down, “Its cage was on the ground in an alley.”

“So you picked up a completely unknown creature on the streets of Istima?”

The young Len’s mind went blank. Had he just showed his potential employer how impulsive and short-sighted he was?

His heartbeat suddenly went into overdrive. Before he could think of a response the bookkeepers started laughing. 

“What? Why are you laughing?”

The ghost sighed and grinned at him even as Yam’s eyes narrowed and his fists started to clench. 

“You are a kind young man,” the bookkeeper finally said. Which did not answer his question at all. Luckily, the old ghost kept talking before Yam could say anything inadvisable. ”You named it Abomination?”
He shrugged, still scowling.
“Did you name it before looking in its cage?”

“No. It‘s an unnaturally weak and repulsive creature. Also—” Yam paused, his voice dropping to more of a mumble, “I was hoping to find something else.”

“Oh?”

“A wizard should have a suitably fearsome familiar.”
“Ahhh,” the bookkeep managed to keep the corners of his mouth from turning upwards. ”I’m beginning to see the whole picture now. It is horrifically cute, isn’t it? Not exactly the sort of fel and fearsome familiar a young man daydreams about, right?” 

The young man in question scowled, glancing at the tiny sleeping creature. He forced himself to look away from its adorably boneless sprawl and focused on breathing slowly through his nose. Anything to keep his metaphorical and literal bile from rising.

“I’m glad you were willing to look past its appearance and help,” the bookkeeper said. ”But, tell me little one, how have you progressed through the books I loaned you?”

“I finished them some time ago.”

Rather than turning around, the ancient ghost simply flickered and was suddenly reclined on a nearby desk. He didn’t say anything but there was a question on his face. 

Yam took the small training device into his hand and willed illusory lines into being that were as close to what he had seen the ghost’s spell produce as he was capable of. “I am grateful for your generosity and still wish to work here,” he said, struggling to switch to a more formal and respectful address now that they were discussing business. ”But I thought that actions would speak louder than words.”

The bookkeeper lifted his there-again-gone-again eyes to Yam and stared like it was the first time he had ever really seen him. 

“You are a very strange young man, who reads very quickly.”

“Thank you, sir. You are an oddly kind older being who uses insulting descriptors as affectionate nicknames.”

Once again the bookkeeper laughed, and once again Yam was puzzled.

How could no one in Istima of all places, have been schooled in the rules of formal discourse? 

You demonstrated a virtue, like honesty, and then you didn’t laugh. It wasn’t that hard.

“Young sir,” said the bookkeeper, ”I think I like you. Let’s attend to the matter at hand and then we can move onto the question of employment.”

Some of his tension may have shown because the ghost winked, “Don’t be anxious. For some inexplicable reason, I suspect your odds of getting a position here will be good.” Then he turned to the little baby blue bundle sleeping in the chair next to Yam. 

“This creature,” said the bookkeeper, ”is called a Qupee and is from another continent. They have recently become a very fashionable luxury pet, though not one you see very often.”

“Why is that? I’m certain that some other people would find it quite cute.”

“Well, other people certainly do. I don’t know all of the reasons but, aside from the cost of shipping, I’ve read that locals from that region of the world kill these creatures on sight. The papers speculate that they are regional vermin associated with bad luck in the native folklore.” 

“Ahh,” Yam said, silently agreeing with the foreigners, and trying to think of a polite way of asking how much he should sell the beast off for, “and what makes them worth the high cost of  shipping?”

The bookkeeper flickered over to his desk and rested his hand on several books stacked there. “I imagine it’s because they are adorable, rare, and don’t grow much beyond what you see. Also, aside from serving as a status symbol, they are incredibly affectionate and bonded to their owners.”

“Can they bond with more than one person?” Yam asked, surprised to find that his hand had started petting the sleeping Abomination without him being aware of it. 

“Interesting question. They are quite stupid from what I understand. Remarkably so. They will trust anyone that gives them food. However, they will also unerringly return to their first and strongest bond. Or, more accurately, they will try and usually be hit by a carriage in the attempt.”

It took Yam several moments before the full implication of those words hit him, “Does that mean that she can’t go to a new owner?”

“Correct!” the bookkeeper beamed. ”They have very little resale value once they have fixated on a caregiver. Though they can be cared for by other members of the household for some stretch of time before attempting escape.”

With a wave of his transparent hands, the bookkeeper sent four small books floating over to Yam. 

“Look on the bright side young man, I’m sure she will make you quite popular. And,” he added, his eyes twinkling, “they can eat almost anything. Though I would be cautious if I were you. Despite their life not being endangered by most foods, or minerals in our case, it can still be uncomfortable for them to process. And, to put it plainly, the effect on their stomachs can be pungent.”

Yam looked down at the books. All were brightly colored with titles that had been made with such a fanciful, curling script that they were nearly illegible. Even so, he froze when his eyes found the third book. It was titled ‘How to love and raise your Qupee: A Flourishing of the Fluff’. The book was covered in bright pink leather.

And pink dyed fur. 

And a crust of garishly cut glass. 

To his side, Abomination the Qupee’s stomach let out an ominous rumbling. 

“Good luck,” The bookkeeper smiled, “They hate being left alone, so I’m certain that your classmates will come to love her. I know that I’m certainly impressed by a young man barely starting classes who is still willing to make such a selfless commitment. It speaks well of your character and reliability.”

“Yes,” Yam’s left eye began to twitch, as he looked at his potential new employer, “of course I am going to take accountability, sir. What else could I do?”

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Cal 10

In any other city, an establishment like The Tooth and Claw would’ve been found in some scummy alley, guarded by two enormous thugs with necks like tree trunks. But in Istima, things were a little different. There was a street entrance where two Aketsi were checking tickets. The door was framed by marble columns and a sign reading “The Tooth and Claw” hung overhead, glowing with magical light.  Burr was right, the only rule here was “don’t get caught,” and the owners of the club had clearly realized that the easiest way to do that was simply to pay off the guards.

But Cal couldn’t just stroll through the front entrance. So she waited and watched. It didn’t take long to observe that there was more than one way in. Those who went through the front all had something in common—they screamed wealth. Dresses and gowns, gems sparkling on their necks and in their hair. If she had the time, Cal could’ve gotten Callion’s dress and done her hair to pass as one of the patrons, but she still wouldn’t have a ticket.

Fortunately, a place like this would need another entrance. Once that would allow the riff-raff to enter without sullying the view for the blue-bloods. Cal found that entrance on the side of the building, down a flight of stairs. There were Aketsi standing at this entrance too, but they didn’t notice her slip past in the crowd. She made her way inside, and was hit by the smell of stale beer and body odor.

The place was massive, three rings of balconies looked down upon a ring of sand thirty feet wide. Inside the pit were workers, raking sand over several pools of fresh blood. On the first floor, it was standing room only, with a bar on one wall and some sort of stall for taking bets on the other. Peering up to the second floor, Cal saw rows of wooden benches; and on the third, seats so elaborate they might as well have been called thrones.

She brought her attention back to the first floor. There was a crush of bodies standing at the railing of the arena, as well as a crowd around the bar and the betting booth. Humans, Aketsi, even some Saakarans. There were only a few Len, and most of those that she saw were working behind the counter. But this was just one floor.

As Cal looked for a way up to the second balcony, she spotted something that gave her pause. It was a lone Len, who despite his best efforts, looked incredibly out of place. There was a certain aura you had to put off in these sorts of places. You had to act like you belonged here, like you’d always been here, and that if anyone tried to question you about it that they’d end up hurt. Cal could fake it pretty well, but it was obvious this Len couldn’t.

It was also pretty clear that he was the one who had treated her hands only the day before. He had the same skinny body, same wolf-like face, and even the same travel worn clothes.

As the next fight was announced, Cal watched him try to shuffle his way towards the railing. He was boxed out by the crowd, and had to contend with standing behind them and craning his neck.

“Laaaaadies and gentlemeeeen,” a voice called out. Whoever was speaking was using magic to project their voice, but Cal looked up and saw a man on the third balcony in robes of purple trimmed in gold. “You’ve had a snack, but who’s ready for the main course?” He spread his arms wide.

The crowd roared.

“In one corner, from way down south, hailing from the swamps of Aketsan, we’ve got a stinging stygiopede!” A heavy iron gate was lifted on one side of the area, and a long, flat, bug-like creature came crawling out. It was at least four feet long, and covered in shiny, black plates. It twitched its antennae and flexed a set of horribly sharp serrated mandibles.

“And in the other corner, a hometown hero, from the forest floor beneath the city itself, the fearsome karagor!” The second gate was lifted to reveal a hideous thing of fur and claws, its face a writhing mass of fleshy tendrils. Even from this distance, Cal could see its ribs poking out along its belly. It let out a howl and the audience went wild.

The handlers prodded their animals toward the center of the ring. When they came close enough, they seemed to notice each other and began to circle. In a flash, they set upon one another. The stygiopede slashing with black claws and the karagor rising up on its hind legs to try and pin its opponent down.

The fight was evenly matched. The stygiopede couldn’t easily pierce the matted fur of the karagor, and the karagor couldn’t easily crack the hard shell of the stygiopede. They grappled and broke off, circling again. All the while, the crowd jeered and screamed. Cal never did get blood sports. And not just because gambling was a waste of hard-stolen money either.

She looked over at the Len and saw that he was entranced, but not like the rest of the crowd. While everyone else was hungry for violence, the Len appeared to be… studying the animals. Cal also saw what looked like horror on his face. He winced each time the animals attacked.

“And there it is!” The announcer shouted. Cal turned back and saw that the karagor had managed to find a gap in the massive bug’s armor. It sunk its teeth in, releasing a disgusting spray of green fluid. The stygiopede squirmed and struggled, but it was over. “We have a winner!”

The crowd began to split; half heading to the betting booth to collect their winnings, and half heading to the bar to drown their losses. The Len took this moment to head for a side door. Cal followed him.

Past the door, the noise of the arena died down, echoing softly through the rough stone hallways. Cal stayed back, tailing the Len as he headed deeper in. It was clear he didn’t know where he was going, but he was looking for something. Occasionally, he’d peer down passages or into rooms before continuing on. Eventually, he seemed to find what he was looking for. He headed inside a room and Cal ducked in after him.

Inside were row after row of cages. Some were empty, but most held some manner of strange beast. The cages were spaced so that none of them could attack each other, or whoever was walking between them. Still, Cal saw spots of blood and claw marks on the floor.

The Len looked around, as though he was at a market. He’d pause occasionally, observing an animal before shaking his head and continuing. Eventually, he stopped in front of one long enough that Cal decided to make her move.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” she said. The Len jumped, wheeling around to face her and raising his hands in some sort of vaguely defensive stance.

“I can expla—” he stopped, peering at her in the dim light. “Wait, it’s you! The one with the hands!”

Cal raised an eyebrow and looked at her palms. “Guilty.”

“What’re you doing here? Do you work at the arena?”

Cal laughed. “No. But I am working at the moment. I was hired to track down a stolen ticket… Know anything about that?”

“I know about lots of things,” the Len said reproachfully.

“Oh, cut it out! Just answer the stupid question.”

“I have a ticket, and I may have gotten it from someone.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Cal sighed. “Look, just hand it over and I’ll go away.”

“No!” The Len said. “I need it to come back.”

“Well I’m not leaving without it.”

From somewhere near the front of the room, above the noises of the animals, Cal heard footsteps. The Len heard it too. Cal looked around, but saw no other exit.

“Who’s there?” Said the approaching stranger. “I know someone’s in here!”

Cal ducked down. She turned to bring the Len down to hide with her but noted with approval that he had already joined her behind one of the empty cages.

“What’re we going to do?” The Len whispered.

“Oh, it’s we now, is it?” Cal shot back. “I don’t know about you, but I’m perfectly capable of making it out of here on my own.”

“Then you won’t get the ticket.”

Cal cursed under her breath. He had a point. And she couldn’t go back empty-handed.

“Fine. But you’re not off the hook.” The footsteps were getting louder now. They didn’t have much time. She looked around. Most of the cages in this area were empty. Not that releasing anything kept down here was a particularly good idea. Then she saw the cage nearest to them was not only empty, but the gate was open. The footsteps were nearly upon them. “Alright, I’ve got an idea.” She looked at the wide-eyed Len. “The security in this place isn’t great. And operations like this can’t have dead ends, in case the owners need to get out in a hurry. We have a chance of getting out of here if you follow my lead.”

“Okay, what do I do?”

“This.”

Cal shoved the Len out into the open.

“Hey!” A voice said. “Who the hell are you? How’d you get down here?”

“I… uh, er, that is—”

“Shut up!” The man said, drawing a knife. “Now, you’re coming with—”

Cal stepped up behind the man. She gave him a kick to the back of his knees and he folded over, dropping his torch. Unable to see her, it was easy for Cal to then shove the crumpled man into the open cage and shut the latch.

“Come on!” She grabbed the Len’s hand and ran, dragging him along.

“Wait! I came here for a creature!”

“No time!”  She pulled him through the door. There were more voices down the hall from where they had come. The only choice was to head further in. They ran down the corridor, away from the noise. The tunnel ended at a winding staircase. She followed it up, hoping this was some back way to the surface. 

“I need a familiar,” the Len sulked. She ignored him and kept climbing. After a few more flights, Cal tried one of the doors. Inside was a small, round room filled with small cages.

“If it’ll shut you up, take one of these.”

“But they’re so small!”

“Yeah… but they’re harder for anyone to reach, so maybe they’re more dangerous? Or more valuable?”

The Len cocked his head.

“Come on, come on!” She growled. “Make up your mind!”

“Okay!” He made a quick turn around the room. He lingered upon one cage, examining the creature within, then moved on to another. He pulled one out and looked inside. “It’s so hard to choose. Fate help me, it has so many fangs”

Cal heard shouts from down below. A group of people were charging up the stairs.

“That’s the one!” Cal said, pulling him out of the room. Together, cage tucked under his arm. they headed up further. The stairs terminated in a large wooden door. Cal burst through it and found herself on the top balcony.

The room was filled with well-dressed patrons sitting in the elaborate thrones. With her dark leathers and the Len’s rumpled clothes, they looked extremely out of place. Fortunately, another fight was taking place, and no one paid them any attention.

“Come on,” she hissed as they made theirway past the seats.

“Excuse me!” A voice called out. Cal looked and saw an elderly woman. She was wearing a rather large green dress and a thick layer of white makeup. “Do you work here?”

“We don’t—” Cal kicked the Len in the shins.

“I order my drink five minutes ago, and it still isn’t here. Won’t you be dears and take care of that?”

“Absolutely, ma’am,” Cal said, curtsying slightly.

“Good.” The woman turned back to the match.

Cal breathed out in relief and looked around. They must’ve come through a service entrance. The large entrance she’d first seen on her way in must be around here somewhere. She spotted it on the far side of the balcony. She nudged the young Len and pointed. He nodded, clutching the cage to his chest.

With the match going, people barely noticed as they made their way over. Soon, they were through the entrance. The guards didn’t give them much notice. After all, they were paid to keep people out, not in. After a few blocks, Cal pulled the Len into an alley.

“There!” She sighed.. “That was easy.”

The Len looked like he wanted to double over, but he didn’t refused to set down the cage in his hands. The burlap covering inside the wooden frame kept her from seeing what sort of creature, if any, was inside.

“What was your name again? Tum? Past?”

“Yam Hist of the Ken Seekers.”

“Great. I’ll try and remember that.”

“I am in your debt. If you want the ticket, it’s yours.”

“Well, about that,” Cal reached into her pocket and fished out the ticket. “I already have it. Guess you’ll just have to owe me.”

“Thief!” Yam hissed.

“Oh, please! I just happen to be better at it than you.” She pocketed the ticket. “Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll need patching up sooner or later. Then we’ll be even. Besides, you got what you came for.”

“I suppose so.” He clutched the cage tightly. “Will you tell me your name?”

“Cal.”

“Of?”

“Nobody. Just Cal.”

“I see.” Yam frowned.

“Great. Well, try not to get in any more trouble.” She nodded and walked off in the direction of the Falls District.

As she left, Cal shook her head. Why had she even helped him? That wasn’t part of the job, after all. She could’ve taken the ticket and ran. The guards would’ve been so preoccupied with him that they wouldn’t have even noticed her slipping out.

Maybe she’d gotten soft. Or maybe Istima was already so cutthroat that it felt wrong to leave someone so clearly out of their element alone in there. Whatever it was, it wasn’t something she would’ve done even a month ago.

It took her the better part of an hour to get back to Sable and Burr’s. She took it slow, her legs hurt from sprinting up all those stairs. She also routinely doubled back to make sure she wasn’t followed. Finally, she made it to the front door. Sable and Burr were waiting inside.

“Ah, welcome back, darling,” Sable said, looking up from a half-finished tunic. “I trust you had a good evening?”

“Good? I wouldn’t say that. Successful, though.” She handed him the ticket.

“That will have to do I suppose.” A bell chimed, striking the hour. “And just in time. Our client should be here shortly.”

No sooner had he spoken then the door opened. Cal turned and went pale as she saw Jasten walk in.

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Interlude: Miller #1, A Bird’s Bird


Here is the first of a series of interludes involving a new character named Miller. It’s a different tone compared to the other chapters. Leave a comment if you liked it, or what you think did or didn’t work. Or about anything to do with the story really. It’s incredibly helpful, especially at this early stage where we can read every comment.

This world is going to get pretty big, and we have plenty of places where we could make side stories and secondary characters. Let us know what catches your curiosity, either here or at our Patreon, and it might just get its own arc.

~~~

Atlan Jonson Miller walked into the headquarters of the Istima Eyrie and could barely breathe. 

A bird, a real-life bird, walked past him with a contract describing a target. Someone abusing magic who didn’t know their days had just been numbered. 

A bird, a real-life bird, nodded tersely to her partner before moving towards the door. Their faces were weather-beaten, grim-jawed, and they carried enough supplies to travel for a month as they hunted. 

And a bird, a real-life bird, even if they were only a sparrow apprenticed to a more senior bird, pushed themselves off a wall and gave him a lazy salute. 

“Morning, Miller.”

He stared. This was one of the hard-bitten, paramilitary men of the streets he had spent so long reading about. He just barely managed to nod his head. 

The boy sighed and mumbled something under his breath. 

“Can you get to the changing room by yourself today?”

“… I forgot where it is,” Miller whispered, flushing faintly and motioning around him. “It’s just so much. You know, being here…”

He was not quite dragged to the changing room and not exactly shoved onto the bench in front of his locker. The sparrow turned and was about to walk away, like he did every day, when Miller found the courage to speak. 

“Wait, can I get your autograph?”

The sparrow, a particularly promising apprentice who looked to have serious potential based on the rumors (and his ‘confidential’ test scores), turned to him and frowned.

“Like paperwork? I thought I signed over all the evidence the diviners needed.”

“No. I mean, like, an autograph.”

“…Why?”

“You’re a bird.”

“…I’m an apprentice.”

“But an apprentice to the Birds,” Miller breathed, eyes shining.

The sparrow was silent for a long time. Miller considered laughing and playing it off. Decided not to laugh. Then changed his mind back. But no. There were birds here. He had to play it casual. Super casual. Hard-bitten bird casual. 

Finally, the boy spoke, “Is this an order from a specialist?”

The word ‘no’ had hardly taken shape on his lips before the younger man spun on his heel and stalked away. Not even wasting his breath with a refusal. 

Atlan Miller leaned back and shook his head. God, that was like, just such a laconic bird thing to do.

