Snow piled up in greyish-brown mounds along the busy street. A figure passed a flickering light, illuminating her dark cloak before she turned down a deserted lane. Underneath deep folds she hid several weapons, all illegal. She came to a small door pressed between two buildings, a blank sign hung over it, squeaking in the cold wind. She knocked twice, paused, then knocked again; she stepped back, hands shifting to the sword on her hip.

The door opened silently, an old man looked over her. He grunted, disappearing into the narrow hallway. The hooded woman stepped inside. She closed the door.

The old man held up a lamp, and led her up the stairs into a long, thin room. He pointed at a the chair resting by a weak fire and set his lamp down on the table. He peered at her, expectant. She withdrew a heavy pouch, and tossed it in the air. The old man, faster than he seemed, caught it and tossed it over to a tanned man in the corner. “Count it.” The tanned man disappeared through the door.

The old man moved to the end of the room, darker than the rest, and pulled out a long box. He hefted it up, grunting slightly at the weight and placed it on the table. A small, iron key exchanged hands. The woman pulled back her hood; a pale, oval face replaced the shadows of the cowl, anticipation brightened her eyes.

She touched the box, her hands running along the coarse wood. “Do you have another lamp?” She asked the old man, he nodded, and shuffled around the room before another faint glow cast shadows across the room. The locks clicked open as she turned the key. She pushed the lid high, holding the lamp close, and took a sharp breathe.

The box was lined with sheep's wool, soft to the touch. Ten long polished wooden muskets lay sleeping in their beds. Iron glinted along the tops, stopping three quarters of the way down at the serpentines, the last quarter panned out into curve. They were beautiful. Magical. Hardly something that belonged in a long, dark, drafty room in the hands of an old man and his customer.

She took a musket out of the box, struggling to right it in her arms. “How was the passage?” She asked, analysing the serptine: a small curved level which moved as she pulled the trigger. She felt the travel ten times before she was satisfied.

“As predicted, a pirate or two, but nothing my boys couldn't handle.” The old man's voice was low and scratchy.

“And they're all tested?” She peered down the bore.

“In Sakyra and the mainland.”

The woman's expression didn't change, “I've already paid you my money – what happens if they don't work?” The old man held up his hand, weary.

“I know my clients, Megis, I don't intend to turn the ire of the Liberators onto my head.” He walked back to the end of the room and picked up three boxes. “They work.” He dropped the boxes onto the table and pulled a small scroll from his coat, “One of my boys translated the instructions. I tested them myself.”

Megis looked over the hesitant script, the best part were the diagrams, an artist rather than a scribe had written this. She set the stock on her shoulder and checked the barrel. Straight as an arrow. She pulled the trigger. “Boom,” she whispered to the shadows.

“Yes,” the old man grinned, eyes flashing, “Boom.”

She took a deep breathe and returned the weapon to its case, “The Sakyrans use these in their military?” Her eyes did not stray from a fixed point at the end of the room.

The old man nodded, “They call them meka, which my boy insists means wick.”

Megis bowed her head slightly as she closed the box. Collecting the lamp again she approached the window facing the alleyway and held the lamp to the dirty panes. She lifted the lamp high once, twice, then paused in the centre before raising it again. Through the shallow gap in the window she heard the sound of wheels against cobble stone.

“Before you go, milady-”

She turned back to him, pressing her hand to her hilt, and raised her chin, “Do not call me 'milady', Cathal.”

“As milady wishes, but see here – I believe you might interested in this,” he withdrew a small box and unlocked it with a key. She regards him with cool suspicion. He pulled back the lid. Her eyes glued on to the small pistol, settled in it's own case, framed by thin compartments. She raised her eyes slowly, holding the expression of neutrality.

“I'm collecting, not buying.”

“Twenty saekai.”

She sighed, bridged the gap between them, and made a show of considering the pistol. She returned it to the case. “The Liberators aren't interested in an overpriced sidearm.”

“Eighteen saekai.”

She met his gaze, hardened street fighters crumbled after meeting her gaze, Cathal didn't even blink. “Ten, and you might have a deal.”

“Ten,” Cathal closed the box, “and you might have a cheap pistol back in Sakyra, here, it's eighteen – or no nothing.”

“Fifteen, final offer.”

Cathal considered her, then smiled. She suppressed a shiver of disgust, she could never let him know he had such an effect. “Sold. Money now, and you can take it.” She paused, then slid her hand into her cloak and pulled out a thick, leather pouch. She opened it slightly and counted fifteen silver coins and held her fist out to him. He shifted his hand, took the money, and slid the coins into his pocket.

