A large carriage stood waiting in front of Kal.
It looked like something ripped from a nobleman's daydream—polished wood, gilded fixtures, and a dark exterior that gleamed even in the grime-filled air of Eresid's slums.
"Sit," Aleksei said, motioning with a nod toward the door.
Kal stepped up, cautious, and slid onto the far side of the cabin, planting himself near the back. The seats were plush, upholstered in deep red wool with golden handles fastened to either side. He shifted uncomfortably, suddenly aware of the blood, dirt, and ash clinging to his clothes.
The wood-paneled walls were decorated with tiny carvings—roses and birds, perfectly etched into place. Kal stared at them in silence, unsure what to think.
He didn't belong here.
Not in this kind of world. Not in this kind of space.
He was staining the seats just by sitting in them.
Aleksei sat across from him, one leg crossed over the other.
"The ride from here to headquarters is two figna," he said plainly. "Which means you have exactly that long to ask any questions you want. After that, I'll take you to him... and, well—you'll see."
That sounds ominous, Kal thought, but he nodded anyway.
Might as well make use of the time.
He leaned forward slightly, his brow furrowing.
"First off... what did you do to the kid who came to call for me?" Kal asked. "Why was he shaking like that?"
He couldn't shake the image—the boy trembling like he was about to be executed. It had stuck with him, nestled into the back of his brain like a splinter.
Aleksei shrugged. "I didn't do anything to him. I just sent word to one of my subordinates and told them to grab someone to deliver the message."
He paused.
"He's a Greater. That's probably why. I hate those kids. Brutes with too much power and nothing to temper it. If the younger ones had the strength to stand up for themselves just once…"
Aleksei trailed off, his voice growing colder.
"I could snap every one of those self-important thugs like twigs."
Kal tilted his head, half curious, half skeptical. This man wasn't what he expected. Not from a Higher.
Not from someone supposedly close to the top.
Why does he care about the youngers. They sat atop even the greaters. Yet why was he so empathetic towards these children.
"Second," Kal began, tilting his head, "is there someone above you? A higher Higher?"
Aleksei raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching. "You're sharper than you look."
Kal didn't know if that was meant to be a compliment.
"There is," Aleksei continued. "If we're Highers, then they're... gods. Not literally, but close enough. A rare few whose bodies—and more importantly, their Ariks—have been honed to the very edge of human potential."
He leaned back against the seat as the carriage rumbled along.
"Imagine this. A regular Arik user, say someone with an affinity for fire, might summon a flame the size of a Khufon—bread stuffed with boiled vegetables. Modest, decent for a beginner. A Godly?" He gave Kal a sideways glance. "A hundred fireballs the size of a Kolashi. And that's on a slow day."
Kal blinked. He tried to picture it. Fireballs big enough to incinerate a tribe of warriors. The sheer scale of it was absurd. Why weren't these people ruling the world already? What kind of life must someone live to wield that kind of power and still hide among slums?
Aleksei must've caught his expression. "Of course," he added, "that assumes infinite reserves of Niva and the ability to cast endlessly."
"Niva?" Kal asked, voice slipping into a mocking drawl. "And what mystical thing is that?"
"To explain Niva," Aleksei said with a sigh, "you have to understand the Arik. Which, judging by the fact that yours hasn't so much as sparked, you clearly haven't touched."
Kal shrugged. He wasn't about to deny it.
"The Arik stores environmental energy—not the vague spiritual kind the Apsies ramble about—but raw, elemental force. Real power. We call it Niva. Every Arik user has a Niva channel—unseen but always there, connected to their Arik. When we cast, we draw from the Arik, channeling Niva through our arms, where it appears in its purest form."
Aleksei lifted his hand, as if imagining the glow.
"With that, we shape spells. But there are two limitations. First, the density of your Niva determines how much you can do with how little. A skilled mage could flatten a house with a Niva droplet no larger than a tear."
Kal's interest had fully shifted from sarcastic to intense. "And the second?"
