The First Path
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The sky was a wash of purple, orange, and blue as the sun hung low over the western mountains for the last time. Tonight was the night Daia would die. But her death was not what wrenched at her heart as she watched her three sons laugh and run through the tall grass beneath her high balcony, filling the fields with the innocent joy of youth for the last time.
Nor was it the fact she would never see their faces again, watch them grow old, perhaps even give her grandchildren that twisted her heart. She had made peace with that and took solace in the fact that they would survive.
It was the utter destruction of her clan that Daia had dreaded ever since receiving her prophesied fate—the end of her clan pathway. She was eleven at the time, and she has been haunted ever since.
She felt a presence from behind and turned to see the head of her jade guard step out onto the terrace.
He saluted with a fist to the chest. “Shodaim, I have personally seen to the defensive fortifications as you requested. All available hands are on patrol.” He hesitated. “These measures come as a surprise. Any insight into the nature of the threat would—”
Daia turned back to peer out into the encroaching night, and the guard fell silent. This time, it were the high walls that enclosed the field that captured her attention. Along the perimeter wall, in even intervals of ten strides apart, her jade guard stood sentry, alternating between facing in toward the structures of her vast estate and out toward flat fields that provided a clear view for vast distances in any direction.
Daia turned back to face the guard, who still waited with his fist to his chest. “You have ever served me well, Neyun. Now, I wish to be alone. Permit no one to enter.” She cast her gaze to either side of the wide terrace and met the eyes of the two jade guards holding positions on either end of the terrace. “All of you.”
Neyun hesitated. “Shodaim, given your precautions, I think it best to keep as many of your elite warriors around you as possible.”
A tight smile tugged at the corners of Daia’s lips. “Neyun, do you truly mean to imply that what you think best should undermine a clear directive I have given?”
Neyun flushed, then withdrew without another word. He gestured toward the jade guards on either side of the terrace as he swept back into her personal chambers. She heard him barking orders as he moved through her rooms, clearing her quarters.
In moments, she was alone. For an instant, she regretted her tone. After all, this was the day every member of the Rei’den clan would die.
But the burden of that knowledge was not for her subjects. But neither was it for her to bear alone. The Jade Priestess of the Rei’den clan also knew of the coming calamity. Their fates were indelibly intertwined, the voice of fate, and the will of fate.
Daia had long ago abandoned any hope for the possibility of averting the clan’s end, even though her priestess had remained adamant over the years that it was possible. She had tried everything from appealing to the Avatar to the murder of any potential rival—and then the murder of their families out of fear their retribution might have been the catalyst. She had tried breaking from the tradition to find an apprentice; this was the one time the day of her death was decoupled from the destruction of the clan. The prophecy changed to her dying years earlier while the clan still met destruction on the same scale of time as the original casting. Killing the apprentice had only reverted things back to the original prophecy.
Sometime around her thirtieth birthday she even had a sudden irrational fear she had focused too heavily on the curse that her obsession might be the harbinger of her clan’s demise in a cruel self-fulfilling prophecy. The reading of fate was known to be finicky in that way. She had no heirs. That very day she had chosen a paramour. In less than a year she had her first son.
That first birth had come early. And so, when the fate had not changed, she was not wholly discouraged. Perhaps the child would not survive. Ten months later she had a second, and another eleven later she had a third son. The prophecy had not changed.
But in a surprising twist, as a woman in her mid-thirties, she had finally found a sense of personal joy with the coming of her children. The bond of motherhood had been slow to form, but when it did, it grew fierce. Her children gave her a purpose outside of her lifelong quest to find a branching strand of fate for her clan.
Hope wasn’t what kept her defiance alive. It was the duty toward her clan alone that kept her pushing forward, even at the final hour. She took a deep breath and resolved to attend her priestess one last time.
No sooner than the resolve settled into Daia’s spirit, she turned around and greeted the jade priestess, knowing she would have entered the chambers at that very instant. “Welcome, sister Vaize.”