The door opened, the minion returned. Cathal set the pistol's case into Megis's hand. “A pleasure as always, milday.” Megis held his gaze a moment longer before tucking the case under her arm.

The old man blew out the second lamp as she disappeared down the steps. 

Winter, SIA 44

The messenger arrived in Lorien on the last day of winter. Pale sun light painted the slightest impressions of day on the sky, leaving little for the land below. Thousands of evergreen trees stood stoic on the rocky mountain faces. In a few days the dull land would be filled with the first signs of spring but for now it was layered with white and gray. Lorien hung against Mount Karath like a decoration off a tree. Long curving roads were marked by thousands of lanterns, the annual festival in full swing. Icy streets glowed. Hawkers sold food in small courtyards. Shielded from the chilling wind. Birds flicked back and forth, stealing discarded remains from the stone lanes. The snow had stopped falling just an hour before. 
At the height of Lorien was the Academy; a collection of thick, sturdy buildings marked off by a massive wall, as high as the tallest trees. The gates were open, swelling with students as they moved from the town to the school and back. They were easily identifiable, swords hanging from their sides and family crests emblazoned on their shoulders. 
Michael had since missed most of the festival preferring to spent his last day at the Academy in the library, though not for the reasons one would usually expect. No, if he were honest he'd say the reason was Kasandra. They were alone in a far, little used corner filled with old journals. On the large oak table Kasandra had piled high near fifty books: her favourites, her less liked, the ones she'd never read, and more. Books were placed on chairs and opened at various points. In the crook of Kasandra's arm was a notebook bound in leather. 
She pulled in out and set it down. She grinned and swept her pony tail back her shoulder. Down a series of notes went, struck with a deft hand. 
Michael abandoned his facade of reading and peered over the top of his book.  He was sitting on one of the chairs left empty holding a text on ancient martial arts. “What's that?” He asked. Kasandra turned to him, still smiling. Her eyes were light brown, like a spring forest. Michael stood and carried his book over to the table.
“This,” she pushed over the open book and let him look over the page while she pulled over another tome from her piles. It depicted a wooden limb attached to a human shoulder, below it were the words; Elman prosthetic limb, SIA 36. Michael ran his hand over the page, he could appreciate a good diagram, detailed. 
“Are you planning to loose an arm?” He teased, turning up on side of his mouth in a half smile. Kasandra gave him a annoyed glare. 
“Michael, we're leaving tomorrow. I may never see these books again.” She told him with gritted tolerance. Michael picked up a book. 
“Can I help?” 
The doors burst open. Michael glanced behind him. James stepped through, yellow light bathed his face. He looked around until his eyes fell on Michael and Kasandra. He grinned. 
“Marcus! I found them!” He shouted back though the door. 
Kasandra sent her cousin a withering glare, “James, this is a library.” Heavy footsteps pounded on the hard wooden floor before Marcus appeared next to James. 
“Damn.” Marcus cursed, more aloof than angry.  He dug out a couple coins from his pocket and handed them to James. 
Michael slid back into his chair and picked up the book he'd been half-reading. The best way to get rid of James and Marcus was to ignore them. Both were still dressed in their overcoats, dripping slightly onto the wooden floor. 
 James grinned, his hair tousled and his flushed face. “Arden has challenged you to a duel,” He announced. He unclicked his sheath and tossed his sword onto the table. 
Michael frowned. “Arden? Why?” 
The martial arts book now permanently discarded, Michael twisted over to them. Curious. 
“He's got daddy issues.” Marcus explained without really explaining anything. He'd somehow managed to keep his hair and clothes in the crisp condition. He picked up one of Kasandra's books and opened it at a random page. “It's troublesome but you'll probably have to go hit him with a sword a few times.” 
“Marcus, please stop messing with my research.” Kasandra glared up from her notebook.
“Research? What in Atarcia could you be researching? There’s a festival outside if you hadn’t noticed.” Marcus responded with indignation. 
Kasandra drew up her chin, “Things.” 
James rolled his eyes, “Come on.” His gaze fell on Michael. “We can't just sit here while Arden waves his sword around and calls you a coward.” 
Michael glanced at Marcus, James was known for exaggerating things. “He's calling me a coward?” Arden was the most cowardly person Michael had ever met, his cavern nature hidden only by a thick veil of narcissism. Michael stood, if Arden wanted a fight, a fight he shall have.
“I suppose he is,” Marcus sighed, “He's only doing it because his father's here.” 
“Lord Ksaera?” Michael questioned, collecting his things from under a series of scrolls. He strapped his azoth to his side, plus a few knives. “When did he arrive?” 
“This morning while you were holed up in here.” Marcus's mouth was a flat line, “Apparently the snows made the going slow.” 
“Who told you that?” James asked, clearly oblivious.
 Marcus sighed. “Some girl, it doesn't matter.” 
“You were talking to a girl?” James's eyes went wide. “Without me?” 