"That's the one that gets people killed," Aleksei said. His voice dropped, losing all levity. "Niva, in its pure form, is volatile. Deadly. You can't just wield it however you like. Our bodies are born aligned to a single element—fire, ice, wind, stone, and so on. Some believe the Viralds choose for us at birth, bestowing that elemental affinity. I don't buy into the divine nonsense, but the limitation is real."
He looked at Kal, his eyes steady. "Use an element that doesn't belong to you... and it'll tear you apart. Not slowly either. Painfully. Thoroughly. You'll wish you'd never been born."
Kal tried to laugh it off. "I mean, the slums are already a fate worse than death. How much worse can it get?"
"We don't joke about this," Aleksei said sharply. "Ever. This is the only rule that matters for Arik users. Break it, and you die screaming."
Kal raised his hands in mock surrender. "Fine, fine. No forbidden elements. Got it. Has anyone ever, I don't know, bent the rules? Used more than one?"
Aleksei nodded. "Some. Rarely. King Huvon controls two. Has a third under shaky command."
Kal's jaw dropped. "Three?!"
"Stop yelling, you Vilut," Aleksei muttered, plugging his ears with his fingers.
Kal blinked, sheepish. "Sorry. Just... that's insane."
"There are those," Aleksei said, relaxing again, "who believe the Viralds favor certain bloodlines. That royalty are chosen. Blessed. That's why they have more than one affinity. Personally, I think it's nonsense."
"Then how do you explain it?" Kal asked. He hadn't dared question the Viralds in his life—not out loud.
Not even in thought. You didn't tempt Invoca. You didn't risk your soul being torn apart.
"Because he exists," Aleksei said simply.
Kal frowned. "Who's 'he'?"
"Our leader," Aleksei replied. "And he'll answer the rest of your questions himself."
Kal leaned forward, glancing out the window. "Wait. We're there already? That wasn't two Figna."
"I may have used a bit of wind magic to speed the carriage up," Aleksei said with a grin. "There's only so much 'unwashed teenage slum boy' I can handle in one trip."
"Hey!" Kal said, indignant. "I bathed in the river yesterday. And I'm not even a teenager yet—I've got miors before that hits."
"Eight," Aleksei said, nodding to himself. "Yeah, you've still got time to figure out how to use soap."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Kal asked, narrowing his eyes, trying to make the threat in his voice sound more than just a bluff.
"Let's go," Aleksei replied, dismissing the question without even a glance.
"Okay…" Kal muttered, still smarting from the remark.
Aleksei strode to the front of the carriage and handed the driver a pouch of coins. Kal's eyes widened as the silver glint caught the light—ten Sil.
That was enough to feed someone in the slums for a week, maybe more. It was likely more than Rij had died stealing.
Aleksei didn't even blink.
"If you take the job," Aleksei said, as if reading Kal's mind, "you'll earn more than that before your first month's up. Rookie pay starts at ten Mehng. That's a thousand Sil."
Kal froze. Ten Mehng. He'd seen Mehng coins before—shimmering, etched with ornate designs—but only in glimpses, clutched tightly by the ultra-wealthy. The few that had made their way into the slums were always seized by the Greater Ones.
To think someone like him could earn that much...
"You still haven't told me what the job is," he said, half-distracted, half-dreaming.
"You're impatient," Aleksei chuckled. "He'll explain everything. Just wait."
Kal raised an eyebrow. "You talk about him like he's some all-knowing god. What even is his name?"
"His name is Sig," came a new voice from his left.
Kal turned.
A girl stood beside him, as if she'd been there the whole time. Her hair was chestnut brown, flowing all the way to her stomach. She wore a clean yellow dress, simple yet elegant, with a straw hat perched atop her head. A soft blue ribbon circled the hat, pinning a bright sunflower in place. Her pale skin contrasted with vivid emerald eyes, and a pair of yellow wool gloves covered her hands.