~~~ 

After changing, he forced himself to focus on work. He would die before he dishonored the uniform. Though technically, because he was on a divine and detect patrol today, he wasn’t wearing a ‘uniform’ per se. More of a plainclothes disguise. Still, he was on duty. 

On duty as a bird.

When he was on the job, he felt two inches taller. In uniform (sorta), he was stronger, tougher. His clothes even seemed to fit differently and he felt like he was seconds away from staring morosely out a window with his stubble just barely visible from under the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat. Just like the art panels in the publications.

He got to his desk and tried to keep his eyes down. The office itself was fairly normal. A big open room with lots of desks, lots of papers, and metal barred windows reinforced by magic. The distracting part was all the legends of the force sat around him. 

Staylen ‘Thumper’ had the Eyrie record for the longest continuous successful hunt of a corrupt mage. The man was given a target, took wing, and could not be shaken from the hunt. 

There was also Mason and his partner Elaine. They were specialists from divination and research like him. But they were elite. Putting them in a library or at a crime scene was like putting a shark in water. A shark that could summon other, bigger, hungrier sharks. Sharks that were birds. 

There was also McBallow. He actually hadn’t done too much, but he had won every pitcher chugging contest for the last three years. 

And those were just the birds who stayed local to handle Istima contracts. Which was, by far, the minority of their organization. All sorts of nomadic legends and unsung heroes stopped by as they followed leads, chased jobs, or came to track down clues in Istima’s libraries.  

“Excuse me, sir?” said a young messenger in a tone of voice that implied that this wasn’t the first time he had asked. 

“Yes?” Miller said, eyeing the boy up and down and wondering what sort of deductions the birds from a publication would have made from the tell-tale scuffing on his shoes or the strange cut on under his eye. 

“… Sir?”

Miller shook himself out of his train of thought, “I’m sorry. Say again?”

The boy’s eyes darted around. Not surprising considering the company. 

But maybe, just maybe, if one also considered his posture, then something about his message could be deduced by those eye movements. Was there any ink on his hands? Ink on the hands was always a sure sign of something. He had read that in a story about Grimm Noir. Stories about him were only given half a page every other week, and Miller had to import the magazine from two towns over. But Grimm Noir was one of his favorites. He was a bird’s bird. Noir would have known exactly what this punk wanted and exactly who his father was having an affair with just from looking at him.

“… Sir?”

He shook his head one last time and was about to reply when Al interrupted. Al didn’t have a nickname yet, but Miller had started internally referring to him as ‘The Watcher.’ He was a brand crow, just out of his apprenticeship. And he was always getting watch duty because of his ‘excessive’ use of force when questioning ‘innocent’ suspects.     

“Don’t worry,” Al said, ”I’ll get him there.”

The boy looked conflicted about handing off his message to someone else.

Al sighed and gestured to Miller, “He’s from the Night Court.”

“Oh,” the boy’s eyes widened in sudden comprehension, “Oh! Say no more.”

The messenger retreated at a pace that was slightly less than dignified and slightly more than a walk.

“You hear what he said?”

“No,” Miller said, wondering what incredible things a bird like Al was deducing just by looking at him. Did he have any ink stains on his hands? Should he have ink stains on his hands? ”I was, uh, thinking of a case.”           

“Whatever. They need a diviner at the tannery. The one by the—”

“The meat pie store where Delguna found the person trying to experiment with plague magic?”

“No, the one by the building that burned—”

“Where Fleet and Farrow tracked down the pyromancer-for-hire and clubbed him in the back of the head?”

“That’s in another city. The one wi—”

“From three years ago where the entire bar was mind magicked but—”

“The one by Washer’s fountain!” Al roared. 

“Yes sir!” Miller called, jumping to his feet and saluting crisply before sprinting for the door. 

He thought he heard the bird mutter something about only being a crow, but he couldn’t hear it over the sound of his own grinding teeth. He wouldn’t let the Eyrie down.

~~~ 

The scene of the crime was neither insidious nor foul. Which was a bummer. 

He stood at the back of a very mundane tannery. There were no grim shadows, no dour silhouettes. Just a very well-maintained alley where the wood of the building had reached out and eaten someone. The only thing marking it as the scene of a crime were two hands and the edges of an Autumn Court robe poking out of the wall. 

As he stood, staring at the surroundings with his best melancholy gaze, other diviners searched the scene for evidence. 

No. Scratch that. They were birds. They scoured the scene for evidence. 

Based on the mumbling and hand gestures it was clear that most of the diviners scouring the scene had studied magic from the Autumn Court. A few others used artificed tools they had designed themselves and whose secrets they jealously guarded. He even spotted another practitioner of the Night Court style who was staring at a paper with an optical illusion drawn in precise lines. 

He let himself grin. 

Back when he first started, he had also needed to slowly work himself up to the different mindsets that let him cast his spells. And oftentimes the mindsets lingered in a way that was distinctly un-bird like. 

But, in uniform (sorta), he could do anything. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind he opened up a little door and let himself not just remember, but completely believe a realization he had had about the foundational nature of magic and love. One that had hit him after doing a seven-hour guided psychedelic exploration. 

Nothing around him physically changed, but it felt like the entire world had jolted and shuddered as he recalled what an illusion time was. The way all things were one, the way he was all things, and the way magic was also him-the-all-things. 

For just a second the world became meaningless colors and shapes. Nothing but a swirling mixture of all-one-made-of-the-all-things. 

But dammit, he was a bird! So he spit on the street, all hard-bitten like, clenched his jaw, and ignored the diviner berating him for spitting on a crime scene. Grimacing, he reinforced his understanding of the world with magic, and threw forth his will. 

The real world, like a suspect getting swooped by a squad of special secret sparrows, gave way to him. As his spell twisted reality, forcing it to comply with how he willed the world to work, he saw the magic on the wall take shape like a diagram made of colors, maths, and music.

Explaining it was difficult. It was difficult to even remember the real world while immersing himself so deeply in the psychedelic revelation that magic was just another part of him-the-all-the-things. But this was his trademark spell, and even after leaving Istima for the eyrie, he had never stopped perfecting its casting. Plus, he was a bird now. And a spell like this was nothing to a bird.

So he stared deep at the all-things-but-also-him-who-was-also-magic-and-also- everything. After giving it a good melancholy glare, he slammed shut the door in his mind.

“Dammit, Hitch!“ he snarled as he spun to face his partner. 

Hitch (he couldn’t pronounce his real name and it didn’t sound very bird-like anyways) blinked at him. He was short, unusually stout for his people, and the fastest Aketsi in Istima. Maybe the faster caster period. 

Miller made sure to hold his grimace, his hard-boiled grimace, until his partner responded. 

“What,” Hitch said at a glacial pace, “is the problem.”

“How can I solve a crime like this!”

“Is the magic,” his partner drawled, “obscured?”

“Damn you and damn the magic! He doesn’t even have ink on his fingers! I’m a diviner not a miracle worker!”

It took several seconds for his partner to nod his head before he replied, “But what about the magic?”

Miller huffed and waved his hand, “What about it? His life was eaten by Autumn Court magic. Real generic. Then a Night Court shoved him in a wall. Same disposal guy who did the bodies under the cobbler’s store on Rue. But how are we supposed to figure out the crime without a body to analyze! What if he had chalk markings on his robe? Or very distinctive mud in his boots?”

Over several long seconds, Hitch scratched his chin and nodded, “You can,” he finally said, “learn a lot from mud.”

“So much!”

He was just about to slam his fist into his palm (all tough like) when he was interrupted by Jercash. The whipcord-thin Raven led a small unit of elite trackers. It was hard to find out his story since he was here following a lead from another eyrie, but Miller was still starstruck. 

The man was of average height, had a perpetual frown, a beaten up wide-brimmed hat, and eyes that never stopped scanning for threats. Jercash, he was the real deal. 

Miller made a mental note to send a letter to the city where the raven was from and find out his story. The man all but radiated hard-bitten, hard-boiled, hard-ness. 

“Is there a problem with the scene?” Jercash asked.

Something happened. It was hard to say what. 

With his senses having just been thrown wide open and his head still a little foggy from switching out of his spell, he was briefly overwhelmed by the presence (magical and otherwise) of Jercash. 

For just a second the world broke into disjointed colors, and he felt insidiously connected to everything that ever was or would be. 

With a surge of will, the diviner pushed the lingering magic away from himself and went through some breathing exercises. When he finally felt more grounded, he looked up at Hitch.

“What did I miss?”

“Not,” his partner breathed, “much.”

“You explained it for me?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks, partner.”

Hitch waved his thanks away, arm drifting through the air with the slow-motion swoop of a falling feather. 

They stayed at the scene long enough to watch Jercash gather his unit and disappear into the streets. Hitch dutifully informed him of every single word that the foreign raven had said. Though he wasn’t able to describe his tone, body language, or level of grittiness to Miller’s preference. Still, with every word, he felt more and more himself. More individual and less part of an ever-flowing sky river of magic and love. Which was good. 

He had to report what he had sensed to the diviner in charge and apologize for spitting on another crime scene. After that, the other Night Court mage he had seen reached into the wall and pulled the body out.

There were no interesting chalk marks on his robe. No distinctive mud on his shoes and no ink on his hands that Miller could use to deduce the man’s life. Still, he tried to help out when Hitch nodded to the Night Court sparrow, a relatively new addition named Rawlins, and raised his eyebrows significantly.

“The world is a word on the lips of turtle,” said the sparrow, who was staring at her own elbow with mingled disgust and avarice.

Miller considered giving Hitch a gruff clap on the shoulder. Maybe a terse nod. Better yet, a laconic nod. But Miller wasn’t really sure what traits made a nod laconic. Was it in the chin? Did one grimace? If so, how much? In the end, he was forced to just nod regularly and stand next to the sparrow so that both of them faced the now normal wall. 

When he had been new he had also had trouble bouncing back from his spells. That was the cost of Night Court Magic. The ‘rules’ that governed their abilities were far looser than the other courts, and the spectrum of magics available to them was dizzying. But to make the world change to your will, you had to utterly believe in what you were trying to make happen. There couldn’t be a single doubt left in you.

But, the sort of things a Night Court mage had to believe in, to know was true all the way to their bones, were fundamentally at odds with the way day-to-day life worked. How solid were objects? How solid was time? And just how likely was it that a demon would pop out of the (maybe solid?) air in front of your face?

Especially when you were new, there was always some spillover when one engaged in bouts of selective insanity. 

The others would try to help, they’d look out for Rawlin’s until she found her way back, but there were some things that an artificer was just not equipped to handle. 

Miller took a deep breath, feeling all the little doorways he had drilled into his own mind, and loosened his grip on ‘real’ just a little.

 “What does the turtle rest its feet on?” he asked. 

“Turtles,” the girl whispered, eyes going wide, “turtles all the way down.”

“To the bottom floor of a lobby?”

“The basement floor of a lobby in the sky.”

“The body is the lobby of the soul.”

“And the soul is the sacrament of the silent soliloquy.”

“Exactly,” nodded Miller. ”Now ask the secretary of the basement of the sky, which is the lobby of the body, what they want you to do.”

 “Who is The Secretary?”

“Their name is Ms. Rawlins. What do they want you to do?”

“Please take a number,” Rawlins said dreamily, “and be patient while we process your request.”

“Hmmm, what number?”

“Seventy-two.”

“That’s a good number.”

“Better than thirty-two,” the sparrow said, a brief smile flashing across her face as both of the mages shared a laugh.  

He thought he heard one of the other birds at the scene mutter something about ‘Umbral freaks’, but that was fine. If the Night Court had taught him one thing, it was magic. If it had taught him two things, it was magic and a sommelier’s appreciation for psychedelic compounds. But it had also taught him that everything was a matter of perspective. And it was awfully hard-bitten and bird-like to have that kind of perspective if you hadn’t had the exposure to classic Night Court humor that he had.

Miller clapped the young sparrow on the back and moved towards his partner. The kid would be fine. 

The crow in charge of Rawlins gave him a laconic nod (though Miller still couldn’t figure out how he pulled it off. Maybe it was the shoulders?) and then it was time for patrol. 

~~~

The street was bustling with happy shoppers. Washer’s Fountain was full of people industriously going about their laundry, and he even heard children laughing. 

Suspicious. Very suspicious. 

As they walked at Hitch’s sedated and endlessly deliberate Aketsi pace, the diviner slowly cracked the door in his mind and let a wisp of magic reinforce his will. Even with all of his experience, it was still difficult to remember his individuality while he cast the spell. But no matter what, from the moment he had started as a sparrow, he had always been able to remember that he was a bird; even when he forgot who he was, and what a ‘he’ was. 

So they meandered around Istima, and he looked for dark magic and miscreant mages to manhandle. 

Most people in this part of town didn’t recognize them. Which was ideal. They kept their identification tucked away and trusted that few criminals would bother to learn the face of a diviner.

Miller’s mission, his ongoing case, his never-ending investigation, his grim and gritty gambit to garnish the gallows with gratuitous gaggles of groveling ne’er-do-wells, was to move through the streets looking for indicators of dark magic. Most other specialists on divine and detect patrols worked alone so that they could wander unseen through more parts of town and filter information back to the crows that made the actual contact with dark mages. Or to teams of crows working under a raven. 

But, shortly after being put on this contract, he had been lucky enough to be assigned a partner. Which was a relief. Miller absolutely idolized his old raven. He had known everything about him: his shoe size, his favorite food, his favorite diner, and who his favorite waitress was at his favorite diner down the street from his favorite gentleman’s club. 

Being without his unit had been tough on him.

In fact, Miller’s old raven had been so insistent that he become independent that he had refused to give him advice after his promotion. Never spoke to him once or bumped into him in the hallways in the months since he was reassigned. Even when Miller made newspaper collages to celebrate his old unit’s successes and left them at their raven’s ‘confidential’ home address, he had been completely ignored. 

Because, the meticulously unspoken message had said, a real bird of the streets could only learn from the streets. 

And Miller was going to become a real bird if it killed him. 

“Why,” Hitch suddenly asked, “did you pour ink on your hand?”

Miller all but jumped out of his boots.

“How did you know I poured the ink?”

Hitch’s face slowly shifted into a frown. His hand glided up from his side to point at Miller’s own, which was completely black from the ring finger to the outside edge of his hand. 

“There’s a lot. A lot of ink.”

Before he could respond someone cried out from inside a nearby alley. The duo peeked their heads around the corner and saw a young man in the distinctive oil-stained clothes of a Summer Court Artificer being assailed by several other members of the Estival Court. 

Immediately, a smaller girl on lookout duty yelled that they had company. Angry glares, snarls, and twitching hands turned towards them. 

He and Hitch pulled their identification from under their shirts and activated the enchantment that showed they were genuine bird’s badges and that the talisman belonged to them. 

Suddenly, the attackers’ faces went white, and Miller’s detection spell picked up on several items with a telltale glow of magic that were hurriedly shoved into pockets and packs.

“Help!” the boy inside the circle of attackers cried.        

Miller glanced at his partner. They shared a meaningful look before turning back to the ally and crossing their arms. 

Hands twitched but none of the enchanted items reappeared. So, after several moments, the gang went back to their mugging/robbery/intellectual property theft under Miller’s watchful gaze. Unfortunately, no one used or misused magic. Just mundane battery and hurtful language. And they were birds, not the police. So they kept their distance from the entirely mundane crime.

Within two minutes he and Hitch were back to ambling the streets and looking for illicit spells. 

“Maybe,” Miller said, picking back up on their previous conversation, ”I just smeared my hand while writing a report?”

“Smeared between your fingers?”

“… maybe.”

“And the back of your hand?”

“You don’t know how many reports I write.”

The diviner received a stony, dare he say it, laconic, look from his partner. 

“I could have knocked over an ink well!”

Hitch scratched at his face, “But did you?”

“No,” Miller sighed, “I didn’t.”

He shook his head, just about to say that he should have known better than trying to fool a bird when something caught his attention. 

His magic senses, both the mundane ones and his detection spell, both picked up on a surge of power. He snapped his head around just in time to see a bone-thin teenager jump down an alley in long gravity-defying leaps. 

“Thief!” someone called.

Pages of illustrated birds flashed through Miller’s head. Endless descriptions of foot chases, horse chases, carriage chases, and even a few aerial chases pushed themselves to the front of his mind. This was just like the stories in the newspaper serials, this, was his moment to be a real bird. 

He didn’t hesitate a single second to sprint after the scrawny boy, a trail of residual gravitic magic guiding him like ribbons floating through the air. 

He followed the magic through one alley after another. Around sharp turns, and under a pile of discarded timber that looked solid at first glance. Finally, after several minutes of running, he came upon his thief. 

The boy was clearly a teenager and a scrawny one at that. Probably an Istima drop-out who couldn’t maintain his scholarship. But the three men around him were adults. Large, muscular adults. 

“Stop what you’re doing!” Miller shouted. Though it may have come out as more of a pant than he wanted. Diviners weren’t used to running. 

One of the men frowned. With a twist of his hand, he unstoppered a wine bladder. A stream of water floated out and started circling his hand. “Or what?”

Miller wanted nothing more than to put his hands on his knees and pant. Instead, he forced himself to stand up straight. 

“Are you threatening me?”

The two other men crossed their arms, and spell circles came to life in front of them. 

“Maybe we are.”

A savage smirk came to Miller’s face. It was just like in the publications.

He flipped his identification out from under his shirt and activated its enchantment. 

“I don’t think you want to do that, pal.”

He could all but see the illustration in his head. This is what being a bird was supposed to be like. It made him feel two inches taller. Like there was actual magic flowing through his body. He could imagine the feel of his sleeves going tight around strong arms and could all but see the sharp line of a bird’s jaw cutting across the cover of a magazine. 

“Holy shit!” the elementalist cried, pointing at him “What’s happening to his—”

Miller shook his head and frowned, an inexplicable ringing having suddenly come to his ears, “No distractions! You’re coming with me.”

One of the Autumn Court mages had started retching and looked to be wiping something off his mouth. Though Miller didn’t recall seeing him bend over to vomit. Weird. 

“What the fuck are you doing to your face? Are you taller? That’s—”

Miller found himself standing a step closer than he remembered being. Also, maybe while he was blinking (or something?), the scrawny teenager had disappeared.

“Are we going to do this the easy way or the hard way?”

The elementalist snapped his finger, and the water that had fallen to the ground (when had that happened?) rose to circle his fists again. 

“Fuck you, you featherfucking freak! I’m not going to the cages!”