Even though Daia just gave Neyun explicit orders to ensure no one disturbed her, none in the Rei’den estate would dare stop the jade priestess from going anywhere she pleased. All knew Sister Vaize was compelled to arrive whenever Daia set her will to see her. Their intertwined ropes of fate terrified the whole of the Rei’den.
Green silks billowed behind the priestess as if caught in a wind that was not there as Vaize dropped to a knee and touched her delicate fist to her chest. When she stood again, sadness touched her deep green eyes as she stared into Daia’s own, then the priestess shook her head. “No, Shodaim. Adding your pathways to even one of the boys will only get that child—or children should you choose more than one—hunted and killed.”
Daia managed a deep breath. She had not asked the question. But Vaize knew what Daia sought. Over the years, Daia had given the priestess leave to just answer the question.
But she had answered only part of what Daia had wished to know. She had to be sure, even though Vaize had remained consistent ever since she first proposed sending them away as a way to avoid their deaths along with the clan’s destruction.
“Yes,” Vaize said. “Their strands of fate still run far beyond this night. Their destiny has not yet been averted.”
This time, a true smile spread across Daia’s face. Her children would live on beyond this day.
Sister Vaize cleared her throat. “And…”
Curious at what more the jade priestess could want, Daia inclined her head. “Go on, Vaize. You know you can speak freely in my presence.”
The priestess took a deep breath. “I know you have not asked for his foretelling—
Daia rolled her eyes. “Not this again. Of all the nights—I do not have time for your romantic notions.”
“Shodaim…Daia, I speak not as your eyes to the fate. I speak now as your friend.”
The shodaim went to speak, but Vaize spoke over her. Daia was so stunned Vaize had the opportunity to finish the rest of what she would say.
“I have read the fate of every single member of your house in search of a solution.”
“And you have found none,” Daia snapped.
“I have not, Daia.”
“Shodaim,” Daia corrected, her anger rising.
To Daia’s surprise, Vaize’s own anger flared as the priestess continued. “Strike me down if you wish. You are well within your right, Shodaim. But unlike most in this clan who fear you, I respect and genuinely care about you, your happiness. And you cannot imagine how happy I am to know that I am not the only one. As I’ve said, I’ve read the fate of all four hundred and nine warriors, artisans, and servers of this clan and glimpsed each of their possible branching threads to see if any of them could possibly avert the destruction of this house through journeying across every stretch of Sai’ja.” She paused to add gravity to her words. “Maijun and Maijun alone has no branching thread.”
Daia shook her head. “What does that even mean?”
“It means, Shodaim, that of every single member of this clan, Maijun is the only person who would not leave you under any circumstances. Do you understand, Shodaim? Fate is rarely ever so definitive. It means there is nothing in the heavens that could make Maijun leave your side this night, Daia. Not even your command.”
Daia lowered her gaze. In an instant, her anger had cooled. When she spoke again, her voice was soft. “It’s too late now for more of your urgings to marry this man now.”
“Of course it is. But, well, you don’t have to be alone this night, when the end comes.”
Vaize turned and walked out of the room without another word. As with all their conversations, Sister Vaize withdrew the moment Daia willed their conversation to end.
Daia’s spirit told her it would be the last time she would ever see her beloved sister. That sent a shocking pang of sadness through her spirit.
She was tempted to call the priestess back for a proper goodbye but realized the sound of her boys’ laughter had fallen silent. A crushing pain twisted her heart as she crossed back out onto the terrace and caught her final glimpse of them being hurried to the rear gate by a pair of her house servants. She had missed her opportunity to watch them tussle about for the final time. She had wanted to do nothing more until they departed.
She tore her gaze away and reentered her room, paused for a breath, then swept out of her personal apartments and crossed to the room on the far side of her large house where her paramour, Maijun, awaited her pleasure.
She found Maijun in the middle of a sword kata. His combat prowess and the prospects of strong children were the sole reason she chose him as consort.