Marcus rolled his eyes, “Hardly a girl you'd be interested in, and she was actually a girl, hardy more than twelve. Now,” Marcus nodded towards the door, “I believe Michael is ready. Kalé,” Marcus surveyed Kasandra, “are you coming?” 
Kasandra looked up, “If somebody dies, call me, otherwise,” she nodded to her notebook, “I'll stay here.” Marcus stood, nodding, most likely he thought that was a very logical idea. James bounded out the door. 
“Let's go,” James looked over his shoulder. “I hope there's a crowd.”
Michael suppressed a groan, he sincerely hoped there wasn't. Defeating Arden was hardly a matter of glory. 
They left the room, pushing passed long rows of desks and bookshelves. The corridor was a washed out grey, a thin layer of snow still covered the sky-light. 
Marcus left the room last, carrying a lamp. 
They transversed the hallway until reaching the front room. Michael pushed open the door, and took a step out into the street. He was met by a chilling breeze. It tickled at his sleeves and face. He pulled his hood over his head and pulled out his gloves from inside his coat. For a moment, he stood still, his eyes searching the street, no one. 
Marcus place the lamp on a small shelf and blew out the light. 
James launched himself into the street, “This way!” He took the steps two at a time and graced the stone road with a soft foot fall. They walked along a thin plateau, it jutted out of the mountain and housed many of the Academy's buildings. 
Around a bend the rest of Lorien came into sight. Long wooden houses, draped with white, scattered along curves in the otherwise steep descent of the mountain towards the valley. Through the trees and the layers of training halls bright light could be glimpsed. Lanterns. The festival. 
After the ceremony hall and its colourful courtyard, they climbed down a wide staircase, cut out of the rock, and onto the main thoroughfare connecting the Academy to Lorien. James led them into the large courtyard in the middle of the boys' dorm. 
There was a crowd. An ever growing one. The youngest spectators looked to be seecond years, with furs coat drawn tightly over faces, but the majority were older students. The ones who knew Arden and Michael. 
In the centre, flanked by a dozen lesser nobles was Arden. He pointed at Michael. “Alezsantras! I challenge you to a duel.” He said it like, We're going to a play tag in the forest, do you want to come? 
“I heard.” Michael said, trying to should bored and failing as James’s enthusiasm was infectious. He stepped into the makeshift ring, right in the centre of the courtyard. Eyes followed them both. “Are you ready?” He pulled off his coat, leaving it at the side. He drew his sword, an azoth, the same as Arden carried on his side, it was the Academy's weapon of choice. 
Arden sneered. “You're victory isn’t guaranteed.” 
“Of course,” Michael nodded, smiling inside, “but it is very likely.” This was a joke. Arden hadn’t won a duel against Michael since they were twelve, and Michael had had a broken arm. Still, he enjoyed the idea of beating Arden to pulp one more time before they graduated.
Arden scoffed. “You'd like to think that.” 
Michael shrugged, he didn't like think that, he knew that. Arden lacked talent and determination. Arden had signed his own warrant when he announced the fight here, right outside the dorm. Even announcing a fight was stupid, there was bound to be one third-party spectator to spread the rumours. 
More faces appeared in the windows above.
“What are the rules?” He asked, taking off his coat and stretching. 
“Submission,” Arden smiled, “no strikes near the mouth or throat.” Michael nodded. He looked around, he knew most of the people here. A sudden thought struck him, he was graduating tomorrow, he might never see some of them again. He turned back to Arden, except him, Arden would be coming to the capital with him. All the more reason to fight. 
“I heard you're father arrived today, is that why your so keen to defeat me? Showing Daddy you're not a really terrible excuse for a krysza.” 
Arden didn't respond in anger, instead he drew his sword and moved into position. “I've never known you to talk so much, Michael.” Not to you, Michael thought. 
“Fine. Let’s start.” He slid into a position that echoed Arden's. He analysed Arden’s stance. There were no obvious weaknesses. Yet.
They were still for a moment, the crowd jostling backwards to give them space.  
Michael took the first move, sliding forward, the sword a sharp extension of his arm. Arden moved away, taking two steps to the right. They knew each other's fighting style, they'd duelled enough times for that. It had been four years since Arden had won that fight. Arden, even if he'd never admit it, knew Michael was the better fighter. And Michael planned to use that to his advantage. 
Michael attacked without pushing forward, and waited for the moment Arden went long. Arden always went long. 
Submission required the defeated party to call out their defeat. Normally, Arden and Michael fought on the basis of first blood, it was easier to convince blood rather than words to flow. Today, a broken bone or serious injury was near guaranteed. Michael would make sure it was Arden who suffered it. 
 Arden, despite his personality, was a patient fighter. He was prepared to wait, and wait, until his opponent grew tired or frustrated and did something stupid. It made up for his lack of skill. Michael stepped back as Arden swung. 