Maybe it was the acoustics of where he stood, but for just a second Miller heard something from behind him that none of the others reacted to. It wasn’t very loud, not much more than a slightly raised voice. Still, he recognized it. 

With a shark’s grin, he raised his fists into a pugilist’s stance. 

“You sure about that, pal!” he said, raising his voice until it echoed down the alley. “You really want to get rough with a bird?”

The vomiting Vernal mage spat one last time and resummoned his spell circle. One that, to Miller’s magically enhanced vision, was clearly designed for evil ends. 

“What are you going to do? Shapeshift into an elementalist? You can’t do shit.”

Miller blinked. Shapeshifting? He couldn’t shapeshift. And how did they know he was Night Court?

Before he could respond, the noise he had heard rounded the corner behind him. 

“Ahhhhhhhhhhh,” Hitch (sort of) yelled, as he halted the fastest sprint an Aketsi could manage without knocking their various extra knees together. 

Miller didn’t give his opponents time to speak. He just straightened up, put his hands into his pockets, and grinned. 

“Get ‘em, partner.”

“… again?” Hitch sighed, tugging his talisman out of his shirt. 

“Come on! That was as straight a line as you can get!”

Seeing the bird turn his head, the water elementalist raised their arm. But no one, absolutely no one in Istima, was faster on the draw than Hitch. 

At the speed of thought, the entire alley filled with a typhoon’s worth of lashing wind, cutting tendrils of air, and sand flying so fast it could scour your skin clear off. 

And, of course, the air filled with one other thing; Hitch. 

In a blur, his partner was launched like a statue in a hurricane. A cocoon of wind formed around him that was so thick it blurred his outline with its power. The compact Aketsi barreled through all three men in a set of strafing passes so fast Miller almost couldn’t follow it with his naked eyes.

It barely took three seconds.

Casual and all bird-like, Miller sauntered over to the downed men. Hitch’s feet were just coming to the ground, his face twisting into a glacial scowl.

“Fastest hand in all of Istima,” the diviner smirked.

“Miller,” Hitch growled, crossing his arms at the pace of seaweed drifting in the water.  

“What?”

One of the crow’s victims tried to say something and pull themselves off the ground. But the Aketsi shifted his foot just enough that it was resting on the man’s crotch. The suspect went real silent, real fast. 

“You,” Hitch said, the second set of legs folded under his robe shifting in agitation, “are a diviner.”

“I’m a bird.”

“Diviners,” his partner glared, “are supposed to observe and detect.”

The illustrations in his mind’s eyes faltered, and he suddenly felt like he was shrinking. No longer was Miller a heroic pursuer of evil; just a pretender trying to stand with a straight back, so he didn’t disgrace his (sort of) uniform.

“Specialists are birds too,” he muttered, swearing he could see the fabric of his clothes loosen and sag around suddenly narrow shoulders.

For some reason, as Miller felt himself deflating, Hitch averted his eyes and breathed carefully out of his mouth. 

“Plus,” he added, taking advantage of the silence, “our hawk is going to be pleased.”

“He, literally, never is.”

“Ha! Right about that,” Miller laughed, clapping his partner on the shoulder. 

Rather than reply, Hitch just shook his head and started cajoling the three mages up to their feet. With efficient motions, he hobbled their legs and looked for contraband. Though his hand never strayed too far from a small pouch of pacification potions.

“Streets toughs,” his partner grimaced. “You should have left them to the Vultures.”

“Vultures,” he scoffed. “What kind of bird would let someone misuse magic right in front of them?”

Hitch tightened a knot more aggressively than was strictly necessary and mumbled something under his breath about a diviner who did his actual job.

But Miller didn’t pay him any mind. Today he had done his uniform proud. And tomorrow he would wake up early to read the newest Grimm Noir story before getting paid to go to a real-life eyrie full of the most hard-bitten, street-tough, heroic people in the world. 

Just like in the publications.

Life was good.

Last Chapter                                                                                                     Next Chapter

Yam 10

~~~~~~~~~
This is another extra long chapter. Just a little bellow 6,000 words. And that’s because:

  1. We’re doing some cool stuff with Cal and Yam structurally.
  2. I’m bad at writing short things.
  3. The Wandering Inn and John C. McCrae do like 12k on a slow day. To their audience 6k isn’t ‘extra long’, it’s ‘cute’.

But let us know what you think about the chapter and the chapter length. Also how you feel seeing these characters through a different lens. Even small bits of feedback are very useful to us while we decide where to take the story going forward.

~~~~~~~~~

 2.03

After his misadventure at the Tooth and Claw, Yam thought it best to keep a low profile. So, for the next week, he acted like a model student. His only irregularity being how little time he spent in his room. 

For whatever reason, happenstance had not yet conspired to bring him face-to-face with his roommate. There was a lengthy sheaf of papers that they were to go over and sign once they had met. A brief glance showed that it was many, many pages of rules that detailed, with painful precision, the exact punishments if one’s partner were to engage in dark magics, and the exact rewards one would receive if they provided proof of their partner participating in dark magic. 

Yam did not plan on shackle himself to some random student. Not unless he absolutely had to. He was certain that the administration would eventually notice that they had never turned in the forms, but he could honestly say it was just because he hadn’t seen his roommate. 

Admittedly, hiding in an underground cavern only accessible through passages that were camouflaged behind magically horrific lavatories might be frowned upon. But no one had explicitly told him not to, so he didn’t think about it too much. 

It was just safer to not have a partner around. 

That was part of what made the Vernal Court unique. None of the other courts’ foundational courses trained you on how to overcome other beings’ magic resistance. Moreover, they made a study of poison, violent injury, mental magics, and how to alter entire ecosystems. Everything they did was a breath away from dark magic, 

Some of the things they were forbidden were self-evidently wrong; like trying to steal someone’s good health and place it in another, altering the Collective to subvert another’s will, manufacturing plagues, or precipitating natural disasters through weather working. On the other hand, some of the ‘black magic’ seemed like it shouldn’t be such a big deal. For instance, inflicting magical incontinence on someone was ‘too close to lethal dysentery’ and therefore ‘illegal’. 

Though he thought it would be both hilarious and useful, he restrained himself from looking into those taboo topics. Especially since there was still a market full of rules that he very much did plan on transgressing. Aehp the Eclectic Beast Lord was more than a superb Spring Court Mage. There was no way Yam could grow into the identity if he didn’t break a few rules. 

Which meant that Yam spent most of the week hiding in his cave. The bright side being that he was beginning to believe that no one else knew of the cavern. 

He studied the texts given to him by the Bookkeeper and constantly trained his magic.

It was a cycle. Go to Blood Alley when he was losing focus. Come back and sleep. Then practice control or perception exercises until his magic reserves were tapped. Move onto honing his harmonic regeneration or read until his eyes hurt. Then straight back to perception and control drills for his osteomancy modules. 

He even picked his second discretionary module. The magical first aid course he really wanted required several pre-requisite courses, so Yam began one of them. It was called Assessing Injuries and it was delightful. They identified wounds and learned how to assess the difficulty of treating them through magical or mundane means. 

Even though much of it was rote memorization, and the lectures had to be extraordinarily repetitive since students entered the module unpredictably, the few times they touched on abrasions, lacerations, punctures, and avulsions he immediately saw how the material could impact the single healing spell he knew. Even something as small as washing a wound with clean water before sealing the skin made the magic far easier to execute. 

It was a frustrating and exciting time. On one hand, he was so ignorant that it was easy to find something new and important to learn. However, it was difficult to prioritize what he should actually focus on. Everything was fascinating and potentially useful.

Which made his slow progress even more frustrating. He was endlessly struggling with the basics. Though he wanted nothing so much as to learn how to check food for poison and fix dehydration, he spent hours struggling with fine control by keeping chunks of ice from melting and seeing how many forks he could levitate at once.

Which was why, a week after he had escaped the Tooth and Claw, he found himself unusually dispirited. Though that was, largely, because he was sitting in the gymnasium with his elbows on his knees and a towel draped over his head. 

The clothes were still uncomfortable, and he hated that after each lesson he had to use his good brush to fix his fur while he was still sweaty. Could one shampoo a brush? Did you take it to a dry cleaner if it developed a smell?

He recognized the light, squeaking sound of Coach Comb’s shoes, but didn’t look up. 

“Yam my boy! You ready to hit the floor?”

The slender Len clenched his fists, but there were people watching. So he whipped the towel off his head and hopped to his feet, eyes lowered deferentially. 

“Yes sir! Let the torment begin!”

His instructor was not yet old, though his heavily tanned skin had gained wrinkles early, and his hair had just crossed the threshold where it could be fairly described as ‘whispy’. Despite that, he had the vibrant smile of a young man. 

Coach Combs threw back his head and laughed. “Good! That’s what I like to hear!” 

The two of them went to the side of the gymnasium where a variety of tools, machines, and devices waited. 

Yam always came to the late classes, there were fewer people to see his struggles. It also meant he could go straight to his cavern and fall asleep afterward. The less time he was conscious after his shame the better. 

Because of the hour, Coach Combs was also able to give him more time and attention. It shamed Yam that he needed it, but he didn’t have it in him to tell the Coach to stop. 

They started with him leaning forward and pressing himself away from the wall with his arms. He still couldn’t do standard push-ups. They interspersed the wall presses with other activities and through it all Coach Combs rambled to him. 

The older man would discuss what the purpose of the exercise was, which muscles he should feel strain in, the signs of good versus superb form, and he would cajole Yam to push a bit harder; to match or beat his previous best. 

Then, after checking in on the other students, he would come back and talk about how an ancient group of mages thought certain muscle groups enhanced certain types of magic. How they would walk with grossly large shoulders or calves. Necks wider than the circle of their hands, and other parts of their body bound immobile so they didn’t exercise the ‘muscles of dark magic.’ 

As the hourglass ran down, the older man would discuss theories of what caused muscle adaptation. He mentioned how different exercises had been invented and would spend entire modules talking about how brilliant researchers had found clever ways to test the relationship between the body’s health and magical reserves. 

Yam didn’t listen to all of it. There wasn’t always space in his head for anything but ensuring that the battle between his shame and his rage was won by a rage hot enough to push him through the next set. What he did hear helped. It helped him drown out the voice in his head that said all of this was worthless and that his body just wasn’t made to get stronger. 

He caught Coach Combs repeating his favorite stories more than once, but never corrected the kind man. 

During that week, the two of them spent most of the time figuring out what imitations of true exercise he could accomplish. But trying to do a pull-up while standing on a platform that actually pushed upwards with enough force to cancel out most of his weight, and STILL only getting his chin to the bar twice made it hard not to feel like a failure. 

He finished his module and put the towel over his head again. 

A large hand rested on his shoulder. “You did well today.” 

“Thank you, sir” his voice came out monotone.

After a pause, the hand clapped him on the back once and withdrew. “You know, there is a way to make this into an advantage.”

“Sir?” He said more out of politeness towards an elder rather than genuine curiosity. 

“Yes. Have you ever heard the phrase, ‘practice makes perfect’?”

He nodded. 

“Well, when I was first starting my own research, I found someone who looked into it. And they discovered that it’s a lie.”

Yam frowned. He had heard master craftspeople, women and men who were wise and virtuous, insist that practice made perfect. 

When he raised his gaze, Coach Combs caught his eye and grinned. The man obviously knew how inflammatory what he had said was. And he was so obviously pleased that it had worked. 

“Practice makes permanent,” the older man grinned. “So, tell me, what do you think perfect practice makes?”

Yam didn’t actually have a chance to answer before the Coach stepped away. “Just like with magic, enough power lets you get away with doing things sloppily. And just like with magic, those bad habits become permanent and stunt your potential.”

“… thank you, sir.”

Coach Combs waved him off and started walking towards a cluster of students who were talking at a station rather than doing their exercises. 

“It’s my job. Remember to stretch, eat plenty of meat, and get a nice long sleep. Otherwise, you’ll waste all the hard work you’re doing.”

~~~

 Yam left the gym disgruntled, feeling like everyone was staring at him, and wishing he had something to smash.

Which was all to say that he was in a better mood than usual. 

If he didn’t have something else on his schedule, he would have gone immediately to sleep. But, there was always more work to be done. So, he limbered up his bargaining face and made his way to The Wandering Len.

He made sure to greet his favorite hairy knuckled, fungus bloom of a barkeep and quickly found the reason he wasn’t ensconced in his cavern embracing blissful unconsciousness. 

Thomnas was just as thin, and his hat was just as ostentatious as he remembered. Maybe more so. Had he gotten a promotion? 

The Autumn Court student really was an excellent contact to have. He seemed competent, likely to succeed, and he was just horrible at holding his tongue once he had a few drinks in him. 

Nice person as well. 

Though Yam’s impression might have been impacted by the drinks. The young Len had intended to stay sober, but he had had a long day, and he was still new to alcohol.

“I can’t believe you picked the Spring Court,” Thomnas slurred. “I thought we had you for sure.”

“What’s wrong with the Spring Court?”

“Yam, what other court makes standard-issue uniforms meant to handle bloodstains? Not just requisition a few for medical students, but in the rules for every student. That’s creepy.”

“Nothing wrong with sturdy clothes.”

“I heard,” Thomnas leaned forwards, his impressive hat lurching to the side, ”that they’re always cutting themselves to practice fixing it. That they don’t understand pain afterward. That it twists their minds and surgery stops bothering them.”

Huh. That did seem far more controlled and predictable than Blood Alley. 

“I see why others would find that disquieting,” Yam said out loud, though most of his attention was focused on how to change his spell so it came from the self AND targeted the self. Which seemed a lot like using river water to dilute river water.

“It’s horrifying!” Thomnas cried. For some reason, he decided to raise his mug. Maybe he was used to doing that when yelling? 

Either way, Yam raised his own. 

“Horrifying!” he called, rapping their mugs together and taking a deep drink. 

“But why,” his friend whined, wiping his chin, “did you have to act like you wanted to join the Autumn Court?” 

“The Autumn Court has amazing things to offer.”

“The woman you bargained with was so angry that she misfiled a form. Twice. It was the talk of the building.”

“Well, she was not very good at—”

“Why did you make me think you wanted to learn from the Autumn Court?”

Yam sat and pondered for a moment; the drink made it a bit more difficult than usual. What was a truthful way of saying he still wanted to learn from the Autumn Court without saying he planned on stealing their secrets, ransacking their libraries, and laying waste to any man, woman, god, or institution that would bar his path?

“Familiars,” he said slowly, “are awesome.”

Thomnas stared at him. 

“It’s just part of the process,” the young Len shrugged. “If you’re being thorough, you gather counteroffers when bargaining.”

“Process?” Thomnas asked, cocking his head. “Like protocol?”

“Yes.”

“And you spent several hours in that poor woman’s office because…?”

“It was the minimum I could do.”

“According to protocol?”

“Yes. Three days would have been better. But,” Yam shrugged, “the timeline didn’t allow for a textbook negotiation.”

Thomnas scratched at his chin. “Huh. Well, fair enough then. Nothing you can do about protocol.”

The young autumn mage thought for a few more moments and nodded decisively before raising his mug into the air. “Protocol!” 

“Protocol!” Yam and several other Autumn Court mages cried back from around the tavern. 

After a long draft, Thomnas continued, “So, familiars, eh?”

“Yes. I need one as soon as possible.”

“They are extremely convenient. And I understand why you wanted to learn from us. None of the other familiar magics are as good.”

“How so?”, he said, putting his bargaining face back in place.

Heh, bargaining face back in place. It rhymed. 

“Well, let me tell you! Summer Court doesn’t have any actual familiars. They just make machines. Doesn’t look like a wizard’s companion should at all. And can you imagine the logistics of broken parts while traveling?” Thomnas shivered, “Mail routes, messenger pigeons, currency conversion; what a nightmare.”

“What about Winter?”

“I’m not sure if elementals just like to follow the powerful ones or if they actually have something like a real familiar bond. And don’t even get me started on the Night Court!”

“Oh?”

“I don’t know what they do or how they do it, but I don’t trust it! I have never heard of a single one of them requesting exotic pet forms from the school.”

“The scandal,” Yam said, voice flat. 

“I know! And their familiars don’t always keep the same body plan or level of sentience. How do you track that? Which of the forms do you use? What do you put down on apartment applications? 

“Is the Spring Court any more civilized?”

Thomnas snorted and waved his hand before taking another gulp and calling for a refill. “They have animal companions, not familiars. It doesn’t count.”

“Why is that?”

“They make mental-waiting-rooms and let animals opt-in for practice. That’s just a pet you talk with. Any real bonding-bond they made would be black magic.” 

“So, the Autumn Court has better ‘bonding-bonds.’ ”

If Thomnas noticed the joke, he didn’t show it. “Yes! Proper soul to soul connection; well defined, ordered, and honestly negotiated. Sympathetic magic is the only real way.”

“What sort of familiar do you want?”

Thomnas slouched and pushed his hat back into place, a dreamy look coming to his eyes, “Something that looks wizardly. Something that can fetch me ink wells or melt sealing wax onto my forms.”

Yam nodded. “Breathing fire would be superb.”

“Maybe some fairy-like thing that could magic away stains.”

“I’ve heard folk tales of fae that can slip into your foe’s nightmares.“

“Or!” Thomnas spoke over him, ”A phoenix. I bet  a quill made from their feathers would never run out of ink!”

“Just imagine the burning talons,” Yam whispered.

The two lapsed into a companionable silence as each courted radically different daydreams.

“Yam,” Thomas finally said, ”what do you want in your familiar?”

“I want everything. Maybe a swarm of familiars.” 

“Yeah, but what about your first?”

The young Len closed his eyes and let magnificent scenes of devastation and ruin drift through his mind. 

“I want something mighty and fearsome, but loving. Something with fur I can brush. Large enough for me to sleep against by the campfire. Enough strength to crush boulders. Tentacles that could creep unseen from the sewer grates so my foes fear to walk the streets. Venom that could melt stone, and a visage so horrifying that it will eat at the sanity of my competition before ever even setting its teeth to their innards.”

Yam blinked his eyes and saw that Thomnas, and the customers sitting on either side of their table, had turned to stare at him. 

His friend pushed his hat back in place and belched. 

“Horrifying!” Thomnas shouted, lifting his mug into the air. 

“Horrifying!” The tables around them chorused, lifting their own drinks. 

~~~

Yam had stopped drinking shortly thereafter. As the (relatively) sober one, he made sure Thomnas got back to his lodgings. Along the way, he saw several other members of the most august Autumnal Court in similar states of inebriation. Some had removed the belts from their robes and tied them around their foreheads, others had a distinct green tint to their faces and held their hats queasily in front of themselves. Others scrawled graffiti across the walls in gorgeous cursive script, their grammar perfect even when writing lewd poems about the professors. He didn’t stop to check, but he thought that one of the drunken vandals had taken the time to compose his graffiti in iambic pentameter.  

“Yam. YAM!” His friend slurred. 

“Yes, Thomnas?”

“You know you’re like a brother to me right?”

“I heard you the last time.”

“Good. Then Yam…”

“Yes, Thomnas?”