At the sight of her, Maijun shrew down this weapon and straightened. “Shodaim. Forgive me. Had I known you would come for me this night, I would have been better prepared for you. Give me a quarter bell and—”
Daia stopped him with a raised hand, then smiled. “That…is not the reason I’ve come to you this night.”
“Oh,” he said, straightening. “Well, then, I await your pleasure, Shodaim.”
She crossed to the plush couch off to the side of the room and sat. Then tapped the space beside her. “Come. Sit.”
Confusion danced across Maijun’s face, but he crossed the length of the room without hesitation. When he sat, she leaned into him and rested her head on his bare chest. He stiffened, unsure of what to do with the sudden intimacy, then slowly placed an arm around her.
He was sweaty and stank of his long hours of training, but she settled into him all the same, listening to the thunder of his racing heart. A fresh wave of regret flooded her at his reaction, along with the weight of Vaize’s words. For the first time, Daia wished she had listened sooner. And also, for the first time, the flutter of her own heart in response sent a wave of peace over her spirit. Maijun had calmed her, mentally and spiritually. She soon drifted to sleep.
And then she flinched and sat bolt upright as the presence of another jolted her awake. Maijun had reacted too fast to have been asleep as well, drawing her in closer to him.
The time had come. She knew it with cold certainty.
She stood. “Prepare yourself.”
He frowned. “Prepare myself? Prepare for what?”
She sighed. “Death.”
He gasped, but she had already turned away, walked from the couch, and stood beside the open window on the far side of the room. The full moon that shone its pale light into the room was large and bright in the clear night. It was a beautiful night.
There was no raging storm that would strike down the clan. The ground didn’t suddenly erupt into violent quakes. The Avatar herself had not descended upon them. There was nothing but silence.
She frowned at that. Her estate was never utterly silent. She looked out at the perimeter wall and saw none of her warriors standing guard. She leaned farther out of the window, to the grounds around the perimeter where her warriors normally patrolled. They were gone.
A cold wave of fear washed over her. She spun back around. “Maijun, you must flee…”
Her words trailed off as Maijun was no longer in the room. Where he had been seated, there was nothing but a wide circle of blood that looked black in the moonlight. She brought one hand to her mouth…and then the other to her aching chest. “How?”
Her shadow stretched and elongated before her, and then a figure in black rose into the pale light of the moon. The man wore a red mask streaked with black. A gaping maw held jagged fangs that protruded from where the mouth would be, and a pair of long horns curved up from the mask’s forehead. A shock of wild hair framed the mask like a white mane.
Daia’s eyes drifted down to the long black sword sheathed at his waist and her breath caught. “So…it will be you.”
He tilted his head to the side. “You know me then, Shodaim of the Rei’den?”
In answer, Daia flooded her pathway and unveiled her technique with the full strength of her ocean of essence. The Tethered Fate was her sole technique. But it was a technique powerful enough to be believed unbeatable by most.
Time slowed to a halt, and the world took on the desaturated haze of the ethereal plane. A thick phantom cord that was her rope of fate surged forth from just beneath her navel in a vibrant jade glow. An instant later, the stranger’s ethereal cord surged from him to meet hers, and she gasped. It was not the pure white ethereal rope she had expected, but instead a cord of crimson that glowed so luminous it cast the entire ethereal plane blood red.
After all this time, she now understood the nature of the calamity. It was a rival clan. More specifically, it was the Okaji, one of the great clans.
A mix of fury and indignation washed over her in rising waves that redoubled again and again until her spirit trembled within her frozen body. With cold certainty, she now understood the one path she could have taken to avoid this night. Had she suggested Vaize glimpse the thread of the clan’s fate should she had chosen to breach a generation-old peace treaty amongst the clans to wage open war against the Okaji, she could have avoided this end. No, she realized with a quake of her spirit; the aversion of this fate would have been a certainty. None of the clans could stand against the dominance of her technique when applied to large-scale battle tactics, maneuvers, and engagements.