He crouched low, jumped forward, rolling, and kicked Arden in the stomach. Arden crumpled slightly but then he smiled. He moved his azoth into his left hand and slammed his right fist down. Michael, standing, just missed the hammering blow it his face. He twisted away, off balance for a moment. He blocked Arden's left handed strike. At least Arden wasn't using his vhasim, the dual swords. Michael might have lost. 
He twisted his sword around Arden's and pushed the hilt out of Arden's hand. The sword slipped to the side. Michael thought Arden would reach for it, and he was prepared for that, but Arden simply stepped away. He pulled out a large knife and drove it at forward as Michael stepped to block Arden from the fallen sword. 
Michael moved his azoth into the knife's path, but he knew it was too late. Anxiety. He ducked away, falling to the floor, not longer balancing, and grabbed Arden's wrist. He dug his fingers deep into the skin. Arden didn't let go of the knife. Michael pulled Arden towards him, pushing with his toes, and he twisted them both. Arden landed on his sword. He hissed with pain. Michael pressed his knee into Arden's stomach and his sword against Arden's right hand. His mind raced through every move Arden could make from here to break Michael's grip and moved to stop it. Arden grunted. 
“Do you submit?” Michael asked, brimming with satisfaction. He'd expected more from Arden. Arden spat at his face. Michael didn't finch. “Do you submit?” 
Arden only swore, his arm started cutting into Michael's sword. Michael's eyes flashed. He shifted his leg from its place paralysing Arden's legs and held down Arden's left hand. He pulled out a knife of his own. He shifted position again, Arden grunted, even more weight pressed into his stomach. But now he could see. Michael held his knife, pressing it against the body part Arden most valued, right between the legs. “Do you submit?” Michael asked once he saw the fear flash through Arden's eyes. 
There was a hush over the crowd now, a single though, would he do it? Michael smiled, almost cruelly, urging Arden to speak the words. Admit I’m better than you. Admit it. He cut Arden's trousers a little. “Do…you…submit?” 
Arden jerked up. Their heads collided. Michael lurched backwards, stunned, seeing stars, off balance. Arden gasped in pain and rolled over. He rolled along the ground, clutching the inner part of his thigh. His face was flushed, his right wrist was bleeding heavily. 
Michael stood, dizzy, he picked up Arden's sword from the ground and tossed it away. Arden had found another knife, small than the last, designed for throwing. Michael huffed, irritated Arden had escaped his trap, “Are you going to throw that at me with your right or your left hand?” 
Arden's eyes narrowed, “Which do you think?” 
“You're giving me the choice?” Michael grinned, feeling the joy of battle wash over him again. “How nice of you.” He braced his feet against the ground, the snow crunched beneath his feet. He lunged forward, but not towards Arden. The knife slid passed his ear, the crowd jumped, it clanged against the dorm wall.
Michael rolled to Arden's right. Arden had thrown with that hand, expecting Michael to come straight at him. Arden wasn't thinking. Not that that was new. Michael raised an eyebrow, bouncing on his toes. “Have you got another weapon on you? Or should I let you go and pick up your azoth so we can actually have a fight?” 
Arden flicked his wrist. Blood splattered over Michael’s clothes and face. He flinched. Arden lunged at him. Michael saw the knife, pushed his hand to the side, trying to deflect it, the blade cut into his side. He hissed and elbowed Arden's back. They pulled away from each other. Michael forgot about the crowd. He no longer heard his heart pounding in his ears. He sheathed his knife. Arden picked up his own from the ground where it had fallen. They both stood still, waiting. Michael shuddered under the weight of Arden's patience, how could he stay like that, injured as he was? But Michael knew the answer, the Academy. 
He took a step forward, then another. Arden let him get closer, that's what a knife was for. There would be an opening soon, a mistake, a chance. He had to get Arden to submit, there was no honour in leaving a battle undecided. 
When they reached the perfect width to fight with an azoth Arden slid the final step, dancing into the space between them. Michael twisted to the side. Arden changed motion, kicking at Michael’s leg. Michael spat in his face, and managed to hit his eye. Arden swore. Michael punched Arden's chin, laying all the force he could in his left hand. Arden backed away, looking to recover, his mouth was bleeding, he'd bitten his tongue. Michael couldn’t give him time to recover. He slapped the side of Arden's face with his azoth with his full weight. The other boy dropped to the ground. Michael advanced on him. Raising his sword. 
“Submit dammit!” One of the crowd shouted. Arden was bleeding on the ground, Michael could see him holding back a sob. Maybe a curse too. 
“Submit!” A girl's voice, Velina, regiai loyal to Michael’s family. Michael plunged his sword down. 
“Stop!” A booming voice filled the courtyard. Michael's sword dug deep into the ground, pinning Arden's shirt there. He didn't back away. His body burned. He couldn't stop. Arden hadn’t admitted he’d lost.
A hand appeared in the corner of his vision. He ducked away from in but it followed him. The principal punched him. He fell away, shaking. All his adrenaline drained out of him and he realised where he was. He gasped, swaying on his feet. The principal held up her fist. “Don't make me hit you again.” 
He spayed his fingers, holding them high, instinctively covering his face. He could hardly breathe. The cold air was like a knife driving down his throat. 