“You gotta do it. If I recommended you, you gotta do it. Even if you’re not in the Autumn Court.”

“What do I gotta do, friend?”

“You gotta win.”

“Win what?”

“I can’t remember.”

“I can’t either.”

“That’s why we’re brothers.”

~~~

And that, somehow, was how he ended up back at the Tooth and Claw. 

Yam had decided that he needed to study. Immediately. Urgently and. Right. That. Moment. 

So he had made his way to the Day Court and his familiar foe, the uncanny bench.  He thought the bright light and inexplicable discomfort of the bench would help him sober up. 

All it did was make his sleep fitful enough that he was startled awake when a ring of students accidentally exploded a sack of wine they had been practicing on. 

Mostly sober, but hazy around the edges, Yam had leaped from the bench and found himself deciding that he had to do what Thomnas had said and win himself a familiar. 

Ticket in one hand, and slip of paper from his bet the previous week in the other, he made his way back to the Tooth and Claw to see how much he had won. 

Turned out it was just enough to get a very greasy breakfast. If he was smart he would have left with this gambling money, and done just that. Instead, he stayed to watch the beasts. Trying to keep himself hidden in the standing masses at the bottom tiers of the Tooth and Claw. 

He stayed there for a while. Enough time that weariness managed to steal away his clarity at the exact same pace that the alcohol surrendered it back to him. 

His eyes constantly tracked the guards, his mouth started to taste horrible, and the sounds of the crowd seemed to physically stab into his brain. 

Even when he was able to see around the much taller adults who crowded the ring, he was disgusted to see what was happening to the majestic creatures that fought. If he had any of them as his familiar he would lavish them with attention, and fresh cuts of meat, and hugs, and warm blankets, he thought.

The final straw came when he saw a particularly bowel-loosening monster enter the ring. It was large, with clumped fur that Yam’s experienced eyes and mage’s instincts said was not moving in the way mundane fur should. It squared off with a large insect creature. Horrid thing, fearsome and powerful but there was no warmth, no love in its eyes. Yam could not imagine stroking its shell by a campfire or being greeted happily by it when he returned home.  

It ended up being a non-issue when the first monster used a magnificent array of teeth hidden under the tentacles cascading from its face to tear into its bug foe. Yam felt bad, and shockingly bad too. His first thought was relief that the bug had been the one killed. True, insects seemed like more of a  utilitarian familiar than a true companion, but you shouldn’t judge a business by its booth. Especially not someone like him.

Then, when he saw how roughly they forced the hungry be-furred monster away from the body, a feeling started at the base of his feet and slowly filled the rest of him. A tingling wash that was not quite indignant, not exactly mournful, and was neither righteous nor shameful. He just knew that something was wrong.

Animals shouldn’t be treated like that.

Yam checked for any nearby guards and saw none. He began to move, wishing he could summon the familiar burning red anger or blinding orange waves of greed to cover the fear in his stomach. 

The young Len walked to the door he remembered using to enter the back rooms. The guards were glancing at an overseer, a thug with slightly nicer clothes and a well-lacquered club he had obviously not had to use recently. 

In his time watching for any guards who might recall his face, he had noticed this same pattern. Soon the overseer would give a signal and a large group of fresh guards would leave the bar and be replaced by those who had been working inside the labyrinth. Just like his first visit, there should be a brief window with no security watching the entrance.

~~~

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” a voice said from where there should be no voices. 

Yam spun around, “I can expla—” he stopped. That was not a guard. It was a human girl. A human girl who had somehow sneaked into the off-limits area of the fighting ring. 

He squinted at her and recognized a particularly strange human he had healed in Blood Alley. “Wait, it’s you! The one with the hands!”

The girl raised an eyebrow and smirked at him. “Guilty.” She glanced at her palms, making a joke of his words, but her eyes immediately snapped back to him with a hungry sort of wariness.

The girl was young, possibly of age with him. It was hard to tell with humans. They didn’t have much fur to check for grey and no scales that would show wearing. Just naked, constantly wrinkling skin. 

He remembered little of her and likely would not have even if had been completely sober. He did recall that she had made an effort to speak like a Len, which was more respect than most humans showed. But in the end, she had ruined the budding amicability by challenging his honor and forcing him to answer a question they had been making a friendly game around. 

Now, he looked closer. She was relatively small for a human and her hair was clean. But, rather than the slender limbs of a noble that lifted nothing heavier than a letter, she looked stringy. Her muscles were small but twitchy, and ready to propel her in any direction at any time. 

“What’re you doing here?” he said. ”Do you work at the arena?”

Even as he spoke, he summoned his magic and stretched the space between them so she would not be able to touch him. 

He did not like her. He did not like her superior humor, he did not like the sharpness in her eyes, and he did not like where she had chosen to approach him. 

And surely enough, he was proven right. In terse words, she demanded his ticket from him. Well, good luck to her. Though he was not particularly skilled in perceptive magics, he did not sense any awe-inspiring powers from her. And if she wanted to take his ticket by force, he would make inches into miles and see how long she was willing to run to get it. 

But, before they were able to exchange more than a few words, the girl’s head snapped to the side. Her entire body coiled in a way that Yam had only seen animals do. He followed her eyes and, seconds later, a sound reached him. 

“Who’s there?” said an approaching voice. “I know someone’s in here!”

In a flash, they darted behind some nearby equipment. Yam quickly reestablished a buffer of stretched space between them and tried to think. It was hard. Luck had gotten him out of these rooms the last time he had been here, and his thoughts were still slow from alcohol and weariness. 

Also, the human was talking to him while he was trying to think. So he let his mouth move of its own accord while he desperately tried to figure out how to solve this puzzle. 

“Alright,” she said, ”I’ve got an idea. The security in this place isn’t great. And operations like this can’t have dead ends, in case the owners need to get out in a hurry. We have a chance of getting out of here if you follow my lead.”

Yam paused. He should think like a Ken Seeker and disassemble the logic of this scenario. Fight fear with reason and use his brain. But his mind was cloudy and something in his bones trusted the feral competence of this girl. 

He let his magic go so he was able to lean close and hear her whispered plan, “Okay, what do I do?”

“This.”

She shoved him with both hands, and he careened right in front of a whipcord-thin man with cruel eyes. “Hey!” the guard shouted. “Who the hell are you? How’d you get down here?”

“I… uh, er, that is—”

“Shut up!” the man said, drawing a knife. “Now, you’re coming with—”

And just like that, the girl materialized out of the darkness behind the guard. She glided across the floor in perfect silence, her gaze constantly darting around the room, barely ever resting on the man but still somehow breathing in time with him so he wouldn’t hear any indicator of her approach. 

At least not until she sent a tremendous kick into the back of his knees.

She shoved the man, savagely twisting with the entirety of her body so that her small frame was able to topple the guard into a cage. His torch hit the ground and went out. 

The latch clicked shut and she was dragging Yam through the darkness in a moment. 

Fate help him, he was never coming back here. This place was awful and the fear was squeezing his heart, lungs, and bladder horribly. 

But, even as cold fear dripped down the inside of his ribs, some deep set of values took issue with what they had just done and demanded that he speak up.

“Wait!”  he turned back towards the injured and imprisoned guard, “I came here for a creature!” he said, giving voice to that most pure and righteous avarice that lived inside his heart. 

“No time!”  she said, pulling him through dim and barely visible hallways, twisting them around, and moving down corridors for no reason that he was able to discern.

“I need a familiar,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. 

After several flights of stairs, Yam’s legs, still tired from Coach Comb’s gentle sadism, were starting to weaken. His breath had become wheezing and he desperately wished he could bend space without giving himself away. 

Suddenly the girl stopped her endless silent jog and all but shoved him into a room full of small cages, telling him to grab an animal and stop whining. 

Even though he hadn’t been talking? 

Humans made no sense.

“But they’re so small!” The words slipped from his lips, not bothering to get permission from his brain. 

“Yeah… but they’re harder for anyone to reach, so maybe they’re more dangerous? Or more valuable?”

The young Len cocked his head. That actually made sense. Also, if these were infants then he might be able to raise one. Their bond would be far stronger like that.

“Come on, come on!” the girl growled. “Make up your mind.”

“Okay!” He made a quick circuit, feeling rushed and disjointed. No cage’s base was larger than a checkered game board, and some were covered in cloth, presumably to calm the creatures inside. He paused between two cages and lifted their covers. One of them held a puppy-sized creature whose fur wove itself into armored plates when it saw Yam. The other cage held what appeared to be a winged weasel made of interwoven vines. It looked at him and its entire torso opened up to reveal pink flesh lined with rows of needle-like teeth.

“It’s so hard to choose,” he whispered. ”Fate help me, it has so many fangs.”

“That’s the one!” The girl said, suddenly grabbing him by the belt and hauling him away. 

She tugged him towards the door and his hand closed on empty air instead of the cage’s handle. 

Without thinking he thrashed his whole being. It gained him just enough freedom to turn and lunge towards the cloth-covered cages. Then, with no apparent effort, she hauled him back with her single arm. 

And this time he allowed her to. 

Because this time, there was a cage clutched to his chest with the same paternal love his siblings had used on their most treasured dolls. 

In a blur, she guided them through tunnels and, somehow, onto the upper viewing levels. He moved, almost incapable of thinking between the heaviness of his aching body, the fear still clawing at his stomach, and the unfettered euphoria he felt from cradling the cage against himself. 

They exited the Tooth and Claw quickly. And, finally, came to a stop in the streets outside the venue. Yam doubled over, his legs aching and his lungs feeling uncomfortably tight. 

“There,” the thief girl said, not looking the faintest bit tired or winded, “that was easy.”

He wanted to collapse. But he refused. Instead, Yam pulled himself upright, careful not to jostle his new familar, and stretched the space between himself and the girl. 

“What was your name again?“ she asked. ”Tum? Past?”

“I am Yam Hist of the Ken Seekers.” 

“Great. I’ll try and remember that.”

“I am in your debt,” he said, intending only to signal his honesty prior to a negotiation, as was custom. But, to his surprise, he meant it. Something in his burlap-covered cage moved and he felt a warmth that reminded him of when his mother had introduced him to a new sister right after the midwife had left. He really did owe this arrogant girl. 

”If you want the ticket,” he said, not giving himself the time to think, “it’s yours.”

The girl blinked at him a few times then that annoying, superior smirk came to her face. “Well, about that,” her hand rose from her side, a familiar thick paper already in her fingers, “I already have it. Guess you’ll just have to owe me.”

The magic he had been holding collapsed 

“Thief!” He called, cradling his freshly liberated familiar and very pointedly not-thinking about the irony. 

“Oh please! I just happen to be better at it than you.” She pocketed the ticket. “Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll need patching up sooner or later. Then we’ll be even. Besides, you got what you came for.”

He glared daggers. “I suppose so. Will you tell me your name?”

He did not say it out loud, but he finished the rest of the sentence in his head, ‘so I can make sure I never have to see you again for the rest of my life’.

“Cal.”

“Of?”

“Nobody. Just Cal.”

“I see.”

“Great. Well, try not to get in any more trouble.” She nodded and walked off, her body language shifting between one step and the next so that she completely blended into the rhythm of the crowd.

He tried to place his anger at the theft, and the pain in his weary limbs, in some distant corner of his mind. He reminded himself that his first instincts about that ticket had been right. The Tooth and Claw was built on dark drives and evil ends. Such places could only pollute his virtue.

Still, his mind drifted to bone spikes crusted in blood, fleshy tentacles hiding long teeth, and streams of fire cooking flesh and setting acid tears alight. 

Yam sighed. It was for the best that he had lost his ticket. He would be a damn fool to return, but all men were made fools by beauty. 

Which reminded him. He turned from the street and slipped deeper into the alley. He smiled down at the cloth-covered box in his arms. Carefully, when he was sure no one could see what he was about to do, he set the cage down and crouched so he could greet his new companion; someone he hoped would become his first real friend in this savage place. 

He took the burlap off and—

It was disgusting.

Its eyes were horrifically large and shiny. 

Its fur looked revolting soft and fine.

It had a vile body. Almost completely spherical with tiny forelimbs and stubby legs. All covered in a dense coat of hateful baby blue fur with purple spots and a white belly. Its little snout seemed to smile at him, and the tip of a tiny tongue poked out from under a wet little nose. 

Those adorable eyes blinked and Yam saw that it had long, thick eyelashes that were a delicate shade of lilac.

It was the most horrifying, unholy being he had ever seen.

Yam fell to his knees, “Whe—”, he had to stop, feeling his gorge start to rise, “Where are the fangs?”

The creature cocked its head to the side for a moment. 

And it chirped. 

Its round little body actually bounced with the motion and it grinned lovingly up at him.

He couldn’t help it. A visceral abhorrence, some sort of last-ditch spiritual defense, rose up from the deepest and most true parts of his soul, and Yam vomited right there on the cobbles.

Last Chapter                                                                                                         Next Chapter

Cal 9

Anger propelled Cal across the ancient stones of the Summer Court. Her legs protested, she’d come all the way up from the Fall’s District without a break and a thin sheen of sweat covered her brow, but she didn’t care. She slammed open the door to the professor’s wing, startling a student carrying a bundle of scrolls, causing them to fall all over the floor.

She made her way to Teagan’s door and reached for the handle, then paused. Even in a rage, the cautious street-dweller in her came through above the noise. What were the chances someone like Teagan would trap their door against intruders?

Cal took a deep breath and pounded a fist against the door with a solid, oaken thud.

After a minute, she heard footsteps. The door opened to reveal Teagan.

“It’s the weekend, Callion,” she said. “Don’t you have some expensive wine to be drinking?”

“We need to talk.”

“I have no need to talk. But, judging from your appearance, you need to talk to me.” She opened the door wider and walked back to her desk. “Come in then.”

Cal stepped inside. She wasn’t sure if magic was affecting the dimensions of the space, but the room was more spacious then she would’ve guessed.

In the center of the room was Teagan’s rather impressive desk. The thing was eight feet wide and four feet deep and made of dark wood and wrought iron. It looked as though it had been through battle; covered in burn marks and deep gouges in the polished surface. Various half-finished projects were strewn across the wide expanse of wood.

Behind Teagan was a large window, with an impressive view of the city below. Bookshelves lined the rest of the walls, overflowing with musty tomes and yellowed scrolls.

“Now,” Teagan said, picking up a small metal cube on her desk. what is it you so desperately needed to talk to me about?”

“The project I won,” Cal said. “I asked for it back and you wouldn’t give it to me.”

“I hope you didn’t come all this way to ask me if I had changed my mind.”

“No. Especially since I saw that my boots were on sale in the market.”

“Indeed,” Teagan nodded. “Was there anything else?” 

Cal scowled. “That’s all you have to say?”

“What were you hoping for? A formal apology? My expulsion from university grounds? You’ll get neither.” She picked up a stylus and began carving a rune into the metal with quick, precise cuts. 

“Do you steal work from all your students?” 

“Only if it’s worth stealing.” She tilted her head as her runes began to curve into a tight spiral. “I see no one told you about the Bank.” 

“The what?” 

“The Bank. It’s what we call the Office of Patents. Any idea or invention you submit there is safe, and not even I can steal it.” 

“Why are you telling me this?” Cal folded her arms. “Why not keep stealing from me?” 

“Because I hardly need to steal from first years. You had one clever idea, that doesn’t make you a savant. I’m telling you this because I am your teacher, and this is a valuable lesson.” 

Cal rolled her eyes. “Oh, sure, very valuable.” 

“Don’t throw away knowledge!” Teagan hissed, slapping down her stylus. “Especially when freely given, for that is most rare in this place. Think—I have stolen from you, yes, but you are just as free to steal from me, or anyone else. Only the Bank is safe. Do you honestly think that students here advance just by coming up with the best ideas? Perhaps once in a while, yes, but to be truly successful you must learn to take every advantage.”

She shook her head. “I swore to only ever be honest with my students, so I will let you know this. We both know you don’t belong here.”

The words  felt like a slap across the face. Cal forced her emotions to deaden, refusing to betray anything. No one here knew who she truly was after all, right?

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that you’re a stuck-up nobleman’s daughter.”

What should’ve been an insult caused Cal to feel a flood of relief. But still, she had to play her part.

“I beg your pardon?” Cal said, trying to summon the indignant tone nobles loved to use.

“The Summer Court was founded because not everyone can be born into the position that you are so fortunate to occupy. Most people have to scrape by, and even that isn’t enough. Whenever you sit in my class, you are taking a space that would better serve someone else. So if you insist on staying, I’ll make damn sure you deserve it. Now, kindly get the fuck out of my office.”

Cal resisted the urge to fight back. On the streets, letting such an insult go unchallenged was a sign of weakness. But here, she had to play pretend. She left without a word.

Usually, Cal would meander on her walks home; trying new routes, doubling back on her path, or just exploring. But this time she took the most direct path, not even bothering to cut the occasional purse on her way.

She threw open the door to the Emporium and beelined for the stairs, but Sable appeared in her path.

“Ah, Cal, a moment of your—”

“Not now.” She went to move past him, but was blocked.

“We have a job for you.”

“Look, it’s been a long day and I just want to go up stairs.”

“I sympathize with you, but unfortunately, our agreement doesn’t mention making exceptions for long days.”

“That, and it’s only noon,” said Burr from behind her.

Cal jumped, letting out a small shout.

“Gods damn it, how did you get there?” She asked.

Burr shrugged. “Quiet shoes? Anyhow, about that job…”

Cal pinched the bridge of her nose. Her hangover wasn’t getting any better. “Fine, fine. I’ll do it. What do you need? More ingredients?”

“Fortunately, this task is something more exotic,” said Sable. “We were approached by a client who seems to have misplaced something quite valuable.”

“And by ‘misplaced’ you mean—”

“He was robbed. And before you ask, the ‘something valuable’ was a ticket to the Tooth and Claw.”

Cal looked from Sable to Burr and back to Sable. “Guys, new student, remember?”

“Right. It’s a… club of sorts. A fighting ring for exotic and dangerous beasts.”

Cal frowned. “That’s legal?”

Burr smiled. “It’s Istima, darling. The only true law is ‘don’t get caught.’”

“Fine, so who stole the ticket?”

“While the client used many colorful and inventive words to describe the thief, the only real lead we have is that he was a Len.”

“Guys, I’m good, I know, but this city is full of Len. Plus, they don’t all look the same. Did this one have scales or fur?”

“The client didn’t make that particular detail known to us. But, it’s likely that the thief will use the ticket to get into the Tooth and Claw. All you have to do is get in and find him.”

“Great. So you have a ticket?”

Sable and Burr shared a meaningful look, grinning viciously.

“Guys?”

The two laughed.

Cal sighed. “Oh, fuck both of you.”

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Lyssana 8

Chapter 8: A Vulture Emerges

She was awake before the sun, as seemed to be her new routine, and sat cross legged to begin meditation. Her focused energy and mind were soon interrupted by whispers from the other room, broken by the occasional giggle as the Corpegara arose. With a quiet sigh she rose and began the day. 