She felt like a fool. The solution was so obvious, she couldn’t understand how she couldn’t think to suggest it sooner. A lifetime of peace made her complacent. She had believed in her very spirit that the disaster that would befall her clan would be some disaster of nature.
With a flick of her spiritual awareness, she sent a green-tinged projection of her spirit from her body toward the Okaji warrior. The ethereal projection was a ghost image of her body that moved as if running at a full sprint. For a long moment, nothing happened as the Okaji warrior stood unmoving, watching as her projection closed. When it crossed the halfway point of the distance between them, a red-tinged projection of the man flowed forward from his massive body, drawing a spiritual representation of the sword at his waist and thrusting toward the center of her chest. Both projections froze the moment the sword contacted her flesh, and their ropes of red and green intertwined fate thinned.
Without delay, she sent a projection off to the side in a sprint toward Maijun’s discarded sword. Her ghost projection managed only a single stride before the projection of the Okaji warrior lunged forward and stepped into the shadow at his own feet as if falling into a hole. He stepped from a shadow on the wall as if coming in through an open doorway with his ethereal sword swinging toward her neck. And then a second frozen projection joined the first, and their rope of intertwined fate thinned by a considerable portion.
Next, she sent projections in multiple directions at once. One racing toward the door, another leaping out the open window behind her, one diving onto the bed, a few out in diagonal angles toward the Okaji for even the chance at a stroke of luck.
One by one, each of her spiritual projections came to an end with the Okaji’s blade stopping on her throat. And one by one, their intertwined ropes of fate thinned. The last branch of fate to dim was the one she had sent out of the window behind her. That last death brought the connection of their linked fate down to a thin thread.
When she had at last projected a ghost image to remain standing and try talking with the Okaji, the last thread of their ethereal connection was fully severed. She didn’t immediately see what had severed the final thread until she saw the tip of the glowing ethereal sword frozen at the edge of her periphery, resting in line with the side of her neck. He would come up from behind her that last time.
Out of options, her control collapsed, and all the projections disappeared in a blink. When the crimson cast of the room slowly shifted back to the pale light of the full moon, she knew she had fully returned to the physical world.
Daia sneered, then rushed forward. Three strides, and then the Okaji ran his sword straight through her chest.
Even knowing it would happen, the speed and power of the technique were shocking. She was powerless to stop it.
The Okaji ripped his blade free and sheathed it, leaving her to stagger back and crash into the wall behind her. She tried to maintain her footing, but her body was already growing too weak to support her weight. She sagged against the wall, eyes wide in shock, then coughed a spray of blood that splattered audibly against the floor. She thought it an odd thing to take note of as she slid to a seated position, her limbs suddenly too heavy to move.
She had meant to lift her head to glare into the eyes of her clan’s killer as a final act of defiance before she died, but the effort was far greater than she had expected. She managed it after summoning most of her remaining strength, but her head fell back to stare up into the darkened ceiling.
Darkness closed in on her vision, and then the demonic visage stepped into her view. The Okaji man spoke, and even through the fog that clouded her mind, she could hear the unease in his voice.
“I have killed every warrior of your house; I want you to know that. With your death, the Rei’den pathway is mine. You were but the first.”
End of exclusive content
A Path of Vengeance
Chapter One
Soljen ducked beneath the wooden practice sword, and in that moment, he knew the contest was over.
It had been an easier fight than he had feared, considering his nerves were so frayed his bowels had turned to water the entire day. He had tossed and turned half the night and made it through the morning training session on adrenaline alone. And when he finally arrived at the training hall just after dawn, the wait was the longest six bells of his life as he counted down the time until he would surprise everyone and challenge Hom, the best student in the academy.
The fight unfolded as expected, with Soljen exhibiting a level of patience that, up until the moment the fight commenced, he wasn’t sure he could manage. But a sense of calm had washed over him the instant the white sash fluttered toward the wooden floor. The instant the sash made contact, Hom rushed at him with all the aggression the older boy was known for.