“Who gave you permission to fight?” The principal angled her glare at him. “Who gave you permission to maim one of your fellow students?” 
An excuse stirred up in his throat, “I-” didn't maim him. But she cut him off, “No one,” she answered her own question, anger and disappointed gave her voice a bitter tone. She turned to Arden. He was sitting up, helped by a man Michael hardly recognised him. He looked like Arden, expect older, fuller, with harsher eyes. Antonius Ksaera, hero of the Second Civil War. The man stood, he was wearing a red cloak with white fur. Half a dozen blades were strapped to his person. He dragged Arden to his feet as the boy struggled to stand on his own. 
“That,” the man spoke acid, “was something I'd expect from barbarians, not krysza.” Michael felt a surge of rebellion balloon in his chest, but he forced himself to look chastised. He never did the expression well. Ksaera left go of his son. Arden straightened, pain blazed in his eyes. He had two cuts running along the side of his face, his hand was covered in blood, as was his leg. Michael didn't touch his own wounds, if Arden could stand them, so could he. Ksaera looked around the crowd. “Arden, get yourself cleaned up, I'd like to speak with you before the ceremony.” 
Arden nodded, keeping his eyes on his father’s face, there was no humility in his demeanour, only fear, fear of his father's disappointment. Ksaera turned to the principal. “We shall continue our conversation later, I imagine you'll want to punish these boys.” Ksaera left, flanked by his soldiers. Michael looked around, already the crowd was a quarter of what it was, many have scrambled away at the first sign of trouble. The only people who'd stayed were Arden and his own friends; regiai and mikini who cared whether their friend would be whipped this afternoon. 
The principal faced the two boys. “The rules?” she asked. Both of them were silent for a long minute until finally Arden spoke. 
“Submission.”
“And what is the most important thing to know about at duelling?” She questioned. 
Michael answered this time, “To know when to submit,” which Arden doesn't. 
“To keep a level head.” Arden said instead, his tone saying, which Michael doesn't. 
“Neither,” the principal hissed. The boys looked at her in surprise, sure that they were right. “You either fight as friends or you fight as enemies. There is no in between.” She pointed at the blood on the ground. “Swords are not a game when go past first blood,” She seethed, “if your bout passes that, you fight to the death.” 
“I'd never kill-” Arden began. The principal slapped him.
“It was Arden's idea,” Michael muttered. 
“Who is more foolish, the fool or the fool who follows him?” 
Michael flushed red. “It's not foolish if it's a matter of honour,” he countered. A bad idea. The principal set her gaze on him, it showed him nothing and everything at once. 
“Was that honour?” She asked him, her voice low. Michael sudden understood why she hadn't slapped him like she's slapped Arden, she wanted to punish him with her words. He gritted his teeth. 
“I don't know,” he answered, but he knew what she was thinking. Not honour.
“Good. Honour is not an reason for an action, nor an excuse, it is a reward. Any foolish action made on the account of honour is only more foolish.” Her gaze shifted between them. “You two will be excluded from the ceremony today. You'll receive your awards afterwards.” 
“That's hardly a punishment for Arden, he's not getting any awards,” Michael muttered. Arden glared at him. 
“You two will leave Lorien in shame. Do not make me start your apprenticeship in shame as well.” With that she drew herself up and left the courtyard. 
“Way to go, Ksaera,” Michael hissed. 
“You're the one that was out for blood.” 
“And what were you out for?” Michael asked, “Honour?” He laughed. Arden snorted and turned away. 
“None of your concern.” He said before entering the embrace of his friends. Only one of them wasn’t bonded the Ksaera family, Aalia, one of Veles's mikini. She was one of the prettier girls in the grade, constructed pretty, not like Kasandra. Kasandra was pretty without effort. Michael frowned at Aalia as she wrapped her arm around Arden's shoulder. Michael glared at Arden as he left. No doubt Aalia would volunteer to stitch his wounds, he bet Arden would love that.
 James jogged over. 
“That was awesome!” He could hardly contain his excitement. “I swear Arden pissed his pants!” 
Michael wasn’t in the mood for celebration, he collected his coat, “I didn't smell it.” 
“It's bad that your out of the ceremony,” Marcus observed. “They'll have to cut most of the awards.” Marcus said, looking subdued next to James.  
“Do you think I'll get the cup?” Michael asked, the Academy Cup was given the best student of every year. It was made of gold, silver, and bronze metal work and every year had a different design. He said it lightly, but he'd been pining for the cup since…a long time. Not receiving that would be worse shame than not attending the ceremony.  
“It'll funny if they don't announce the winner.” James said, walking around the courtyard. “We should go tell Kalé.” 
Michael grimaced, “I'd rather not.” Kasandra would rip him apart with a look. Then she’d ignore him for the rest of the festival. Then the rest of the week…month…lifetime…
“She's going to find out eventually,” Marcus lamented, “I mean, even if James keeps his mouth shut until this afternoon, she'll be there.” 
Michael nodded, sighed. “I least I won't have to listen to all those speeches.” 
Marcus rolled his eyes, “The speeches are the best part.” 