Breakfast consisted of fresh apples and a lot of water for her two companions, who seemed to be affected by the bright morning light. A hot mug of tea sat steaming before her on the table when Abby groaned for the fourth time. “I am never drinking that stuff again. Were you trying to poison us?” 

“If I were trying to poison you, you would be dead.” Lyssana smiled, her head tilted slightly as she took a sip of her tea.  Neal’s raucous laughter echoed off the marble walls of the kitchen and Abby’s face paled. You’d think the girl would be used to Lyssana’s responses by now. 

A faint knock on the door caused the room to quiet again as she slipped from her chair to meet a courier who handed her two wax-sealed letters with a bow before scurrying silently down the hall. The first was held together by a golden seal with an open hand inside the circle. She knew that was the seal of the House of Frigya, the house to which she had been born. How conceited to  receive word in the form of a gilded letter, as though she was not of their blood. Cold anger settled into the pit of her stomach, but she ignored it as she turned to the other letter. Royal blue was the seal that boasted a potion bottle with green wax as the liquid and she furrowed her brows as she ripped the seal and began reading. 

“See the bounty board and find M.L. It will prove fruitful. You will need backup, competition is fierce.” 

She frowned at the scratchy script and lack of signature. She even flipped the page over to examine the seal, but there were no hints as to the sender. Lyssana tucked the note into her pocket along with the unopened letter from her family. She would read it and respond appropriately once her guests left. 

They stared curiously at her as she took her seat once again, the now cold tea all but forgotten. “I didn’t realize you were so popular,” Neal chuckled. “Get any good packages in the mail?” 

“Unfortunately not, just my allocation note,” she lied. Every month she would receive a letter from the vault of how much gold in Drams had been deposited into her account, along with a detailed summary of what Istima took for her expenses. It was a shock when she received her first one the week prior, and it was then she realized how little she needed to worry about money. 

Abby looked around the room as though to reiterate Lyssana’s last thought and a shy smile spread across the smaller woman’s face. “Can I ask how much a place like this costs? I mean, not to sound rude, but my entire room in the dormitory would fit inside your kitchen.” Neal elbowed her gently and gave a disapproving look that Lyssana pretended not to notice. 

“You may ask, but I do not think it is important for me to answer.”

She did not know how many others could afford a place like hers, but she could not imagine it was many; for there were only two other housing towers aside from her own, and one housed the small dormitory rooms. Money was a key to status, and status was everything here at Istima. Lyssana did not trust anyone with her financial information. She did not even trust herself with the vast knowledge of it, only paying attention to the number that was allocated as her monthly allowance for living expenses. Of course she did not spend even a fraction of that amount, but it would be saved for a dire situation. So long as she continued to excel and rise in rank. That much had been made very clear. 

Abby and Neal left shortly after, mumbling they needed to nurse their hangovers, and Lyssana was happy to have peace once more. The Corpegara knew it would be time for the market today and she could sense their excitement. It was their favorite day of the week. And she would be lying to not admit she also enjoyed the casual stroll through the stalls as her friends flew high above. 

With the sun now well above the horizon, she grabbed her basket and made her way down the slope to the markets below. They were closer to the docks than they were to the Winter Court, which meant it was always bustling with people running about their errands. They usually stayed out of her way and she had grown accustomed to being treated differently because of her silk clothes. 

After having a plush carpet purchased for delivery, the rich orange and pink swirls reminded her of the islands and would help add color to the cool marble floors, she purchased enough food for the week and continued on her way toward the bounty board that was posted near the docks. 

M.L. Only one name matched the initials and she furrowed her brows at the poster. Michael Lecht was a burly man with a burnt scar down the left side of his face, where his eye once was, and his hair was long and matted. The reward was quite a hefty sum, and when she got to the description of his crimes, she saw why. “Mage violations of a classified nature. Failed to appear before the court due to association with forbidden magical practices. Last known location: The village of Scerna. Proceed to hunt at your own risk.” 

Why had someone told her to go after this man? It seemed far out of the league of her expertise, but she took the poster from the wooden slat and tucked it into her basket anyway, along with a card with information about how to turn in a bounty for the reward. 

The idea of becoming a bounty hunter rolled through her thoughts. She had read a book about this – the people who pursue bounties here were called vultures. Once someone successfully turned in a bounty they had the thanks of the Birds, which resulted in payment depending on how the bounty was delivered. Perhaps it was through the capture of this man that she would learn more about the secret knowledge she sought. The poster did mention forbidden magic, though she did not know how anyone could ever think to send her down that path. Unless Cavit sent the note. Perhaps he wished to hunt this man with her? It seemed sneaky, even for him, to leave such a cryptic message; though there was only one way to find out. She would ask him tomorrow. 

She dropped her food and the Corpegara off at her apartment before heading out again, this time with a more secluded destination in mind. The book she had previously read only vaguely mentioned The Birds, she would need to do more research if she was going to even think about attempting a bounty. 

The library was a vast network of buildings that stretched all over Istima. While most students never needed to check out a book outside their court library, it still offered general books for checkout that were found in other courts. Books specializing in court magic were kept only for the students of that court, usually behind magic barriers for safekeeping, but more common topics were shared more freely. She had only been once to pick up her books for class, but she recognized the face behind the desk. It was the third year student from her first visit.

“I thought I might see you again. You don’t have an easy face to forget. Still remembering to be yourself? This school has a bad way of turning even the most self assured into dust.” His kind eyes watched her and she noticed a sharpness that had not been there before. Or maybe she had simply not noticed. 

“I am who I am.” She eyed the third year student cautiously. “I am here for a book about the judiciary system within Istima.” 

His eyebrows rose in surprise, but he nodded and led her to a tall wooden bookshelf. “This is what we offer in the Winter Court branch, but if you’re looking for anything else, I can probably direct you to the Summer Court library, I know they have a pretty extensive section, so just let me know.” His voice held an air of an unspoken question. She did not indulge him. 

“Thank you, this should do.” Her amber eyes scanned the binds of each book, looking for a title that might reveal the information she needed. There, Eyries and Their Jobs. It was a thinner book, but she pulled it from the shelf and went to a nearby bench to begin reading. 

The Birds were essentially a magic enforcement guild, divided into ranks that held specialized jobs. The Eyrie of IStima was esteemed and well known for their strong, unified presence on the island. The Birds were organized like a military, but their ranks were all named after birds. Sparrows, crows, and so on up to kingfisher. In addition, there were roles outside of the hierarchy. Researchers, healers, and diplomats. At the very end of the list were bounty hunters, or vultures, as they were known by the Birds. If she were to catch Michael Lecht, she would need to report to a Raven or a Heron, who specialized in dealing with rogue mage hunting, within the Eyrie of Istima. 

The Eyrie, she learned from a different book, was located on the end of the street from the bounty board, outside the market. It was close to the docks to ensure that dangerous criminals did not need to be drug far into the city to be prosecuted. It sounded easy enough on paper, but enforcing such a thing seemed difficult in her mind. 

The next book she found was a fantastical tale called Bounties for the Soul: What not to do when hunting. Though it seemed more satirical than resourceful, she found it very informative. It turns out there was a potion one could use that would inhibit a potential bounty, rendering them susceptible to influence and making it easier to bring them in cooperatively. It could be ingested or injected, but too much would prove lethal. All bounties could be turned in dead or alive as a general rule, but you got more money if you turned them in still breathing. Apparently a rookie mistake was being too confident and getting yourself killed by taking on a bounty that was too strong. The book recommended not doing that. 

Oh, and if you’re going to kill your bounty, make sure you bring something that proves they are dead. Like their entire head, since that was easier to carry than a body, apparently. 

What a strange book indeed. She scribbled down the name of the potion that she couldn’t pronounce and shelfed the book to take her leave. 

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Yam 9

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This is an extra long chapter. Thank you for all the views, the work on our TV Tropes page, and for our patron(s) at https://www.patreon.com/impracticalmagic

It’s nuts. But thank you and please leave some comments for us. We want to know how you all would like to see this story develop, or who your favorite character is and why it’s Yam.

~~~~~~~~~

2.02

When Yam stepped into the cavern under his dorm, finally wearing proper clothes again, he felt a great weight fall from his shoulders. Walking through the threshold marked, in his mind, the end of his nightmare at the gymnasium.

He was pleased to see no signs that anyone had come to the underground retreat, but it had only been a few days. So he restrained his optimism and, with the ease of long practice, stretched a length of cord across the entrance of his hideaway. It was hung with detritus that would rattle loudly if jostled; a common practice for Len sleeping away from the Caravan. 

It filled him with a powerful surge of longing for his home; for a place where he could feel his people around him instead of standing isolated in a world that felt oddly thin and unreal. Like life without Presence was a dream that hadn’t included a sense of touch or smell.  

Yam sighed as he sprawled across the cavern floor, not even bothering to adjust his great wrap or cross his ankles. He missed his siblings. He missed knowing every expression of his favorite vendors as they haggled. He missed eating food that wasn’t dry or burnt, and he missed his father’s deep voice and calm Presence. Talking with him felt like lying in a slow river and letting it float you downstream. If he was here, Yam was certain he would already be feeling better. 

His father always knew about the history of a piece of architecture, the legend behind a beautiful flower and, even when he didn’t know either, his father had mastered the  profound trick of seeing every sunset as something new and worth losing himself in. Yam could barely imagine what the wonders of Istima would look like to him. 

And that was why he was not allowed to be tired. Not when his father, his family, and his entire caravan needed him.  

With bone-deep weariness, the young Len unwrapped the cloth bandage on his left bicep and saw that the fur he usually kept shaved had grown in enough to obscure his tattoo. It was the standard Ken Seeker design with small variations. Those subtle differences would let Len from most regions of the country figure out his caravan and family. But the practice was not universal. Which was why he was able to let the fur grow in without it seeming too strange. At least not to others. To him, it was strange to the point of discomfort. 

He had spent years of his childhood dreaming of the day he would shave his arm and be entrusted with carrying the reputation of his people on his skin. Though Len from certain other regions didn’t follow the practice, it always made their adults seem oddly juvenile to his eyes.  

Strange that he now had to thank those man-children for normalizing what he was doing. 

He discarded the rolled cloth and scowled. It burnt to hide his heritage and his family. To announce with his actions that they were a shame. But he had to do it if he wanted to gain enough power to make the world acknowledge their Virtue. 

It was confusing, and paradoxical and it made his heart hurt. But his discomfort meant little compared to the needs of his family. And his weariness meant even less.

He opened one of the small pouches on his belt and pulled out a pill. Brush marks were visible on its surface where the pill maker had applied the exterior coating, and the smell was unpleasantly pungent. It was large enough that he would need to chew it in more than one bite.

The medicine had the energetic and wakefulness effects of black tea, but it was far more potent. In most villages, it would guarantee any man a living. But in Istima these pills were common, maybe even trite. Especially since it was made from relatively common herbs that had been ground together and bound in a sticky paste without any application of magic. 

Yam threw it into his mouth and let his mind go as empty as the cavern around him. He was so exhausted after the physical training that he didn’t even have the energy to wince at the taste. 

He spent some undefinable amount of time underground. His fingertips hummed with borrowed vigor even as his heart felt exhausted to the point of numbness. Being underground meant the elemental energy of the earth was more abundant. He let those soothing flows lull him into a stupor as he worked through the stack of papers he had gotten from Thomnas, the Autumn Court representative.

Even with advice and privileged papers, it took hours of eye-achingly monotonous work to complete the forms. And he had made several mistakes that required him to messily cross out words and draw lines to the margins where he scrawled his corrections. 

~~~

He woke up underground, feeling wrung out and with a horrible headache. 

Though he had slept soundly in the safety of the cavern, he had slept shallowly and was not refreshed. His first thought was that the pills weren’t strong enough and that he would need to look for something more potent. Maybe he could go back to the side streets.  

Thoughts for a later day. For now, Yam hauled his body up the ladder and into his room. It was horrible. His aching muscles hung off a stiff back and rattling bones. When he finally shambled past a window he was surprised to see that it was dark outside. He had to have been in the cavern for more than seven hours. 

It was a testament to the day he had just been through that he didn’t even have the energy to be angry at the time he had wasted sleeping. Instead, he just rearranged his pack. 

A surly and exhausted Yam made it to the proper hall in the Autumn Court. Waited in a perfectly straight line and filled out the papers needed for him to deposit his papers. Which at first seemed ironic but quickly provided the benefit of stoking his rage enough that he had something to power his feet with it. 

Before that fire guttered he stalked to the Day Court and found the uncanny bench from his brief stay there.

Yam glared at the eternally present and eternally cheerful sun. He could not be stopped. If he slept through the day, he would find his own sun to labor under! One bright enough, and viewed from a seat discomforting enough, to prevent him from sleeping while he tried to figure out how to salvage this flaming chamber pot of a day. 

So Yam sat, but not wearily nor resignedly. No, he gingerly placed himself on the seat with the assistance of both quivering arms and cursed about his aching bones; like a rebel. 

He was indomitable. Sore and craving tea, but indomitable. 

He would have liked to write a list, but paper cost money and none would be coming from his family. Instead, he held his options in his mind. His first option was to memorize more of the content given to him by the bookkeeper. It was tedious, but he wanted to impress the bookkeeper so he had access to all of the knowledge of the Understacks. 

There were other options though. He had mixed feelings about returning to the Night Court. Being in the Presence of someone who could kill him with a sneeze was horrifying. Worse, there would be no way to pretend that he was in control of fate through some application of cunning or sublime planning. The Archmage would get exactly what he wanted, and Yam could do naught hope for scrap and pray to avoid drawing the being’s ire. 

But there was so much he could learn there…

Luckily, or perhaps not (he still hadn’t made up his mind about his conscription), returning to the Night Court wasn’t an option. He would receive a summons at the ancient mage’s leisure. 

Instead, maybe he should walk to the lower city? It would be easy to follow the signposts hidden in graffiti until they led him to stronger wakefulness medicines. Finding them at night might even be a good way of seeing what quality the product was; never trust a skinny chef or a sleepy man selling energy potions. His mother had never said that, but he was certain she would if given the chance.

There was also the option to practice control exercises for his osteomancy module. Osteomancy was a powerful tool and a great way to differentiate himself within the Vernal Court. 

In fact, he could go to any of his modules that had listed sessions during the night. There was no set schedule and, aside from stagnating as well as the possibility of losing admissions next year, there was no punishment for not attending modules. This was all to say he might get exclusive access to teachers by attending modules at night. 

Idly his hand reached into the pouch at his side and touched thick expensive paper. The exact paper he had seen passed off by the bookkeeper’s surly assistant. 

He had already sold everything else from Nathanael’s buyer: the fop who had been blinded. But the card, the invitation, had caught his eye. It was not ostentatious, but it was well made. It was sturdy and bore a subtle design in the margins so, when light hit the ink just so, one could make out the silhouette of capering beasts.

It was a conundrum.

Len had a certain reputation. Most humans feared what was different, and it was impossible to see someone living virtuously without having to confront their own deficiencies. That fear and desperate avoidance of their own moral weakness turned into anger. Anger and persecution aimed towards the Len. 

It was infuriating, but his elders said he should work to understand that it was just a reflex; just humans seeking justification that would not imperil their beliefs and dishonor the (false) lessons taught to them by their own elders. In a sad way, it was as noble as they knew how to be. 

So Len tried to be above it. They welcomed humans to their markets. Offered a game of words as they would for a trusted friend. Haggled earnestly, and treated them as though they were the informed and competent adults they wished to be perceived as. In short, they pulled no punches and modeled a life lived in pursuit of the great intangibles like wisdom, honesty, knowledge, and earnest self-improvement. 

If such lessons came at the cost of lost mere money or wounded pride, then it was a cheap price to pay.

But, despite their temperance and willingness to teach, if Len were not indispensable craftspeople, they would have been cast out violently. Instead, they were grudgingly accepted, silently resented, and used as scapegoats. 

Which was all to say, that it was impossible for caravans to travel without having the darker elements of a town reach out to them. Their false reputations ensured it. That reputation also made it all but impossible to survive the ostracization of legitimate businesses without occasionally accepting offers from their… less inhibited competitors. 

As such, even with his successful family and their pristine reputation, Yam still knew immediately what the paper was; an invitation to a fighting ring for exotic animals and magic beasts. The sort of place his parents had forbidden and that Aehp the Eclectic Beast Lord, with his hundreds of treasured familiars, would have found repugnant. But it was also a place with powerful creatures he could bond with and a reservoir of first-hand knowledge fit to challenge any bestiary.

On the other hand, it would be a den of criminals who reveled in cruelty and bloodshed. It might give him knowledge, but it would certainly be dangerous. Worse, he didn’t know the city well enough to say how much more dangerous it would be for a Len. Would he be allowed in, even with a ticket? Would they force him into the ring because of his fur and teeth?

Yam took the mixed fear, excitement, and shame, and put it all to the side. He needed to think like a Ken Seeker. Especially when he was without guidance.

So what was the logic of this situation? His safety concerns were probably justified. It was an illegal venue glorifying violence. Such places would self-select for a certain type of patron. But he also refused to be someone who made their choices because of fear. That was a path that led to servitude and the sort of passivity that gave corruption tacit permission to grow. 

On the other hand, this would be a cruel place and anything he gained from it would taint his cultivation of virtue. That was no small thing for a properly raised young gentleman like himself to imperil. Virtue was what separated them from animals. 

He couldn’t say how long he sat, waging a silent war against the uncanny bench, but eventually, he came to a conclusion. The invitation was a small choice tangled with large questions he felt hesitant tackling at the moment. So, he made the most reasonable decision he could considering his goals: he should find out if there was a place he could gain guidance on his magical development and, if not, settle for doing what studying could be accomplished on his own. After all, he knew helping his family through learning and hard work was virtuous. He was a Ken Seeker after all. Literally a seeker of ken. 

Confident in his decision the young Len took out his notebook and skimmed through the cramped handwriting to see if any of his modules had night sessions. 

His body froze. There was one module that would be open: physical training.

No. 

He couldn’t. 

Yam’s lips twitched. His legs were still too tired. Surely, it would be a waste to go before he had recovered? And the clothes were scandalous. It wasn’t precisely impossible but… 

True, other students could go twice in quick succession. If they were able too he could as well, right? But he was a Ken Seeker! Not a fitness seeker! Plus with his long night and how hard things had been—

The excuses tumbled through his mind like water over a cliff. And the fact that he recognized them as excuses made it all the worse. This was cowardice. This was what a sick-bodied and weak-willed child would say to themselves. 

With a snarl, he threw himself to his feet, shoved his book back into the pack, and stalked away from the uncanny bench. Yam’s jaw was clenched so tight he felt his teeth groan under the pressure. Not caring who saw it, he reached into his pouch and ripped out the invitation for the Tooth and Claw.