She looked every bit the aristocrat.
But Kal knew better.
Years in the slums had taught him how to see people—not the version they presented, but the core of them. The difference between a spoiled brat and someone with soul. And this girl… she wasn't a noble.
Not really.
"Sun! How great to see yo—" Aleksei began with exaggerated cheer.
"Quiet."
Her voice was soft, but carried a weight that stilled him instantly.
"Sig's been waiting for the boy one Figna. Do you know how hard it is to keep that man-child in one place for ten minutes? Let alone one Figna? He said if you didn't show up soon, he'd come find you himself."
She turned her gaze to Kal.
"You. Walk with me."
Without waiting, she turned toward a set of enormous doors and strode forward.
It was only now Kal realized they stood in front of a massive building.
Not beautiful—no marble columns, no ornate carvings—but formidable. The structure towered over them, built of thick sand bricks. Three Kolashi warriors could've stood shoulder-to-shoulder and still not spanned its width.
Sand bricks. Durable, tough, made from wet sand mixed with Vilut bone—dense enough to survive fire, collapse, even time. Some of Kohl's oldest structures were made from the same material.
The doors were even more impressive: solid Ensen wood, pale and grain-lined, reinforced with iron clamps. Ensen was used in the royal palace itself—costly, rare, nearly impossible to break.
Whoever built this place didn't want guests. They wanted a fortress.
"You can gawk later," Sun called, already halfway through the massive doorway. "If we wait any longer, Sig's going to bring the whole building down."
Kal glanced at Aleksei.
The older boy gave him a nod, the kind that meant go on. Kal nodded back, then jogged forward to catch up to Sun.
As he stepped through the doors, the inside of the building caught him completely off guard.
The exterior had been brutish—all strength and sand-brick fortification. But the interior… was vast.
A long corridor stretched ahead—longer than the entire building should've allowed.
Kal blinked.
"Expansion magic," Sun said without turning around, as if reading his thoughts. "Useful for hiding discrete bases."
Kal narrowed his eyes. "Do all of you have in-built mind readers or something?" he asked, half-joking, raising a hand to shield his head.
"Most people who walk in here think the same things," she replied flatly. "You get used to it after the first hundred."
"So there are over a hundred people in here?"
"Well over," she said. "And this is just one base. There are others."
Kal fell quiet, his thoughts spiraling.
One of many?
Whatever this was, it was bigger than anything he had imagined.
Still dazed, he muttered, "So what's the deal with you and Aleksei? Is it one-sided or—"
He didn't get to finish.
Sun's hand came down on the back of his head with a sharp smack.
"So it's not one-sided?" Kal said, rubbing the spot with a crooked grin.
This time, a punch landed on his arm. It didn't hurt much. But the message was clear.
"If you think I'd date that walking garbage fire, then you've got another thing coming," Sun said as she adjusted her hat. "I'm already stressed out as it is. Don't make me take it out on you. Trust me—you will die."
Something in her voice—calm, confident, deadly—sent a real shiver down his spine.
"Okay, okay," he said, raising his hands. "But at least tell me why you're dressed like an aristocrat. I know you're not one."
Sun stopped.
"How do you know?" she asked, still facing forward. Her voice was quieter now, even.
Kal hesitated, uncertain if he'd said too much.
Then, carefully, he said, "Living in the slums teaches you things. Teaches you how to see through the masks people wear. I know Aleksei looks dangerous, but… I can tell he's a good person. Same with you. You don't carry yourself like an aristocrat. And besides..." He paused. "You laugh. They don't."
For a long moment, Sun said nothing.
Then, slowly, she nodded.
"Follow me," she said, and started walking again.
They reached the end of the hallway, which opened into a vast chamber.
Two curved staircases spiraled up toward a second floor, elegant and almost theatrical in their construction. Between them stood a tall archway that led into another room beyond.
"Wait in there," Sun said, motioning to the inner door. "I'll be with you in a bit."