Winter, SIA 44

Before they left for the library Michael went up stairs to change. 
A spectators eyed him as they rushed passed. A dozen kids were feasting on festival food. A muetra shuffled down the stairwell, carrying a pile of sheets.
The three boys had almost reached the top of the stairs when a fool kid screeched, “Watch out!” They looked up and only just managed to avoid getting splatted by a falling chamberpot. Michael faced the top of the stairs as cries of disbelief and surprise came from below. A boy, about nine, looked at them with horror. Michael bridged the gap between them. 
“What are you doing on the top floor?” He used his best senior voice, a sort of booming command you only truly mastered once you joined the ranks of seniors. The boy shriveled. 
“I…ah,” Michael pointed at the stairs. “Go down there are deal with the mess you’ve made, and take your friends with you.” He’d seen no evidence of friends, but no one throws a chamberpot down the stairs without back up. 
The boy ran - free. 
Michael pushed the door of his room open. 
His room was made in two parts, chamber and sitting room. They stopped in the latter. The door opened almost as soon as he’d closed it and Njala, a servant, entered. She blinked, taking in the boys, before issuing a quick bow and pressing forward. “There’s been a letter.” She produced it from her coat and held it out for him. She was all sharp lines and unreadable expressions. 
Michael took the letter, a thick fold of paper. It had been sealed with a crest and signed Lord James Kai, the grandfather to Marcus, James and Kasandra. Michael turned it over, his name was written on the front. Marcus met Michael's eyes as he looked up.
“Grandpa sent it?” He asked, reading the back, he’d already settled into the armchair by the fireplace. He turned to Njala. 
“The messenger said it was urgent,” she explained. “I was just about to go to the library to get you.” Njala frowned, “You’re bleeding,” she said it like he was unlikely to have known. He nodded, breaking the seal. 
“I fell over,” he explained without much effort, “it looks worse than it is.” 
Njala nodded, “If you’d excuse me.” Michael didn’t respond, more interested in the letter. She disappeared into the chamber. He mused over the seal as he straighted. Urgent? What could be so urgent that they’d send a letter and not tell him when he arrived in Rhessi? What was so important that he had to know now? 
“What does it say?” James asked, he looked like he was going to start jumping up and down any second now. Michael skimmed the letter, knowing James wanted him to read it out. He could hear his heart slowly getting louder until it pounded passed all his thoughts and the words ran together. 
Worse than bad. Worse than terrible. 
Orenos hates me.
He didn’t hear the others talking, didn’t feel the cold breeze climbing through the ajar window, didn’t think. The letter slipped out of his fingers, falling downwards like an autumn leaf. He reached out, grabbed it only by instinct. 
His hands dropped limp to his sides. The letter crumpled in his hand. 
Marcus stood, “We’re hear to get a new shirt right?” 
Michael only nodded. He pushed the letter into Marcus's chest. He slumped into the nearest chair. He couldn’t speak. His mouth moved by no words made their way to his lips. What did you say after reading that?