To say he had a fully realized thought would be over-generous. However, if his thoughts could be characterized, they would be something along the lines of screaming ‘I’m not afraid of anything! Not even this!’ and, a much quieter train of thought, one hidden by the volume of the first, which was the mental equivalent of covering his eyes with his hands and saying, ‘Avoidance? Nope, I don’t see any avoidance here.’

~~~

As a mage, Yam’s mental fortitude and capacity for prolonged focus were exceptional. 

His single-minded focus carried him until bare moments before he walked into the Tooth and Claw. He was standing in line, waiting to show his pass to one of two Aketsi doormen, before the first doubt pierced his defense. Was he really going to do this? Was he really going to enter a room full of hard men and lawbreakers? Sure, once or twice, he had grabbed something left behind by an unwary shopper. And once his friends had even talked him into sneaking a pastry from a stall. There had also been the ferryman. But they were bigots and what he had done was more prank than theft. 

But this, this was an underground bloodsport! Though, apparently, even the underground animal fights in Istima were fancy. The sign above them was marble with glowing magic highlighting the name of the ‘covert’ establishment. The ticket men were also very polite, and, for Aketsi, they moved at a rapid pace. 

The extremely strange and aesthetically pleasing incongruities were probably the only reason he made it to the front of the line at all. If there had been a dirty alleyway or if dangerous thugs had manned the doors, he would have lost his nerve and fled. 

But everyone around him was wealthy. For people who didn’t have access to a Len master craftsman, they were the peak of class. Their poorly cut jewels were set inexpensive metals, and less than masterful embroidery stumbled across the rare material of their clothing. Their presence made it feel like he was in line for a play, and more than once, he checked his invitation.

Finally, he made it to the Aketsi feeling like his head was full of wool. The doorman took almost three seconds to smile and nod his head. Yam had never seen one move so quickly! At least when not chasing down a thief in the market. The doorman examined Yam’s pass without touching it and slowly waved him in, “EEnnjjooyy, ssiirr.”

It was startling. If he was looking for wakefulness pills, he may need to start here. Aketsi’s biology was made for standing and slow ceaseless labor in the same way that the Len were made for community and adaptation.

His lingering thoughts carried him through the door and into a large indoor stadium before he truly took in his surroundings. The Tooth and Claw had three rings of people set at three different elevations. The lowest was standing room only. The top tier, where he had entered, was full of comfortable chairs and wealthy clients. He naturally moved to the second tier. It was full of people who looked successful and cultured enough to be less accustomed to acting on drunken or violent impulses. Which made it better than the bottom floor. But it’s patrons were also not so wealthy as to have guards and family grudges against his people left over from negotiations that had been executed a bit too masterfully. Which made it better than the top floor.

So he sat on the wooden benches and spent an uncomfortable twenty minutes torn between being fascinated and repulsed by what he saw happening in the ring at the center of the stadium. Those poor creatures. 

But gods help him if they weren’t magnificent. After seeing a gorgeous beast maimed, one that would strike terror into his enemies and be a suitable companion for Aehp himself, Yam found himself wanting an alcoholic beverage. 

He was already here, really what more did he have to lose from one bad decision? He spent nearly thirty minutes trying to find a beverage counter that was not staffed by a Len. It took a tremendous amount of attention for him to not constantly re-check how hidden his tattoo was. As a result, he accidentally waited in the wrong line. He was too ashamed to admit his ignorance when the man behind the counter asked for his bet. 

He placed a single dram on the wooden counter, but the employee looked at him strangely and he ended up putting down enough money for a restaurant-quality meal before he could subdue his pride. 

Afterward, he wandered until something caught his attention. It was ferocious, possessing a disquieting number of claws, and seemed to have venom leaking from its eyes in a lethal rain of tears; Yam loved it more than he had ever loved anything in his entire life. 

The young Len watched the beauty being carted around and saw how docilely it accepted affection from a wealthy merchant supervising its transport. He could already imagine frolicking together underneath the dormitory and him becoming rich selling its venom. They would be the best of friends and their foes would weep to see Aehp and his fell companion. 

The magnificent creature was carried behind a set of unobtrusive doors and the young Len held completely still; just savoring the paragon of terror and destruction he had the privilege to have witnessed. 

What. A. Beauty. 

Then, before his poor heart could recover, an even more horrifying eldritch monstrosity was carried from behind the doors.

Where he had only been able to watch the fights for twenty minutes before needing a drink, Yam found himself spending nearly an hour staring at the door as every third beast made his heart skip with intermingled terror and avarice. 

There was a great deal of ‘analysis’ and internal ‘debate’. But from the moment he saw a creature that appeared to shapeshift from a small dragon with wings of green fire into a scorpion with a hooded cobra for a tail, the decision was made. It was just a matter of how long it took him for him to consciously acknowledge the executive decision his heart had made. 

He snuck through the door. 

It was another horrible decision. 

Oh well.

According to reason, he should have been a bent double with the weight of fear and caution. Instead, his eyes opened wide and he rushed through the back room he was very much not supposed to be in and was carried from cage to cage like a child at a toy store. 

Finally, maybe ten minutes later, fate, which always guards the stupid and insane, ceased protecting him. It had never occurred to Yam to wonder why he hadn’t seen guards in the extensive hallways, or why no one cared when they heard the sound of his feet scampering from cage to cage. In truth, he had been too enrapt for such a coherent and reasonable thought.

When fate left him (that cold bitch) he was holding a thick and well-worn bestiary in one hand, a pamphlet with care instruction for Flesh Ants in another, and had tied two more books together with a piece of twine that he held in his mouth. That was when he had a horrible realization. 

“Owh noe,” he said, freezing in place, eyes wide. 

He had wandered away from the most impressive beasts and was now in an area mostly full of tools and cleaning equipment. He was also quite lost. And, even if he wasn’t, he all but collapsed when he realized that he couldn’t carry out all the animals he wanted, even if he gave up the books he had found. 

Those would have been poor realizations by themselves. What was worse was when he heard voices coming from down the hall and his magnificent display of dumb luck officially ended. Before he could think he stuffed the pamphlet into his belt and darted inside a closet. He had barely managed to hide and peek through a crack in the door before two large guards walked into view.

His hand fell to his pouch and he sensed the bones within. But the young Len hesitated. He was in no way trained in combat. His only experiences with fighting were exactly what one would expect from a too-smart, book-loving child who was too weak to flee his frequently unsupervised peers. 

He didn’t know how to fight at all, let alone with osteomancy. His racing mind raced as he searched for options. He had not yet learned any cants from the bookkeeper’s assignment, and his body was too weak to outrun anyone but an Aketsi. Which only left one tool in his arsenal: his natural ability for spatial magic. 

But, untrained as he was, he had sharp limits on its usage. Before he could think enough to stop himself, he took the twine from his mouth and set aside the two books. He barely even let himself breathe as he watched the two guards step past the closet where he hid.

The two of them passed by so closely that he could smell the sour scent of alcohol on their sweat. He was certain they would notice him too. 

But they didn’t pause. 

The large man and his even larger female comrade reached the intersection at the end of the hallway and stopped. Yam almost screamed when the two leaned their backs against the stone wall and began talking. Instead, he waited to a count of two hundred before finally accepting that the guards wouldn’t be moving any time soon. His ramble must have accidentally coincided with guards’ shift change 

It didn’t matter. 

He ducked back into the closet and slowed his breathing. He had played games of hide-and-seek where he had pulled off maneuvers just like he was about to do. There was even a piece of fortune on his side. The door to his cramped sanctuary opened inwards.

The young mage shook out his hands and went back to the doorway. A quick glance confirmed that the guards were still there. So he retreated into the closet as far as he could while still being able to reach the door. He didn’t want to create a visible silhouette. 

Over the course of a slow count to forty-five, he inched the door open to the exact breadth of his shoulders and then added a few fingers width to account for his clothes. After shimmying sideways there was a perfectly straight corridor of unoccupied space the width of his shoulders that stretched from where he stood to the intersection at the other end of the hallway.

Then the young mage reached out with his magic. It was hard to describe exactly what he did. Most of it happened without his conscious direction and, historically, the more he focused on what he was doing, the more often it failed. Just like how someone could walk on a strip of colored paving stones without any problem. But, if they stood on a raised beam of the same width and started consciously trying to keep their balance, they would twist and flail. 

Though he didn’t completely understand what the magic did, in some ways it was like folding a piece of paper. Put a dot on either end of the paper and then fold until both points were right next to each other. Done correctly, you could have the same amount of paper between the two points, but not the same amount of distance. 

What he did now was like that except he had a tube of paper, one big enough for him to fit through, and instead of just bending the paper he folded the whole tube until it compressed like an accordion.  

And of course, the other big difference was that he folded space itself, not paper. 

Yam picked a point at the far end of the hall, just at an intersection, and he crumpled the space between where he was and that spot. With a single step, he passed over the folded space. It was no more than a half-inch wide and was not something he could see with his eyes. His arcane senses had to tell him where the fold was. 

As he passed over and through what he imagined to be a standing loop of accordion ruffled fabric, there was a brief blurring of lights and Yam found himself standing at the end of the hallway.

He immediately stepped around the corner, hoping that neither of the guards had been looking. 

If the gods were kind—

“Hey! Anyone down there!”

He should have known. By the time he became a god he probably would have learned to stop being kind to strangers too. 

Fate knew he wouldn’t be here in the first place if he hadn’t tried to help that blinded fop with the ticket. 

Yam ran. The moment he had a line of sight down the hallway he crumpled space once again and zoomed ahead of his pursuers. As he fled, he turned towards the faint smell of animals and magic-ed himself forward in as many tiny hops and skips as he could. 

It worked. At first anyway. 

The sound of feet grew further and further away and his magic reserves easily handled the costs of his subtle working. In fact, it worked so well that he almost couldn’t believe it when he stepped into an intersection and ran face-first into a completely different guard who was wearing a hardened leather vest. 

The man barely moved when the rather scrawny young mage ran into him. But Yam landed on his butt and slid backward with the force of it. 

The guard blinked at the be-furred humanoid who had suddenly appeared next to him. 

“Wha—?”

“Look a Len!” Yam yelled, pointing his finger down the hallway, 

The moment the guard looked away Yam turned his head to look back the way he had come and crumpled space yet again. Awkwardly, he hopped his butt off the floor and an inch to the left. That was all it took to clear the spatial fold. He ended up at the other end of the hall with barely enough time to scramble onto all fours before the man started running towards him. 

The young mage forced himself to wait a single moment so the timing could line up. Then, when it was just right, he threw himself flat against the wall. For a brief instant, four-fifths of the hallway’s width was unoccupied down its entire length. 

But Yam needed to see both points he was manipulating. So, while he was still throwing himself against the stonework, Yam stretched his eyes wide and stared at the opposite wall. Both the guard and the floor just behind him were both in his peripheral vision for a moment. 

Faster than he ever had before, he reached out and crumpled the hallway. The guard stepped forward and found himself several steps behind Yam. With another burst of magic, which was just now starting to make his mind ache, the young Len sent himself as far away as he could. 

With a few more space bending leaps he lost his pursuer. But the yelling guards drew help, even as his impossible steps grew shorter and as more burly men and women poured into the hallways. 

Hallways that, he was just starting to realize, went below street level and extended the length of at least three warehouses. Maybe dozens.

He ran, but his legs were weak and turned so watery that he was forced to walk. When that happened he used his ability constantly to keep ahead of pursuit. The pace of his casting sent his head to aching. And, for all of Yam’s efforts, the net only grew tighter. 

The guards knew the layout better than he did and eventually formed a blockade that prevented him from even seeing the cages that held the fighting beasts. The ones that had first lured him into this labyrinth. And the ones that marked his most likely exit.

He was shambling through a massive three-story-tall space with his hand pressed against the stitching pain in his ribs. The middle of the large room was filled with rows of shelves that held crates, cages, and various small creatures. The wall on his other side was dotted by doorways leading to small rooms. Some were set up with fine tables and chairs. Often next to them were rooms with bloody surgeons’ tables or offices that housed ledgers and be-spectacled men dutifully ignoring the commotion beyond their desks. 

Yam darted into one of the table and chair rooms. He slammed the door shut even though all the others were open and he knew it would draw attention. For a frantic thirty seconds, Yam searched the door for a lock. There was none. 

He considered wedging a chair under the doorknob, but didn’t know if that actually worked. Storytellers mentioned it often, but he had grown up with a severe lack of extraneous chairs that he could try to wedge under the equally rare extraneous doors in his people’s minimalist nomadic caravan. 

The only other thing in the room was a small writing kit on the table and a knock-off porcelain tea set. 

He backed away from the door, heart thudding and temples feeling like spikes were being driven into them. Then his back fetched against a hanging tapestry and he felt something strange. 

In a whirl, the young mage spun around and pushed the tapestry to the side. Underneath the thick fabric was a door made of crossed iron rods that had been welded together, like the cross-hatched cage of a prison cell. 

On the other side of the metal was another tapestry. Yam barely managed to squeeze his hand through a gap and push the richly colored fabric aside. For a flash, he saw a short hallway, perhaps three to five paces long, that led to the highest tier of the viewing stands. Then the fabric fell back into place. 

He wasted almost a full minute trying to throw the tapestry up so that it would give him the light and line of sight he needed to work with. Then he remembered that he had other magics at his disposal. 

Using pure control without any fancy spell work, he sent three bone beads flying from his belt. They hit the fabric on the other side of the door and pushed until it was pinned to the ceiling. He held them steady with a thought and took his first clear look at the door. 

Like he had thought, the door was primarily made of crossed iron bars welded together. But, more importantly, there was a visible gap between the door’s edge and the metal frame that extended from the wall 

Yam moved to the keyhole and crouched until his head was lower than the lock. Then he grasped his magic and did something he hadn’t even told his parents about. 

They knew that he wasn’t limited to crumpling space. But they also knew that stretching space was far harder for him to do. The material of the world was inherently pliable, and it did not necessarily resist nor encourage change. It simply responded to the factors influencing it. And it did require some energy to combat the circumstances that held it in its current form. 

Compressing space was really folding and, when he did so, Yam let the world do almost all of the work for him. Like using a carrot to move a donkey rather than pushing it. Or like digging a down hill tench next to a boulder so that it would fall and move itself. 

To compress space he just had to nudge at a few circumstances; make a few points slippery, a few others sticky, and suddenly it was easier for space to fall into the shape he wanted than to stay the same.  Stretching, on the other hand, took more out of him. The movement was not fueled entirely by his own power, he didn’t think any mortal had the sheer amount of magic that would take, but it did require him to alter far more of the tiny influencing factors; the tiny circumstances that commanded the shape of space. In terms of effort and expense, it was rather like bribing twenty border agents instead of only having to charm five. 

His parents had seen him make it so no matter how hard they reached for him they could never pull sweats from his fingers. They had also seen him jump across a massive field with a tiny hop. But for some reason, they had always made the assumption that he only bent space by changing the distance one could walk: by bending the horizontal plane.

With the same trick he once had used to enter their locked wagon and pour honey on his sister’s pillow, he walked through the iron door. Specifically, he stretched the gap between the edge of the door and the edge of the iron frame. 

He had to crouch very low. The moment he entered the distorted space between door and frame the tiny sliver of the latch holding the door closed seemed to become an iron bar that spanned a gap several paces wide to either side of him. And, even crouched until his knees brushed his chin, it was uncomfortably close to the top of his head. 

But there was nothing to be done about it. To his knowledge, it was impossible to change space two ways at the same time. Just like it was impossible to manipulate a point not in his direct line of sight. Which was to say, his intuitive knack for spatial magic didn’t include how to overcome those particular boundaries. 

Which was fine. He could fit between any gap and he could raise the height of any ceiling Just not both at once. Similarly, he could move in a single direction as far as he could see, but if he would have to step off the straight line to avoid an obstacle, like a table, then his compression wouldn’t let him walk through that solid object any more than if he was moving through natural space. Even with those limitations, he felt like he had gotten the better end of whatever bargain gave him his abilities.

He made it under the Tooth and Claw’s iron door with an undignified amount of panting and duck-walking. The moment he was clear, he waved his hand and the bone beads holding up the tapestry whizzed through the air. In a flash they had looped back and pinned the thick fabric to the ground, stilling its motion so as not to betray his passage. 

Then Yam turned down the short hallway and saw the elbow of a servant peek past the edge of the doorway. More civilized and far better dressed, but a guard nonetheless. 

The door to the room behind the tapestries was thrown open with a shout. 

Yam didn’t move. He leaned forward, eyes narrowed and, just as he saw the protruding stomach of a nobleman peek past the edge of the hallway’s entrance, he reached out with his magic and stepped. 

If the doormen had been looking forward, they would have seen him appear, as if out of thin air, an instant before his slight frame was eclipsed by the girth of the passing nobleman. 

For Yam’s part, he spun on his heel and kept pace with the large man. Letting silk-clad girth  screen him from the servant’s view. He painted boredom across his expression and began walking slowly. Like he was just another patron unimpressed with the area’s spectacle and looking for libation. 

Or at least that’s what he hoped he was doing. In truth, his heart was hammering and his skin was sweaty enough that he felt certain everyone in the room had noticed. 

But no one called out after him. 

Just before he stepped into the stairwell leading to the exit of Tooth and Claw, the young mage glanced over his shoulder. He glimpsed a servant craning their head down the short hallway they were stationed in front of. Their expression was puzzled. Possibly wondering why there were guards in the client conference room cursing.

Yam turned around and began moving away only slightly faster than proprietary would have otherwise dictated. Heart in his throat,  legs barely able to hold him up, he made his way to the establishment’s door. As he moved down the stairs, he barely remembered to flip his stolen book so the title was invisible and so it obscured the pamphlet he had stuffed in his belt. 

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Interlude: Alendra

Alendra woke quickly to the shrill sound of her alarm, she slapped the off switch and got up, her feet hitting the floor before her mind could argue. It was a trick she’d learned from her father. He’d always said it was harder to fall back asleep if you were already standing by the time you opened your eyes.

She looked around and frowned at the clutter. Given the amount of books the court required her to read, it was hardly any wonder that she had to pile them in pillars around her bed, her desk, and on any available surface. But there was still an hour before she was due at the clerk’s office, plenty of time to clean the place up.

Focusing her senses, Alendra summoned her powers, stretching her arm out towards the books. As she raised her hand, the books were gently lifted into the air. She felt only the briefest tug of weight in her hands as they hovered around her, softly tumbling as she directed them back onto the already overflowing shelves at the foot of her bed. Once they were in place, she breathed out. The mental strain felt good, like exercise. She was tired, but no longer sleep-weary. She stretched upwards and jumped in shock as her second alarm began to blare.

She turned it off and went over to the closet. The area inside was divided in two; to the left was for her personal clothes, to the right for school robes.

The everyday robes of the Autumnal Court were crisp and sleek. Deep blue, with a satin lining the shade of deep orange, like fall leaves. The court’s motto was embroidered in a subtle script in a band around the collar. Through order comes knowledge. Alendra buttoned up the double-breasted front and glanced in the mirror. Everything had to be spotless. Some of the professors had already made a point to verbally thrash any student who failed to meet their exacting specifications.

Her parents had rented her a room at Madam Horatia’s Boarding House for Young Ladies. It was a pleasant little building on the corner of two main thoroughfares of the Founder’s District, and just outside of the Autumnal Court’s gates. Alendra grabbed a piece of bread from the communal dining room of the house and stepped out onto the street.

It was less than five minutes until she’d reached the gate. Passing through the threshold, she was met with a pleasant fall breeze and the scent of dried leaves as the temperature shifted downward to cool, but not biting. She pulled her cloak around her as she hurried towards the east tower. Inside, she crossed the marble floor and took the enchanted elevator up to the fifteenth floor.

“Good morning, Ma’am,” Alendra said as she entered the Hall of Records and Processing.

“Initiate Kaestellus,” said the stern-faced woman behind the main desk. “You have crumbs on your robes.”

“My apologies, Ma’am,” Alendra said, looking down and plucking the stray bits of bread from her clothes.

“Hmm,” the woman’s sharp gaze returned to her work, “next time, do try to appear more professional, understood?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Good. You may go.”

Alendra bowed slightly and headed in.

The Hall of Records and Processing was no ordinary office. It was the beating heart of the Autumnal Court’s administration, and by extension, the entire city. Every student of the court, no matter how advanced, was required to work at least a few hours a week as a clerk for the court. As such, the space was over-engineered to perfection.

A long, suspended bridge ran the full length of the hall. Every ten feet, on both sides of the walkway, was a spiral staircase of wrought iron. The staircases led either up or down three levels each. At each level, a walkway extended out, giving students access to a row of wooden cubicles. The cubicles were stacked on top of each other, making the hall look like an oversized row of bookshelves.

Alendra made her way down the walkway to row K. As she walked, the silence was occasionally punctuated by a low chunk and a soft hiss as the pneumatic tube system delivered records to waiting clerks.

She reached her row and walked down two flights of stairs, then took the walkway to the seventh cubicle. A message container was already waiting in the metal tube by her desk. She sat down and pulled out the papers.

As a first year, she didn’t have many responsibilities. Most of the papers were the records of new students that needed to be processed into the school’s extensive filing system. Working quickly, she could get through seven or eight forms in an hour. From a special pocket in her robe, she pulled out a leather case and withdrew ink and a pen. Then she set to work.

By the fifth record, her hand was beginning to cramp. She flexed her fingers as she read the name on the next page and froze.

Student Name: Lady Callion Augurellia

She scanned through the page. It listed everything the school knew about Callion; physical description, aptitude tests, application essay scores, even known personal relations. Alendra allowed herself a brief smile when she saw she’d gotten higher marks on that last item.

But there was a problem. This record detailed the life of the real Callion. The one who had died before she ever made it to Istima. Any clerk who spent five minutes looking at this page could spot Cal as an impostor.

Alendra stared at the page and frowned.

She had promised to help Cal maintain her cover story and, now that the opportunity presented itself, she was hesitating. What were the consequences of forgery? She’d seen students severely reprimanded for mistakes before, so what would be done about deliberate falsehoods? She considered just forgetting the whole thing. After all, the chances of someone going through Cal’s application paperwork and spotting the issue was small, practically zero really.

But, Alendra thought with a sigh, a promise was a promise. And more than that, Cal had become her friend. She was also a thief, a liar, and most assuredly a miscreant, and her friend. There must be a logical way to determine the best course of action.

As her father had taught her, there was certainty in order, rules, and logic. She just had to find the order: define friendship and determine where it sat on the hierarchy of her obligations.

If she was to define friendship, she would say that it’s a bond between two people who, while not contractually obligated to assist one another, were bound by duty and love to help, even if that involved personal risk. Alendra shook her head. The very definition was illogical.

But surely, some responsibilities superseded the duties of friendship? Romantic love, ethics, and law, to name a few. Yet, as she sat there, pen dripping ink as it hovered over the page, Alendra couldn’t find the will to go against her friend.

She pulled out a fresh page and began to write a new record. She copied over the relevant information, but subtlety changed what was needed to seamlessly integrate the new Callion with the old. The physical description of Cal was close to the original, but it wouldn’t pass under strict scrutiny. Alendra copied the handwriting of the original document as she made the answers more vague. For hair, she put medium and brown. For her eyes, she put dark. For height… how tall was Cal? Shorter than she was, probably due to a lack of proper nutrition. Alendra settled on the meaningless answer of ‘approx. 5 ½ feet.’

She did this with the rest of the answers. The Autumn Court’s paperwork was thorough, and in some places, Alendra strained to find a response that wouldn’t arouse suspicion. When she was done, she looked at the page and froze. There was a blank spot in the bottom right corner where she was supposed to mark her work with a personal seal. That mark would permanently tie this paper with her. Whoever saw it, were the forgery detected, could link the document back to her. And the punishment for falsifying information in the Autumn Court was severe—as  close to treason as one could get.

But she thought back to her own definition of friendship. If Cal was truly her friend, then by her own admission, she was bound by duty and love to help her—even though that involved a great personal risk. She pulled out the small signet ring given to her by the court, pressed it into a small ink pad, and pressed it into the page. When removed, it left a small black circle, inside of which was a picture of a single oak leaf—the rank of Initiate—and a seven digit code assigned to her.

The only thing left to do was shuffle the pages into a neat stack, being sure to place Cal’s somewhere in the middle, and place the forms back into the tube. She held her breath as she inserted the tube into the pipe, as though the system would somehow notice her forgery. But nothing happened. The tube slotted in with a soft chunk and was whisked away.

Alendra stuffed the pens back into her bag, promising herself she’d clean the nibs later. Right now, all she wanted to do was get out of here. She climbed back up to the walkway and made her way toward the front desk.

“Have a good day, Ma’am,” Alendra said, summoning the last remains of her cheerfulness as she passed the desk.

“Initiate Kaestellus,” the woman called. Alendra froze in place, then slowly turned around.

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“You took approximately seven minutes longer than your weekly average to complete your work. Explain yourself.”

“Oh… apologies, Ma’am. Er— one of the applicants had filled out a form incorrectly. I had to make sure their errors weren’t carried over into the records.”

Her heart was in her throat as the woman studied her. Could she tell she was lying? She was terrible at it. Usually, her face would start to go red and hot. Oh gods, she wasn’t saying anything—

“Hmph,” the woman scowled, as though she’d tasted something bitter. “Repulsive. That alone should have been grounds for the rejection of their application. Very well, you may go.”

“Thank you, Ma’am. Good day, Ma’am.” Alendra gave a short bow and did everything in her power to remain calm while walking to the elevator.

When the doors had safely closed behind her, she slumped against the wall and sighed deeply.

Gods, how did Cal do this all day? Wasn’t it exhausting?

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Interlude: A Study on Human Culture

When applying reason and observation to the various properties, practices, and patterns of human societies, Len scholars have come to agree on the ‘Two Pillars Theory.’ Summarized, it supposes that the great majority of human cultures are based upon two underlying predilections: materialism and the fundamental need to remain stationary. 

As a result of these most strange species-wide obsessions, humans have developed equivalently strange practices. By means of example, humans will spend massive fortunes digging complex tunnel systems into the earth. Tunnels that they then relieve themselves into. Often these tunnels empty into rivers and have caused death and disease either for themselves or their neighbors. Neighbors who, are (somehow) unwilling to move to a more upstream location due to their species-wide phobia/fetishes.

Despite the abundant historical accounts detailing instances of plague, humans still build their cities directly atop these elaborate filth-labyrinths. In point of fact, living above their own collectively amassed excrement is considered a sign of societal advancement. This is because, humans devoid of excrement-tunnels, will empty their chamber pots into the street. No singularly nor secretly, but as a matter of general practice!

This is endured, by those who possess a robust enough health to endure it, so that they need only move the minimum amount from their permanent dwellings, and in spite of the certain knowledge that they will inevitably travel upon the streets where they have emptied their waste. 

Sedentary urges further engender Humans, excluding a very few nomadic tribes, towards developing the most strange of status symbols. They will construct massively large homes, beds more than 2.5 times their shoulder’s width (where a single individual of average size sleeps), high ceilings devoid of storage, and completely furnished rooms that are inhabited by visitors for less than three weeks per year. 

All serve as signs of wealth and social status. Of course, this is in addition to the wearing of physically impractical grab which serves to indicate that the human has enough wealth that they don’t need to leave their own dwelling. Indeed, it’s intense inconvenience implies that they can hire others to do simple chores, and, due to its fragility, the clothing also serves as evidence that they have not engaged in any activity more strenuous than moving between their many differently themed-rooms (please see chapter 6 to discusses examples such as ‘sitting rooms’). 

Though Len ourselves are not immune from the desire for finely crafted goods, humans will assign higher inherent value to items based on cost and material expense rather than history, craftsmanship, and usefulness. They will then amas as much as possible.

To support this shocking perversity, there is an entire industry built around making large permanent buildings whose only purpose is to hold items that are unnecessary. The industry is based around the certainty that humans will, as a matter of compulsion, buy more items than they can fit in their oversized personal residences. 

Rather than sell the trinkets and baubles, the species will sacrifice funds to have the useless possession kept away from them for prolonged periods of time in a ‘warehouse’. Which, as the name suggests, is a massive structure maintained solely for housing wares that are not needed. As a point of clarification, these are not season-specific tools or stores of food that are not currently needed. They are entirely unused. Either permanently or for multiple years. But they would, somehow, cause severe psychological distress if no longer owned by the human. This is in spite of the objects being hidden in a location that is, essentially, never visited or thought of.  

What is the purpose of this knowledge an intrepid reader of a less scholarly disposition may ask? By observing what fundamental differences in nature have led humans so far from the Virtuous Life, as described by the great philosopher Concratus, we can understand how to interact with their peculiarities and, mayhaps, aid their development. Like a young man assisting a simple relative or an aged grandmother who, despite being functionally challenged, possess enough goodwill and sentiment to be treated with sympathy. So too should we make efforts to understand the humans and aid them as possible.

In the spirit of goodwill and charity, this scholar puts forward that the underlying cause of aberrant human values lies in sensory deprivation, not an inherent lack of moral capability within the species. Phrased more directly, they are capable of Virtue, but are born with great obstacles and little to no guidance from those who have moved past them in such a manner as to provide tutelage. 

Indeed, for evidence of the severe moral damage inflicted by a lack of senses, look to the human form. Their body plans change to such a small extent that they have no means of knowing what their fellows value. Any child knows that an adult who has gone through the ritual to obtain a Reptile form is interested in longevity, mental pursuits, and lives a life comfortable enough that they need not gird themselves against undue environmental trials. Those of us who place our affections upon the pursuits made available by a hearty body, rapid healing, the ability to put aside sleep, and the desire to produce great feats of strength follow the mammalian path. 

Furthermore, an obvious supposition that must none the less be voiced, all Len know, for a fact, that we are one people due to Presence. Humans are deprived of such basic senses. 

The logical conclusions are thus; without access to bodies that can be adapted to their environments, humans fixate on the first safe location they can find and travel forth only with great trepidation. Often, they will suffer mass deaths from plague, reoccurring natural disaster, fire, and famine rather than brave the open road. And, please note, they will do so even when utterly believing in the forewarning of an impending disaster. 

Now herded together and deeply a feared of moving, we see the sad sensory affliction of the human condition made socially manifest. Without perceiving Presence human’s never know when they will be in the ‘out-group’ of another human and be categorized as a ‘Them’ or ‘Enemy’. To be categorized thusly is to be robbed of personhood in such a manner as to absolve the other party from any sort of punishment for enacting harm upon you; no matter how severe. 

As such, any singular human must desperately signal that they are simultaneously useful and possess group membership; both to convince the capriciously violent ‘society’ around them, and also to convince themselves they are safe. Otherwise, the unending emotional distress may be too acute to endure. 

In other words: by hoarding many items and wearing garish clothes they attempt to make a primitive, material-based Presence. One impossible to ignore or overlook.

They must spend so many resources, both material and mental, to achieve such basic communication that, from the onset, their pursuit of a Virtuous Life has been irreparably stunted. They are incapable of noticing elegance and subtly because their senses are distracted by the constant threat of otherhood should they miss a signal. The poor wretches, through no fault of their own, only possess enough left over-attention to engage with the more easily perceptible properties of quantity and garishness. Hence Len superiority in the realm of craftsmanship.

Furthermore, their weak social senses paired with their divisive nature dooms humans to employ pervasive deceit. It is like children who have decided that an act is good only because they will not be caught by someone who knows it is bad. From a young age, the ease of deceit makes it far too tempting to a young human and it is thus normalized by frequent use and success.

The tenants of a virtuous life: candor, brotherhood, dedication, generosity, respect for elders, and the pursuit of the great Enduring Intangible Gifts like knowledge, skill, love, elegance, expertise, and other such noble ends cannot exist in human society. At least not commonly or without intervention. The species put plainly, is born without vital qualities. 

To a Len, blessed as we are with senses and capabilities that remove us so far from base savageries, the world is wide and nuanced. Our senses and philosophies are as a team of well-maintained horses steered with a deft hand. Human’s work with vital senses removed and thus must blindly crack the reins and feverishly employ the whip against the only beast of burden able to move them; materialism and a stationary existence.

Though some claim that humans are doomed to create ever more elaborate and barbarous traditions as they grope in the dark for Virtue, this scholar believes it is our duty to reach out and help those who are willing. 

We should, as a people, meet discrimination with compassion. Knowing what sort of lives they live, do not begrudge Humans their need to degrade others so they can convince themselves that they are fortunate. Understand why those wretches, our siblings in personhood if not in Virtue, would not want to live constantly assailed by the knowledge that they are hostage to their own deficits. 

Instead, cast your mind to the wisdom of Concratus and think of how one can use a Virtuous Life to benefit the less enlightened around them.

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Yam 8

2.01

The people running the tutoring building had been very frustrated with him when he made himself a small fire in the corner of his room. Which, to be fair, had been inconsiderate even if the marble floor and open window meant nothing bad would have happened. 

It did end up being a bit of a miscalculation. They were annoyed enough to immediately eject him from the building when, thirty-six hours into his ‘single free tutoring session’,  they had finally found him asleep.

Yam took it with good cheer though. His channels were sore, his body ached, his back was stiff, and he felt an odd kind of existential pain that made him suspect his soul might be sore as well. 

Somehow, the slender Len was able to make it to his dormitory without getting lost or physically running into anyone. Once in his room he only stopped long enough to write himself a brief note: more black tea, schedule practice at Blood Ally, find food for room

He fell into bed with a toothy smile and looked down at his hand. With a flicker of light, a weak and wavering symbol made of light started floating above his fingers. It made his channels ache, but he watched as lines slowly spread to form a small spell circle with several open slots for more shorthand commands.