Kal gave a nod and stepped forward.
The heavy wooden doors creaked open, and he crossed the threshold into whatever was waiting for him next.
The door creaked open, revealing a stark, empty room. A single table stood at its center with a plain wooden chair beside it. On the table sat a folded piece of paper.
Kal stepped forward cautiously, lowering himself into the chair. The room was silent—almost too silent. He picked up the note.
If you are reading this, you have been selected for the Evir screening test. In five minutes, you will face a member of our order. If you survive for one minute or draw blood from your opponent, you pass. On the table are two knives: one longer for close combat, one shorter for throwing. Your opponent will have no advantage over you. Only skill will decide the outcome. Good luck.
Kal stared at the words.
He blinked. Read them again.
Draw blood? Face someone? What in the gods' names was Evir?
He flipped the paper over, half expecting the letters to vanish. They didn't. Beneath it, as promised, lay two knives—one long, one short. A small clock was built into the wood of the table, a red mark painted on its face. Two minutes until the test.
His stomach twisted.
He didn't sign up to die. He thought these people were decent. Maybe shady, maybe dangerous—but not murderers.
Panic clawed at his chest, but he forced it down.
If I'm going to die, Kal thought, then it's going to be on my terms.
He grabbed both knives and scanned the room. No windows. One locked door. Walls made of sand brick—the same kind used outside. That gave him an idea.
He knelt beside the wall and scraped the bricks with the blunt side of his long knife, gathering a handful of coarse sand. It might be nothing, but maybe—just maybe—it could buy him a second.
The red mark approached.
He stood, heart hammering.
The moment the clock ticked past the mark, a knife zipped past his neck, grazing the skin.
The sting was instant. Burning.
"That blade's laced with Ginsua venom," a voice called from the shadows. It was smooth, cold. Confident. "Slow-acting paralytic. Starts at your feet. Works its way up. You'll die from suffocation or from my blade. Whichever comes first."
Kal spun toward the voice. He could only see the lower half of a figure—leather boots, crouched stance. The upper body was cloaked in shadow.
No time.
His legs gave out as the venom took hold, and he dropped to his knees. Fear threatened to take over, but instinct kicked in.
"Give up now," the voice said, footsteps closing in. "I'll make it painless."
The figure lunged.
Kal moved.
With a swift motion, he flung the sand into his attacker's face. A burst of dust clouded the air—a thick screen—and Kal hurled his throwing knife through it, praying it would land.
No sound. No cry. Just the silence of missed steel.
Then, as the sand settled, he saw the figure leap through the dust with a blade raised overhead.
Kal raised his long knife and braced for impact.
"Survive! SURVIVE!" he screamed.
And then the voice returned.
The voice.
The one in his dreams. The one in the dark.
Roll left.
Kal obeyed. His body moved before he could think, just barely avoiding the downward strike.
Lunge forward.
He pushed off with his arms, adrenaline taking over. He wasn't moving with strength anymore—just fear, instinct, and the will to live.
The attacker flipped into the air to avoid him.
Roll right.
Kal slammed his shoulder into the ground and twisted to the side, slower now. His limbs were growing numb.
Pick up your knife.
He blinked—and there it was. The throwing knife, lying just ahead.
He grabbed it.
The assassin landed.
Throw your long blade at his feet.
Kal hesitated. That was his only decent weapon. Why waste it?
Then it clicked.
The assassin always jumped.
Every attack, every dodge—always up.
Kal threw the long knife low.
Just as expected, the assassin dropped low to avoid the strike.
Kal threw the second knife.
Steel met flesh.
The assassin recoiled, a thin line of blood running down his arm.
Kal gasped, staggering backward, the last of his strength leaving him.
He collapsed, vision spinning. Limbs frozen. Breath shallow.
But he'd done it.
He'd made him bleed.
The room spun, darkness crowding in.
Then, just before it overtook him, a voice whispered:
"Congratulations, Kal. Flying colors."
He had passed out.