He closed his eyes and drank. The liquid burned with the bitterness of something rotten, something meant to be endured rather than tasted. His stomach churned. Bile rose like a bitter wave. Slow and acidic. Still, he did not stop. He drank the cup dry, lids clenched tight.
Water was water.
Merrin gasped, staggered. Lightness overtook him—as though a pressure long pressing against the top of his head had been lifted and replaced by something thinner, more elusive. This was good. This was clarity. At least now, he no longer held the taste for water.
He moved through the gathering, away from the center, toward seclusion. There were few benches. The remaining ones had been claimed by the most prominent of the groups—territories long drawn, a thing made to happen by the Excubitor's words. Already, the slave-cohorts had formed. Tension growing. The Excubitor had spoken: choose a leader. But no limit was given.
From such vagueness, violence would bloom. Merrin observed this inevitability with passive discontent. They should dance it out, he thought, the idea only half-formed.
Leaders had been chosen—informally, instinctively. The question was no longer if, but whom he would follow.
"Ma'rim," a voice said from behind.
He turned. The man stood tall, a giant of flesh and shadow: muscular, broad, his scattered black hair streaked with white strands that shimmered under the dim light. His eyes were round, black, and steady. There was something unsettling in the calm of his gaze.
BrightCrown! Merrin's heart jolted. How does he know my name?
The man wore a long black coat, buttoned to the waist, flared to the ankles. It split at the belly, revealing dark trousers beneath. There was sophistication in the attire, or there had been once. Now, they were worn, torn at the cuffs, faded at the edges. The man's arms were folded inside the robes like a priest bearing his sermon. An Aspirant?
But Aspirants wore white.
What does he want from me? Merrin thought, tension creeping through his spine.
The man smiled, and it was strange—warm, unthreatening. Too warm.
"Ma'rim, why not with others?"
His accent was unlike the others. Not the harsh tones of the Excubitors, nor the muttering drawl of the pit-slaves. It had a twist. Was he actually a member of the House of Noctis?
"So?" the man urged, his smile intensifying. There was light in it. Dangerous light.
Merrin exhaled, words came sharp and withered. "I deserve the solitude."
The man tilted his head. "Ma'rim, this is humble."
"If you say so."
"Ma'rim, what this?" he asked. "Believe not me?"
"Why do you keep saying that? Ma'rim?" Merrin's voice grew edged. "Is that supposed to be my name?" Stupid question—how would he know my name?
The man nodded gently. "Ah. This word—greeting. Not name."
"Then why keep saying it?"
"Because you not respond."
Merrin watched him, expression flattening. Genuine. That was the word. The man seemed…genuine.
He exhaled again, slower this time. "Ma'rim."
The smile widened. "This is good."
Merrin moved away, subtle, quiet. But the man followed.
What is he doing?
"What are you doing?" Merrin asked aloud, though he regretted the question the moment it escaped him.
"This place new," the man said. "I think—together is better."
"You want to form a cohort?"
"Yes. That."
"Not interested." The reply came without warmth. Why would he do that? He was not mad, so why would he choose the same path again? To follow a lead to damnation. He lost the right to have such destinies…such purpose. There were paths that no longer belonged to him. Destinies he had forfeited.
The man nodded again. "I see. Humble. True."
"I look humble?" Merrin asked. Why am I still talking to him?
"You see me," the man said. "From Clan Odium. Yet you not take chance."
Merrin tensed. "You're from Clan Odium?" That didn't align—no red hair.
"Ah. I see confusion. Odium blood… not always bred true."
"So why would I take the chance?" Merrin's curiosity was winning. He hated that.
"Odium—hated. But strength…true. Adi favors us."
"Adi?" Dangerous question.
"This you nights call…symbols. Things casted."
"I'm not night," Merrin replied, voice dull.
Adi…symbols. Powers of the Almighty…
Breath deepened. Thoughts slowed. Talking—something human. Something still real.
"You there!" The call cracked the air like a whip.
Merrin turned. A group approached. Four men. Slaves. But fresh ones—bleakness not yet etched into the bones, fear still soft. No servs hovered near. This revealed that in clearness.