~~~

Yam woke with the sun and set to writing himself notes the moment he got out of bed. 

There had been so much knowledge given to him, but he had quickly discovered that the Vernal Courts teaching methods did not last long in the mind unless they were handled properly. Like meat that needed to be processed into jerky. 

Though that might be his fault for going to tutors without having completed any basic, preparatory lessons beforehand. As soon as his tutors had learned that he had no knowledge of medicine beyond common herbs and no training in anatomy beyond what it took to butcher food, they had been forced to teach him in an unusual way.  

The Spring Court’s domain was complex magic. Making small or vast changes to convoluted networks where everything was interconnected, like healing a body or altering the weather. His first tutors had decided to begin by teaching him the court’s trademark mind magic. They called it the Initial Collective. By accessing a strange, ephemeral flavor of magic they had reached out to him and bound the three of their minds together. Immediately, he had sensed their Presences, despite them being human. 

But, what was more interesting, he had sensed an odd space open up that was very much part of his own mind, but not within his mind. The sensation was incredibly strange, but he quickly figured out the trick of it. The Initial Collective made a sort of ‘shared room’, that connected to all the participants’ minds. At will he could expand a small amount of his magic and flex a part of himself that he had always associated with his Presence. Then he could put a thought, sensation, or piece of knowledge into the ‘room’. Anything in the room was shared by all participants.

It had taken him three separate rounds of tutors to figure out how to operate within the Initial Collective, but as soon as he did everything had changed. His lessons all took place, to some degree, within in the Initial Collective. His tutors would think in the shared space, route their magic senses through it, or drop bundles of understanding there for him to examine. For the more advanced lessons, they had shared while he followed them around one of the Spring Court’s small free clinics. 

At the five-hour mark, around his eighth or tenth round of rotating tutors, he had realized a critical mistake. Things placed in the Initial Collective did not last in his own mind unless he put in the effort to learn it himself. To tangle that magically shared knowledge into his own unique thoughts and memories. Like a spider web trapping an unusually large insect. Though it was simultaneously like having a book summarized for you. In the moment everything made sense, and with the other person there, all the information was at your disposal. But if you did not read the book yourself or in some way connect the information to your own experience, then it  faded away. Lost to your reach as soon as the other person left your presence. 

He had lost hours of anatomy, healing, and of instruction. His first reaction had been a fear so primal and overwhelming that it seemed like bands of magic were holding his lungs shut. Why couldn’t he remember? Was he too dumb? Too weak? Was he being attacked? What had he done wrong? Then came the anger. A rage so intense that he would have tore the building down around him if he had the power to do so. This was around the time that the administration was cautiously asking him when he planned on leaving. 

So, he started a fire, brewed the strongest tea he could, and told them he would leave an archmage or die trying. They had not been pleased with his answer, but that was their fault for not putting a time limit on his free lesson. 

To his ear ‘tradition’, ‘common practices’, and ‘being courteous with shared resources’ sounded a lot like ‘horse shit excuses to stop me from becoming a god’. And he treated them thusly. 

He started learning everything again. This time he rephrased what he had learned out loud. Constantly. No matter how many strange looks he received. When each session ended and he had to wait for the next pair of tutors to arrive he would compulsively go through everything he had learned. Trying to memorize the sensation, the knowledge, and the pure understanding that had been so vivid. 

As more hours passed he observed pairs or large groups enter the Initial Collective and collaborate to heal a body. The more invasive the healing, the more people in the collective. Though for serious surgery they went past the initial stage of the spell and he was unable to observe.

Still, it was fascinating. Those with the most acute senses or the best diagnostic spells became the eyes of the group. Others with superior dexterity would root out invisible pieces of corruption and disease from the blood. At the same time others would use their own specific spells to heal the gross physical wounds.

Still, for all its wonder, it was torture to watch as a Ken Seeker. To see a collective end and feel the perfectly elegant comprehension of magic, healing, and medicine only to have it fade. It was like having his own limbs taken away from him. While he was connected, he knew so much, and everything made sense. They thought together and communicated by sharing feelings, and resolve, and pure intent. It was like being in a Caravan and part of that great network of Presence again. But so much more intimate.

Outside the collective he was alone. Forced to scratch frantically at a notebook. Fighting his hardest to leave a faded, third hand representation of what he had briefly been a part of. No matter how hard he tried, or how fast he wrote, the loss was inevitable. There was just no way to keep everything from a collective.

And things were only more frustrating from then on out. As a Len he had a natural advantage when it came to mind magic. Which, he had learned, was what Presence was. A communal, organic, intuitive, mind magic that was inherent to being a Len. 