Michael,
I regret to be the one that is to inform you, and through a letter as well, but Lady Mejzis and I agreed this message must be sent with haste over kindness. On the last day of Kaveav your father was found missing along with most of his research. We are gathering information as I write but I will not give you false hope, these miscreant were quick and were organized. This was the work of a non-citizen band under hire or sirerosi looking for ransom. I will have more information by the time you arrive in Rhessi, for now, tell no one.
Regretfully, 
Lord James Kai
Missing. 
Missing.
The word hit his head in steady barrage. He thought he should be crying, but he was too numb. Marcus came back with a clean shirt and tossed it at him. It landed on his head. He pulled it into his lap. 
“What does it say?” James asked again, he could not longer be restrained in his chosen place and instead crossed the room. Anxious for details. Michael gritted his teeth and realised as he looked at his shirt he’d only get blood on this one as well if he put it on now.  James turned to Marcus, “What is it?” 
“Shut up, James,” Marcus muttered, he looked down at Michael, “Let’s get to Kalé.” James stood, upset, and left the room first. 

Marcus pushed open the library door. James picked up the oil lamp Marcus had left on the shelf. Kasandra hardly noticed them entering. 
“Kalé, do you have any bandages, and we might need stitches.” Marcus asked her, shaking her shoulder. She looked up, disgruntled. Then she saw Michael. He hastened to clear his face of emotion but he wasn’t fast enough. He saw it register on her face. 
“Did...did someone die?” For a moment he thought she knew, that she's predicted what he'd guessed. His father was probably at the bottom of the Elvont.
James only shood his head, eyes dark. 
“Arden got the beating of his life though.” 
“Then why...?” 
Marcus waved his hand in front of Kasandra, “Kalé, bandages?” She turned, mystified, but nodded. She went over to her satchel and dug out bandages, sting and a small jar of strong alcohol. She moved over to Michael. He stood, hardly seeing her. James stole the letter from Marcus’s pocket, they quarreled, and James skipped over to the side of the room. Marcus sighed and didn’t follow. “Vakōz eivāt,” James swore in Porju. 
Kasandra glared at him before pointing at Michael's shirt. “Take that off.” He nodded, pulling off his shirt. He was miserable. He was half naked in front of her and he couldn’t even enjoy it. She knelt examining his wounds. “It's not so bad.” She meant the wound, he wished she meant the letter. 
Missing. 
James leant forward, his eyes on Michael. Michael thought he might drown in James's sympathy. He focused on the wall beyond James, very conscious of how Kasandra fingers felt as they touched his skin – even if it was to stitch up a cut. “It'll be easier if you lie down.” Kasandra said. Michael nodded. 
“There isn't much space,” he realised, turning his shoulder. Kasandra and Michael quickly moved to clear the table of books. James stepped in to help. Kasandra dropped a stack on a nearby chair, already piled high. 
“So,” she began casually, “what's in the letter?” 
James was silent, back to sympathy. Marcus walked over to Kasandra, whispering in her ear. “What?” She gasped, glancing back at Michael. He sat up on the table, refusing to meet any of their gazes. “I don't understand, why?” She whispered back, everyone heard. 
Michael nodded, yes, why? Why kidnap a man with no political power, no threat to anyone? He rested his chin on his hands. Missing. He cursed inwardly. A small voice in the back of his mind thought, what have you done, father?
“It really doesn’t matter who did it or why.” Marcus said, leaning back in his chair, infuriatingly calm. Michael took a deep breath. He wanted nothing made to be a stone wall, unbreakable and cold. 
He couldn't breathe. 
James turned to Marcus, something like betrayal in his eyes, “And why is that?”
“Because missing is just as good as dead, worse even.” Marcus explained, rolling his wrist. He sighed. His eyes set on Michael again. “No matter who is responsible or whether your father is alive or not, the moment this breaks out every one of our enemies will advance…Even those we don't currently consider enemies.” Marcus pressed his lips together. “And if Michael's father does turn up dead before he's sixteen, we can say all goodbye to-”
Further statements were drowned out by the ringing of the eighth hour bell. Kasandra looked up, stood. She stretched looking around the room. She sighed, as if dreading the moment she'd have to leave her books for good. She looked down at him, pointed, “You'll be fine, now put your shirt back on, or you'll catch a cold.” 
He sighed, leant back against a stack of books. “You go, I need to get something from the dorms.” 
“But then you'll be late,” Kasandra frowned. Michael nodded. 
James sniggered. 
“He's not going, Kalé,” Marcus sighed. “He beat Arden up in front of his father. They're both excluded.” 
“What?” Kasandra gaped, swinging around to Michael. “You got caught? What sort of idiot gets caught? Where the hell were you fighting?” 
“The boys dorm,” James said, hardly containing his laugher. 
“The...” Kasandra pressed her palm to her face and groaned. “Fine. Whatever. Go prance around with fairies for all I care.” 
“Hey, at least it's not so bad. If Lord Ksaera wasn't there they might have been put on the block,” James reasoned. 
Kasandra snorted, “They should be whipped. I can't believe you duelled in front of the dorms, what a stupid place to fight.” She sent a pointed look at Marcus and James, “And you two encouraged him.” She shook her head. “I'm going to the ceremony myself, I need to find intelligent company not addled by testosterone.” She grabbed her coat, pushed the door open, and left the room. 
Michael sighed, “She really didn't take that well.”
James nodded in agreement. 
“Did you expect her to?” Marcus asked, picking up his own coat. 
Michael gave him an embarrassed smiled, “Some girls like a guy who fights.” 
Marcus snorted, “Not Kalé.” 
“Yeah,” he slumped, glanced at the door. He was regretting going along with Arden. What if he really didn’t get the cup? “Have fun,” he wished them. At least he’d won. 
James sighed, walking out, “This is going to be so boring.” 
Their voices were muffled with the door closing and eventually disappeared altogether. 