Their leader stepped forward, sharp stone in hand, the glint of desperation in his eyes. Threat in the posture. Merrin felt the impulse—battle stance. He could take them. Surely.
"Ma'rim," the Odium brightCrown said again, tilting his head like a giant greeting the wind.
It looked absurd. Nobility bowing before slaves.
The slave leader faltered. Fear flickered. But it passed—bravery reclaiming the face.
"You will join our group," he said. "I'm the leader. Call me Kzeith."
The mountain smiled. "Ma'rim. My name Ron."
Kzeith narrowed his eyes. "You speak strangely. Not like the nights." He spat—saliva hissing as it hit the ground, steaming. Merrin wanted to dance in it. But the realization of the inadequate steam pressed in.
"Ma'rim, yes," Ron replied, "I am Odium."
"Hated Scum!" a voice shouted. More spitting. More steam.
Ron did not react. His eyes lowered. "That is past. Done by ancestors. We must grow. Be unified. Cohort."
Kzeith's eyes shifted. To Merrin. No!
"Are you with this filth?"
Merrin hesitated. He could lie. He should. But he couldn't.
He was Ashman.
And Ashmen do not lie.
"Yes."
"Then I must save you from Odium!"
"What—"
Before the sentence could shape itself, Kzeith moved.
The stone struck Ron's skull. The crack echoed—a sound that outpaced the clamor of distant mining. Silence followed. Deep, unnatural.
Ron staggered, but did not fall. Blood ran down one side of his face. His arms remained within his sleeves.
"What are you doing!" Merrin shouted. The words broke from him, wild and unsummoned. I don't know this man. I should leave.
But memory flashed—someone falling, screaming, vanishing into the chasm. He saw it again, before his eyes.
"Please stop." The urge to fight crawled beneath his skin, familiar and hungry. He could win. He had always won. Back in the mountains, he had been the best.
"This is for you…" Kzeith said. Blood from the stone hissed where it struck the ground. "He is Odium. And hate is all he has."
Merrin turned—looked for intervention. But saw only a crowd. Slaves, watching. Smiling. Yellow servs danced around their heads.
Almighty…they've gone mad.
No one moved.
Kzeith approached, stone raised. Ron stood, smiling, radiant in pain.
He looks like…
Merrin's eyes widened. He needed to stop this. They couldn't kill him….They couldn't kill Liem!
He ran.
Kzeith raised the stone.
Ron did not move.
Merrin reached them just as the stone fell.
He shielded the man with his body.
The stone struck his skull.
Darkness.
He shall save and be stoned.
—From the Seventh Paragraph of the El'shadie Prophecies
He dreamed of a dance in ash and darkness.
He was ash—swift, enveloping, soft as dusk. His legs trailed above the sand. Were they sand? Larger than sand. It did not matter.
The ash embraced him. And that was enough.
He moved with grace, his legs and arms curling and straightening. It was a stomp. A dance. The dance of self. The dance from which creation could come. He enjoyed it. It freed him. He was one with it all—the mist, the steam, the ash. All of it.
They were his.
He had once been alone in this dance, he believed. But now… it seemed no longer true. There were people. People, right? Whatever they were, they danced with him. Moved with him. He couldn't see them—or maybe he didn't want to. Whoever they were, if they enjoyed the dance, who was he to stop them?
The dance was his, but it was also for all. So enjoy it, they would.
"He will never die," a shrill voice whispered into his ears.
Merrin's eyes slowly opened, the blurriness fading as a wash of white light poured against his face. He raised his hands instinctively, shielding his eyes. The mind thickened with fog.
Above him stood a giant of a man. Black-haired, streaked with white strands—Ron. He held a chain-roped buzzing lamp, his smile simple, almost holy in its peace.
"This must hurt," Ron said.
Merrin propped himself up, feeling faint heat pressing against his back. He looked down. What was he even lying on?
The makeshift bed was not stone, nor the coarse straw of the ash mountains. It was soft. Of course, he didn't know the trueness of the material, but he guessed it was like the garments worn by the Night Clans—the same ones he wore now, given to him by the caster who had brought him here. Regardless, this one was thick. That's why he hadn't burned.
It would still burn, if left there too long, he thought, glancing back at Ron.
The man wore his smile like a straw hat. Pridefully.