That ferocious start had made quick work of every other boy at the academy. It was terrifying but anticipated. The predictability of the attack is what Soljen used against him, just as Master Boribun had drilled into his pupils. To make matters worse for Hom, the larger boy had telegraphed his first strike, relying solely on his overwhelming strength and speed.
One technique…
Soljen easily parried the strike, then pivoted around Hom to create an angle that forced the larger boy to lurch around to keep Soljen in front of him. In doing so, Hom became unbalanced and sought to compensate by swinging a panicked backhanded strike toward Soljen’s neck, which Soljen ducked.
Two techniques…
The fight unfolded as if in slow motion. Soljen could see everything. Process every movement. He recalled one of Master Boribun’s favored expressions. Even if at a physical disadvantage, the fighter who controls the terrain of combat, dictates the pace of combat, and commands the time and place of engagement should be favored in victory.
In one of those rare flashes of insight, Soljen found he understood the master’s meaning on a deeper level. In truth, he felt he better gleaned the wisdom from the master’s words with every contest.
As the boy’s weapon whipped over Soljen’s head, close enough to feel the wind traveling in the weapon’s wake, Soljen brought his wooden sword up, first thrusting hard into Hom’s exposed ribs, and then dragging around the length of his waist.
Three techniques, and the contest was over.
Soljen exhaled as he straightened, lowering his sword. In victory, Soljen had earned the position he had coveted most ever since the master first allowed him to train: First Pupil.
Soljen stepped back with a satisfied smile that was equal parts pride and relief. He watched Hom clutch at his side and struggle to catch the breath the practice sword drove from his lungs on impact.
Everything about the fight happened exactly as he’d envisioned, right down to the honorable finish. Soljen had eased off just enough to ensure Hom suffered no damage, other than some possible bruising from the initial point of impact. Had he used more force, the lacquered wooden weapon could have cracked a rib. And of course, had they used real swords, Soljen’s technique would have delivered a mortal wound.
Soljen glanced around at the faces of the assembled students, and his smile widened at the looks on their faces. He bowed to Hom but didn’t bother looking his way. As such, he didn’t see the fury blazing behind the larger boy’s gaze and was caught completely off guard when Hom exploded forward, bringing his practice sword around in a vicious swing aimed at the side of Soljen’s head.
It was too late; Soljen knew this even as his body reacted on instinct, stepping back into a defensive stance and bringing his practice sword up to meet the closing weapon in a vain attempt to block it.
“Enough!”
The voice boomed throughout the crowded hall, echoing off the polished wooden floor and high ceiling. Hom froze, his sword inches from Soljen’s temple. The larger boy’s rage was gone. In its place, Soljen saw a mix of shame and fear. Hom flushed, stiffened, then lurched over at the waist to execute an awkward bow.
Soljen stared at Hom in open disbelief. Fighting, even in duels of this nature, often brought out a bloodlust poisonous to the warrior’s spirit. It was why Master Boribun had spent so much time drilling the importance of fighting with a purity of essence. Such an attack was unthinkable, not simply because of his excellence with the sword either, but because their friendship went beyond petty placement at the academy, or so Soljen had thought.
“Attend me,” Master Boribun said, his voice hard but even in the silence of the hall.
The look Hom offered said more than any verbal apology could, but Soljen only glared in return before turning to face Master Boribun. Soljen saw the tremble in the boy’s posture, and that sliver of vulnerability took the edge off his anger. As Master Boribun taught, the only thing worse than defeat is dishonor. There was a very real possibility that Hom had just gotten himself expelled from the academy. That possibility was sobering because they were friends.
Soljen snapped his heels together and straightened, rigid as a board, then executed a crisp right-face, so clean the fabric of his loose robes snapped as he settled in place. Chin high, chest out, Soljen waited, eyes locked on Master Boribun, who sat cross-legged at the head of the spacious hall, well away from the clustered boys.