That being said, he had no native facility for healing. While in a collective, he understood it to his bones. Obviously. But when he was forced to actually produce the pattern of energy, to maintain the fine control of power and perception, it felt like playing a familiar instrument with numb fingers. He remembered exactly how the magic should feel, but the memories were not his own. Neither were the skill, nor the practice. In their place he held nothing but desire and incompetence.

It had taken hours and hours of guided control exercises before he could practice sealing even a minuscule cut. And he only did so by using the Initial Collective to borrow an understanding of the patterns of nerve, fat, under skin, and over skin need to address those shallow scrapes. 

Most of his thirty-six hours had passed by the time he was able to heal a cut three times in a row without failure. The tutor had then taught him the last piece of vital Spring Court magic. 

The way it had been described to him was as making a small golem in his mind. He could teach it, to the best of his understanding and skill, how to do a single task. Then, when he activated it and gave it magic to use, it would execute the task without any need for direction from him. But it would only work as well as he would have at the time of its creation and required direct intervention if he needed to improvise, or if any scenario came up that he had not been familiar with when he had cast the mind magic to ‘teach’ the golem. 

Yam was not capable of casting the spell by himself yet, but with help he could make his first Shorthand. The first step had been to memorize a standard spell circle. Which was a visual representation for how several different shorthands would interact. 

It should have been easy, but by that point the caffeine was not helping as much as it should have and his focus had grown quite weak.

Then, with his tutor handling the most complex pieces of spell formation from within an Initial Collective, all of his knowledge, skill and understanding was compressed into a single character. The Spring Court’s symbol for ‘heal laceration’. 

 His tutor had lightly cut her own arm, just enough to produce a few beads of blood. Yam had thought of the symbol, burning and eternal in his mind within its cocoon of mind magic, and fed it power. Then,  just like that, the spell circle had drawn itself in strands of light. His symbol had appeared, held safely in the circle. That separate fragment of his mind and understanding had healed the cut on his tutor’s arm with only the slightest need of guidance from him. 

Back in his room Yam wrote furiously. Trying to encapsulate the entire process, all the feelings, and steps, and insights in his own words so that they wouldn’t fade from his mind as he spent longer and longer away from the Initial Collective he had learned it in. 

In the end his remaining understanding felt shallow, and when he summoned the shorthand in his dormitory, he saw obvious flaws. Looking in on the preserved segment of his mind, he could see edges blurred by sleep deprivation and weaves of magic that could easily be simplified and made more efficient. Shore up leaking power here and put less energy into this section as it was obviously more of stabilizer than an active spell component. 

But other parts looked foreign to him. Like the many, many details of anatomy he hadn’t actually learned, and merely remembered from the collective when the shorthand was made. In general the shorthand felt shallow and difficult to process. Likely because, at the time he had made it, his knowledge had been shallow, difficult to process. Especially since it had been entirely reliant on the fading memory of the Initial Collective. 

Without that memory and several details he had only been able to memorize in the short term, it was difficult to read his own shorthand. Like a familiar language written in jargon he no longer remembered. 

He dismissed the spell circle with a thought and leaned back in his chair. It had been thirty-six hours well spent, but he would have to earn another tutoring session if he wanted to go back. Moreover, the spell circle had slots open to hold more the shorthand spell symbols. Places where he could add the fixing of muscle and nerve and blood once he had mastered those skills. Maybe even ways to block pain as he burnt corruption from a wound. 

That was one of the critical secrets to the Spring Court’s massive works of magic. One mage became an army. A general with thousands of specialists working on their behalf. They would be left with nothing to do but orchestrate the process from on high. Looking down on great circles redolent with a lifetime of shorthands and perfectly preserved moments of competence. At that point a single Spring Court mage became a collective in and of themselves

He wanted that. He wanted that terribly. 

But there was work that needed to be done first. He needed larger reserves, finer control, and stamina potions. Lots and lots of stamina potions. The next time he returned to the tutoring building it would not be for just thirty-six hours. 

~~~

The next day, he went to his first module. A module, not a class. There were no classes in the Vernal Court. Which sounded strange. But it was a school of unknowable secrets and reality bending magic. So an odd name was… good?

 When he had gone to the administrative office, he’d been told that for his current level of skill, he was allowed five modules but that he was only able to choose two of them until he passed his basic requirements. One of those slots was strongly, strongly encouraged to be the osteomancy course he had been offered by Mrs. Reed.

He was not allowed to take the massive book listing all possible courses home and it was too large to hide under his wrap. Instead, he checked read the schedules for his courses; Basic Osteomancy, Basic Physical Training, Sentient Species Anatomy, and Basic Control Exercises. With one choice left open for later. 

The book’s text shifted as he read it, magically updating information like class sizes, schedules, and other details. He quickly discovered that Basic Physical Training was available at all times throughout the week with various different instructors, but Basic Osteomancy would only be available at three different times on each of the three days it was held. Which, luckily included one session starting very soon. 

After a speed walk across campus that left him vaguely breathless, he found the correct room and entered his first module at Istima. 

One of his osteomancy teachers was a human-looking woman, aside from the small caps of bone on the tips of her fingers. She was accompanied by her partner, a rather plain looking human with short brown hair on his head. 

When he arrived, he was handed a single sheet of paper:

Basic Osteomancy One

Exit CriteriaL

·      Sense bone matter accurately from near range and mid-range (within arm’s reach and across a room)

o   Display the ability to sense bone matter of dimensions smaller than a standard Imperial 1 Jez coin 

·      Cause bone matter to levitate in a sustained fashion

·      Cause any degree of replicable fusing of bone matter

He skimmed the paper and went up to the front of the small classroom where the pair of bored senior students serving as teachers were answering questions and describing training exercises to other students.

“Excuse me.”, Yam said when he made it to the front of the line, being sure to make his language appropriately formal and respectful, “But I am able to accomplish all of these tasks, and this is my first class. What am I supposed to do?”

“Show me,” the brown-haired student said as he shoved an animal bone with visible fractures along its length towards Yam. 

Despite their boredom, as it turned out, the pair teaching the class were very helpful.

He levitated the bones they provided for him with almost no effort. They barely reacted. Which made sense since it was insultingly easy. They then asked him if he could liquidate sections of bone and fuse them back together. Yam was pleased to comply. 

When he had first discovered that he was elementally aligned with the specific earth and water combination that let him manipulate bones, his family had spent months trying to find a mage who would tutor him. In the end a wandering hedge witch had taught him a few basic control exercises and told him control of energy was the foundation of all magic. It determined the size, complexity, and fine detail of what one could accomplish. It also determined how efficiently and elegantly a spell was executed. According to her, most mages were seduced by flashy magic and maintained their control exercises at the bare minimum degree of competency. A mistake which put a flaw in their foundation and sharp limit on what they could do.

That was what she said. What Yam had heard was slightly different: ‘you can make everything you do better than everyone you will be competing against, if you are willing to be more disciplined in this one simple task. Everyone knows it, but no one cares enough to pull the full measure of profit from this knowledge.’

If that were a business deal measured in money, he was certain his mother would have put all of their savings into it at once.

So, for all that he lacked in magic theory and prestigious tutors, he was rewarded with compensatory time to spend on his foundations. He had meditated and cycled through control exercises for at least an hour everyday. Without fail. And four times that whenever he could. Everyday, every week, from the first time he met the hedge witch to the day he set foot in Istima.

He opened the particular set of senses that let him perceive bones, and found the one offered by his teachers. With all the efficiency and speed he had cultivated in his travels, he turned the entire small thigh bone into a liquid, only allowing it to become solid once it was in the shape of a perfect cube. 

He looked up, hoping he had understood them correctly and saw both of their mouths gaping.

With a sudden intensity they asked him to levitate AND make the bone spin. Then lift only one of these beads while letting the others rest. Then how many could he move at one time?

A few of the tests were unfamiliar and he struggled through them, but most seemed childishly easy. It had taken him almost a year before he could lift multiple bones at once and set them rotating around his head, but still he had figured that out as a rather young man. And he had done it while riding a moving wagon. Standing still in a silent classroom made the entire affair trivially easy. 

In the end they put him through  all of the requirements for Basic Osteomancy one, two, and three. However, he was unable to pass the sensory tests for the fourth level of the module. He had never been taught any exercises for perception. So while physically moving or reshaping was not difficult for him, no amount of effort let him will his way into sensing small hairline fractures and the underlying structure of different animal bones.  

The brown-haired boy turned to his companion who silently lifted a quill with the thumb and index finger of her right hand, the only digits that held no bone growth’ at their tips, and began writing. 

“This is your first module, right?”

“That is correct,” Yam said, still frowning at the perception tests. 

”Heavens preserve us,” the teacher said while shaking his head. ”Well, we will write your writs of success for these three Modules. You’ll be certified up to Osteomancy 3. Take them back to the administrative office. They’ll be added to your records and you can enroll in a new module.”

“How long will that take?”

“The writs rarely take more than fifteen minutes to process, and once they are the modules that list Basic Osteomancy three as a prerequisite will be open to you. Provided they have no other prerequisites.”

His face brightened, “Perfect, thank you very much”

Before he left they gave him various drills he could use to improve his perception: the sensory equivalent of her control exercises. He was just about to turn away when he remembered something, “I’m sorry to use any more of your time, but you are senior students, correct?”

“Yes, we are,” said the male.

“Then I was wondering, what would you do in my position? The module system seems quite confusing.”

Once again the two students shared a look. This time it was the female who spoke, her voice so soft it was difficult to hear. “It’s a mistake to try getting experience early. It’s impossible. Test out of as many basic’s as you can. No one wants help unless you are certified in anatomy, fine magic control, and have writs of success  for practical skills.  You should also take modules on harmonic restoration and physical fitness. It shows your magic reserve is large enough for applied work.”

“Thank you. Does that mean I should avoid entering another of these courses so I can spend more time on my prerequisites?”

She shook her head and dropped her eyes just long enough to drip hot wax onto the form she had filled out and press it with a seal. He saw a flicker of light as a spell circle briefly flared into existence while she pressed the otherwise simple but well made seal into the wax. 

“No”, she replied, ” Osteomancy is in demand. Learn it. Having skills other people need is how you get ahead.”

She handed her partner the paper and he spoke as he applied his own seal to the form, “After you pass through basic modules, trading favors, skills, and drawing the attention of specialists is vital for progression. Pass the basic osteomancy courses so you can enter the introductory classes. Those are the marketable skills. Also,” he said handing Yam his form, “get your Vernal uniform. It will matter soon. Especially the clothes for physical training.”

Yam accepted the paper and stared at it for several seconds before he responded. “You deserve more thanks than I have the time to give. I did not expect anyone in Istima to be helpful.”

That earned him a smile from his two student teachers, “You’re welcome,” said the one with brown hair. “There is competition here, but we are not the Summer Court.”

“Act well your part,” the female spoke the words with the cadence that only came from having repeated a motto thousands of times before.

~~~

Yam followed their advice and, after turning in his writ of success, used his stipend to buy clothing. There were no strict guidelines for uniforms. Just a long string of requirements. Clothing must be of a certain material. They must cover certain portions of the body. One must have items to stop hair falling into patients wounds, and the clothing could not impede the frequent tying on and replacement of butchers’ aprons. His main sets of clothing would not be available for several hours, but the merchant had Vernal Court physical training clothes that were pre-made in a variety of common sizes. 

That was how he ended up skulking through a gymnasium wearing a pair of short trousers like a gods-damned barbarian. 

They were horrible: confining, uncomfortable, and almost indecent. He had tried to buy a pair that were larger and less form-fitting, but the waist had been entirely too big for him. Instead he was forced to strap himself into the vile cloth contraptions. He felt the fabric pull against his legs and body as he moved. They showed entirely too much of his lower body and they made him look like a human child.

Even worse was the shirt. He had gotten a large shirt so that the hem hung down and covered some of his waist. But he was certain that when he took it off that it would catch on his fur, pull against the grain, and put everything into disarray. A man of his family was expected to have a certain amount of neatness. The same way none of his siblings in reptilian bodies would go out with dead skin and snarled scales, he refused to be seen with tufts of fur sticking out at odd angles.

Thankfully he was allowed to keep his own footwear.

He went to the gymnasium ready to argue about the need to wear these ‘clothes’. So, once he had stored all of his belongings in an enchanted locker, he straighten his spine, locked his jaw and stalked into the main area—

And stopped dead in his tracks when he saw that female students were in the same room and they had to wear the same uniform. He went back to his locker until the skin of his face was less heated. 

They must have custom tailored their training cloths to have them fit so tightly. 

How did they move?

Finally,  he was able to respectfully lock his eyes onto the floor and check in with a staff member at a small window by the gymnasium. He sensed no magic from her at all, which was more shocking than it should have been. Of course, Istima would not fill every menial position with mages. Otherwise there would be no reason to have an (almost) normal city grow around them. The magicless employee answered his questions and directed him to a corner of the room where a heavy set older gentleman was supervising a group of students.

Yam began walking towards one of the bleachers and waited for the clock to mark fifteen minutes as passed. At that point, he had been told, the instructor would give directions to any newcomers. For basic modules like this, the Spring Court tried to have classes running as close to constantly as possible. That way, students could drop in and do their work quickly without the administration having to make writs of exception for the module due to scheduling. 

Yam took a seat. But, even with his eyes down, he quickly noticed that student’s with clothes made of better material also had the clothing cut more tightly. Which immediately made him wonder if he had made a mistake in getting his large and billowing shirt. It wasn’t quite a tunic…

But he was also not an exhibitionist human savage. 

So Yam sat silently on the bottom tier on the benches where he could more easily keep his eyes on the floor. He was not sure if he should force himself to stare so he was desensitized or if it was more virtuous to keep his discomfort rather than lose his sense of propriety. He found no solutions. Instead he spent much of the time trying to tug the short trousers further down, wishing he had his belongings so that he could at least do control exercises while he waited. 

Finally, he was called up with a small group of other students. The instructor, Mr. Combs, was a gregarious and friendly man. He looked each student in the eye and offered his hand in the human fashion. Yam found himself liking him immediately. After giving a concise introduction the instructor asked for all of their ages so he could tell them their exit criteria. It was fairly simple, a certain number of pull ups, push-ups, sit ups, squats, and a short run. The requirements varied based on species, body plans, gender, and in one case, a thing called ‘reservoir conductivity’. Whatever that meant. Combs then explained the proper technique needed for each exercise, and that poor form would not be counted towards exit criteria.  

“Alright everyone, go to the stations and give it a try. If you think you meet exit criteria, or if you need help, I’ll be right here.”

Yam had only taken a few steps when Mr. Combs, or rather, Coach Combs, caught his eye. 

“Yam, right?”

“Yes sir,” he said warily, “is there anything I can do for you?”

“I didn’t want to do this publicly, but are you really fourteen? If the administration is under the impression that your age is higher than biologically accurate, then it won’t matter now. You’ve already been accepted.”

For the second time in a day Yam felt his face heat and his eyes drop. But he fought the impulse and kept his shoulders from drawing themselves up

“No sir, I did not obfuscate my age.”

“Alright. I’m only asking because I’ve never seen a furred Len who is so…” The instructor trailed off though his hands vaguely pantomimed around his chest and biceps, “… petite.”

Memories rose from the depths of his mind, but Yam viciously shoved them down. He felt a spark of anger and focused on it until it became a defiant blaze. 

“I,” he said, biting off his words, “had to choose the mammalian branch. I was born with a blood illness and needed a more robust body.”

“Ahh. I see. Well, if the illness still bothers you we can—”

“I do not need accommodations. My family is just naturally slender.”

“Alright. Well… If you need anything, I’ll be here”

“Understood,” he said, jaw tense. “Thank you, sir.”

Yam quickly turned and stalked to the nearest station. He wasn’t sure how long the line was but, lost in his anger, he suddenly found himself standing in front of a pull up bar. The flame of rage that had been burning so bright flickered for just a moment, and he felt a cold hand brush against his heart. 

Before it could take hold he shook his head and stoked the fire. He was not here to be pitied or stopped! Even if they put him in the clothes of a clown, even if he was denied the reptilian form of his family, he was not someone who could be stymied. For now he was a Yam Hist of the Ken Seekers, his fur a constant testament to the weakness of his body, but he would see the world burned if that is what it took to remake himself as a god.

Yam bared his teeth in defiance and threw himself up to the bar. His fingers closed and he yanked against the metal.

Only to find himself stalling halfway up. 

He pulled harder and clenched his jaw until he thought his molars would crack. He shifted up half an inch—

And stopped again.

No! He was not weak little Yam anymore. He did not need to be carried in anyone’s arms when his legs shook, or pretend like staying inside was his preference. He was a man and a mage of Istima!

Arms quaking, he bent his entire will to the task. 

But nothing happened and he could feel the eyes burning into his back. 

He pushed harder. Willing his body to obey him. He wasn’t weak anymore. This would not happen to him again. He willed his chin to raise until everything fell away and the burn in his arms was the only thing in the world. 

His fingers gave out and he fell with a snarl. Yam pounded the floor with his fists and leapt up again.

Within thirty seconds he fell, not able to get more than a quarter of the way up. He was just about to hurl himself up again when a hand gently rested on his shoulder. 

“Yam, that was a tremendous effort,” said Mr. Combs. “Why don’t we go over here and make a training program for you?”

“No!” he growled, feeling his magic spike. “I refuse to be beaten by this! I can—”

“Yam,” the older man interrupted, firm but not unkindly. “There are other people waiting for the equipment.”

The hand gently on his shoulder pulled him to the side and a tiny burst of air spasmed its way out of his lungs. 

“Here,” the coach produced a handkerchief, “wipe your… face. I’m sure you’re sweaty after that effort.”

Yam crumpled the handkerchief in his fist. He  hated the way his thin arms shook just trying to do that. How his face burned even under the hideous fur he had to wear. 

He let himself be led to the bleachers. 

“That’s it buddy. Remember, today is just the first step. We’ll make a plan and I’m positive that someone with your determination will test out.”

“Do you really think that?” he asked quietly. 

“Of course,” Combs looked down and gave him a small smile, “You’ve got the will for it. Haven’t you?”

The whispers of the other student’s sounded like a roaring waterfall to his ears. With his arms still watery and shaking, he used the handkerchief to dab at his forehead and casually wipe the moisture from his cheeks. 

“I don’t have a choice. I cannot stop here.”

“Exactly right,” the older man nodded his head. 

They walked silently until they made it to the far corner of the room. Mr. Combs hesitated briefly, before going to a knee. “Being sick is horrible, and it’s not fair. But as long as you promise to mind your limits and not do anything rash, we’ll get you there. This is Istima after all. You must always acknowledge your boundaries so you can live to grow past them. Sound like a deal?”

It took him longer to respond than he would have liked, and his voice was not as strident as befitted a soon to be archmage-deity. But he did respond. 

And he felt that little bonfire of rage stir in his chest. It was only embers now, but he stoked it and fed all the emotions, and weakness, and the whispers until those embers yielded a tongue of true flame. 

He would be damned if he let this hold him back a single minute more than it had to. 

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