He stayed in the room for a while, exhaustion pressing on him. He rolled his wrist, he didn’t expect to be this tired, not this time of day, no matter how much duelling he'd done. He slid off the table and picked up the old shirt, the side was stained with dried blood, he grimaced. He didn’t want to see Njala’s face when she got this.
His eyes found the letter, now opened, it’s pages lines from when he’d crumpled them, on the side of the table. He reached over, picked it up. It weighted very little for such a message. He read it through again, to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. This time, alone, he felt the stirring of another feeling at the bottom of his stomach. 
Missing. Likely dead. 
I’ll never see him again. 
It didn’t matter how much he and his father had diverged paths - never been on the same path - he was the last family Michael had. He closed his eyes. A horrible, slimy feeling was building in his throat. He bit the side of his cheek hard, drawing blood, washing away the taste. He ripped the letter up, walked over to the lamp. He opened the small window and held up the fragments of paper over the petite flame. They caught a light. One by one the fragments burnt.
He pushed it closed and hung the lamp back onto its hook. He looked around the room again. His mind summoned an image of his father, sitting behind a desk, poring over pages like these. Searching, his father never stopped searching. And now Michael had to search for him. 
He could still be alive, Lord Kai must have wrote that right after they'd learnt of his disappearance, he might have been found safely already, he reasoned. Or he might be at the bottom of the Elvont, feeding fishes, the black emotions crawled back. 
He craved a distraction. 
The bells rang again, only once this time. The ceremony would be starting. He straightened his back, running his hands along the table's surface. He wrapped his coat over his shoulders, fixing up the position of his clothes, and slung his old shirt over his shoulder. He left the library, walking towards the dorm. The road went right passed the ceremony hall, where he ran into Arden. They stopped, staring at each other. Arden was all patched up now, the two cuts on his face cleaned and bandaged. “Off to do some cleaning?” Arden inquired, using that annoying, lofty tone he no doubt learnt from his father.  Michael shrugged, admitting he had no idea how to clean clothes would be admitting he didn't know how to do something.
“Was that a hobble I saw in your walk?” Michael spat back. “Be careful, a muetra might mistake you for an Ellisi woman.”
Arden sneered, then his face relaxed into a smile, “Well, I won't keep you. I've got a ceremony to attend, after all.” With that cheery remark, Arden skipped up the stone steps, and headed towards the side door. He glanced back. “You really should have let me win, Alezsantras, I might have done you a charity and told my father to let you in too.” 
Michael raised his eyebrow. “I don't need to relay on my father's name to win duels,” he called. 
Arden only laughed, “With a father like yours, I'd hope not!” Then he was gone behind the corner and Michael was left alone of the street. A father like yours. He balled his hands into fists. What are you doing getting kidnapped, Papa? It was meant to be an angry thought, but he could feel was grief. He spun around and kept walking. 
Not the distraction he was hoping for. 
It was as if Orenos were making a cake out of his misery. The chosen topping was letting Arden walk away without punishment for a duel he started. Michael kicked the road, next thing Lord Ksaera will force the Academy to give Arden the cup – even if he was the worst krysza to attend the school in a generation. 
Michael held up his chin, biting the inside of his lip, and strode back to the dorms wishing he’d defeated Arden when he had the chance.