“Hom…” Master Boribun’s voice was barely louder than a whisper, yet carried the full length of the long, dimly lit hall. Every boy hung on the master’s words, bracing themselves for what promised to be the full display of his wrath. “You fought well.”
What? Soljen blinked, equally shocked at both the master’s words and the softness of his tone.
Master Boribun cut a brief glance at Soljen, just long enough to communicate, well, something, and then turned his attention back to Hom.
“T-thank you, Master Boribun,” Hom whispered, struggling to hold back his emotion.
Master Boribun nodded. “Passion and desire clouded your judgment, made you predictable, and thus easy to counter. Yours was an error common in the strong, the assertive—a leader. Experience will temper your emotions and give focus to your pride.” He offered a single stiff nod. “Rejoin your brothers.”
Trembling, Hom nodded and turned toward the rear of the hall.
“No,” Master Boribun called, stopping the boy mid-stride. When Hom turned back and met Master Boribun’s eye, the master gestured to the head of the room.
Hom stiffened, then glanced at Soljen with a look of stunned disbelief before silently walking back to the spot the boy had occupied since the very first day Soljen had begun training.
That position at the front of the room was for The Second, a position reserved for the top student. Soljen had just defeated Hom without dispute. By right, that title had just been usurped. And Hom, having just suffered the academy’s most recent defeat, should fall to the bottom of the class ranking. Or at least, that was how things should have been.
“Soljen!” Master Boribun’s voice boomed throughout the hall.
Soljen’s head snapped up and held the master’s eyes. Trying and failing to blink back tears of anger, fear, and confusion. He cleared his throat and bowed. “Yes, Master Bori—”
“I will give you one chance, boy. Explain your failure.”
“I… Master Boribun.” Soljen cleared his throat again. “I don’t understand, Master Boribun.”
Master Boribun sucked in a deep breath, his body swelling as if inflated. He held the air a moment, then forced it back out through his nose. Now trembling with barely constrained rage, Master Boribun’s voice was frigid. “And that is your response. You do not understand?”
Soljen breathed, forced his posture erect, and tilted his chin higher. He knew the signs. There was nothing that could be said that would help his situation. At best, he hoped to not somehow make his situation any worse by putting his foot deeper into his mouth.
“You can fool the other students, boy, but you cannot fool me. Your technique was impeccable. Your every decision was well executed, well thought out.” He tapped a finger on the side of his head. “Spirits, I saw the calculations firing after Hom’s every movement.”
Soljen’s frown deepened, no closer to understanding his failure.
Master Boribun slapped a hand down to the polished wooden floor and leapt to his feet. Soljen took an instinctive step back as the master marched toward him.
A collective gasp spread through the room from the suddenly nervous students, who all flinched away like a singular mass.
And then Master Boribun stood before Soljen. He snatched the practice sword from Soljen’s hand, then brought the flat side of the wooden blade across his cheek in a stinging slap so quickly the sword was back down to his side before Soljen had registered what had happened. “Never allow yourself to be disarmed.”
Soljen staggered back a step, holding the side of his face. He bowed low. “Yes, master. I’m sor—”
Another blow landed, this time to the top of Soljen’s head so hard the tie holding his hair came loose, dropping his curtain of hair down the length of his face. Soljen staggered away, his other hand now rubbing the top of his head.
“Protect yourself at all times. I’ve drilled that since the first day you walked into this hall. Until you are certain the threat is neutralized, you must always remain prepared…remain vigilant. That was perhaps your biggest failure during your contest with Hom, and you nearly paid for it dearly.” He leveled a finger at Soljen. “Next time, I will let you reap what your stupidity has earned.”
Master Boribun’s outstretched hand whipped down to point at something off to the side. Soljen eased his gaze in the direction the master pointed, careful to remain aware of any sudden attacks.
The master pointed at Hom’s discarded practice sword. Soljen’s eyes widened as realization struck. He hesitated for a long moment, then gulped down his fear, walked over to the weapon, and took it up in his sweaty hands.
Master Boribun stood tall, chin high, posture erect, sword held out in a perfectly balanced position. Soljen breathed deep, trying once again to steady his nerves, realizing the moment for what it was—the opportunity he’d hoped for since the first day he had finally been allowed inside the hall to begin training. He could finally impress his—
“Even now, after hearing my words, I can see you are thinking. What’s worse, judging from the distracted look in your eye, you aren’t even thinking about the challenge before you.” Master Boribun stalked forward, slow and determined, without timidity.
Soljen shuffled back, eyes dancing around Master Boribun’s body, picking up every minute detail he could glean from the master’s movements: the shift in weight with each step, the subtle increase in speed as he advanced, the gradually increasing tension in his grip that signaled a pending attack—or feint. Or perhaps that was precisely what the master wanted him to think.
Master Boribun struck in an explosion of movement that closed the distance in a blink. A quick succession of well-mixed strikes saw three attacks aimed at Soljen’s head, punctuated by a spinning backhanded slash that would have landed flush on his ribs. The first two swings were obvious feints; Soljen hadn’t even bothered reacting to them. He ducked the final strike, letting the weapon pass just over his head. A quick step to the side allowed Soljen to bring his own weapon up to meet the final attack toward his side with a deafening crack that sent a jolt of pain up his arms.
There was a fleeting opening, but by the time Soljen moved to capitalize on it, the master had calmly stepped outside of range.
A chorus of gasps and mumbles spread throughout the hall. No pupil had ever blocked one of the master’s attacks. It was enough to bring an uncontrollable smile to Soljen’s face—that lasted only until Master Boribun frowned and shook his head. Somehow, Soljen had failed again.
“Pathetic. This contest should be over now. You knew my first two attacks were short, yet you didn’t make me pay for it. Outside of this training hall, that is the difference between victory and death!”
Master Boribun exploded forward again, faster and stronger this time. Before Soljen had a chance to process what was happening, he had somehow blocked three powerful blows from the sword master that he never mentally registered, each coming in rapid succession. The hall rang with the sound of wood on wood.
There was an expectant pause, as if Soljen was supposed to glean something from that exchange. Master Boribun’s frown deepened, then he pressed the attack, increasing both speed and intensity once again. Two blows struck his shoulder and opposite arm in rapid succession, hard enough to leave a bruise. As the pain blossomed in his awareness, overwhelming his senses, a third strike was already arcing straight down toward the center of his forehead.
Soljen raised his sword to meet it. The impact pierced the air with a deafening crack that splintered both weapons and sent a jolt of pain shooting through his body that numbed his wrists. Soljen gasped, eyes wide as he looked down at the ruin that was both weapons held between them.
Pain exploded in the side of Soljen’s face as the master caught him with a backhand he didn’t see coming until just before impact. The world pitched to the side, but he only realized he was falling when the master grabbed two hands full of his robe collar and hauled him back upright, into an oncoming knee that landed flush to his liver and brought the world back into focus with crippling pain. Soljen’s knees collapsed, but the master held his limp body upright.
He glared at Soljen, his hands still clutched tight to Soljen’s collar. Master Boribun spun, drove his hips into Soljen’s, then whipped Soljen over his shoulder. The ground rushed to meet him with a thunderous impact that left Soljen struggling for air. For an agonizing moment, Soljen’s body would not respond to draw in a breath.
Devoid of emotion, Master Boribun frowned and lifted a foot above Soljen’s face.
Finally, Soljen’s breath came, and he shot up an arm. “Father, please…”
Master Boribun froze. The anger on his face turned to a mix of disgust and disappointment as he lowered his foot. “Here in this hall, boy. I am Master Boribun. You are no different from any other student in my charge. Forget again, and I will strip you of weapon and station, then permanently expel you. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Master Boribun tossed the ruined weapon he still somehow held in his hand down atop Soljen. “This is what happens when you hesitate, when you overthink. You defeated Hom in three techniques; it should have taken one. I should never have made contact with your sword, let alone had an opportunity to leave you like…this. Do not think you won any contest this day. In the real world, Hom would have killed you. I would have killed you. Fighting is here.” He pointed to his chest. “Not here.” he touched his head.
Before Soljen could respond, Master Boribun turned and walked back to the head of the room, leaving him to struggle back to his feet on weakened legs.
Shocked and confused, Soljen looked around and found himself alone in the center of the room, with ninety-nine sets of eyes actively avoiding his gaze. The silence that stretched through the room was deafening, with only his heaving breath and the soft footfalls of Master Boribun filling the void.
“Students!” Master Boribun’s voice jolted the boys, regaining their attention in an instant. “Fall in! We have work to do.”
“Yes, sir!” came the shout of every boy in unison. None moved, but the tension filled the room as they all stood coiled, awaiting Master Boribun’s command of execution.
Master Boribun’s eyes slid to Soljen. “Collect your trash and take your new position…at the rear of the hall.”
Devastated was the only word that came close to describing what Soljen felt. He’d seen his father break students. Those left on their own accord. Master Boribun had never outright cast anyone out. Would he truly be the first? In every instance where his father had caused a student to leave, Soljen had felt the treatment was deserved, earned even. The academy had neither time nor compassion for students that lacked discipline, passion, or the base-level skills required to protect themselves or a fellow student—and rightfully so. There were countless children and adults who would pay any price for training with the greatest swordsman in all of Sai’ja.
No! Soljen was not such a student. He was better than any other student by a decent margin. He could have challenged and defeated Hom months ago, but he wanted to be absolutely sure of victory before initiating the challenge. He was the best the academy had to offer. And still, it had become painfully clear that his father sought to break him.
Soljen shook his head. No. He would not quit. He climbed back to a knee, collected what was left of the practice swords, then shot back to his feet.
Master Boribun had watched Soljen with an iron gaze. When he regained his feet, the master tore his eyes from him and scanned the rest of the room. Finally, the master gave the command all in the hall awaited. “Execute!”
The room snapped into motion as students rushed to their given spots. Chin high, Soljen sprinted to the rear of the hall and took his position at the end of the last row of pupils. He held his splintered weapon out at the ready.
In moments, the students were in perfectly spaced rows of five running the full length of the room.
Master Boribun waited until the last student settled, which of course was Soljen himself, and then walked to the wall near the front entrance where the weapon racks were arranged. He passed the mostly empty rack that was reserved for the wooden practice swords the students wore at all times in the hall and stopped in front of the next shorter rack. There, a long row of identical straight swords glistened in the reflective light coming in through the open doorway. Master Boribun selected the first from the rack and walked back to the head of the room to stand perfectly centered on the first row of students.
Soljen stole one last look at the weapon area, focusing on the single sword that hung alone above the others on the wall. It was his father’s legendary weapon, the true sword named Harmony. Passed down through the generations, his family possessed the sword for over five hundred years. That sword was what he worked tirelessly for. He would do all he can to keep that sword in his family for another generation.
But earning the honor to wield the weapon seemed more out of reach now than at any point he could remember. His father made it a point to emphasize the unbroken line of possession through the Itaku line over the generations. Of course, he had also put more emphasis on the reality that the sword will go to the strongest warrior, even if it was a disciple he had to adopt.
Through succession or defeat, boy, the sword will always find the strongest warrior…
Soljen’s eyes snapped forward, ready for Master Boribun to finish the long day’s training. And so, the master did, spending another three bells drilling forms and stances.
By the time class ended and the students staggered out of the training hall, Soljen had recovered much of his morale. No, he wasn’t close to feeling any better about the colossal failure that was the entirety of the day, but the hard training session helped reset his mentality and strengthen his resolve to climb back.
The procession of students flowing back into the village was slow and silent, each having given all they had. As he did each day after practice, Soljen stole one last glance over his shoulder to be sure his father had not exited the hall immediately. He never did, and this day was no different. But this was the first time relief washed over Soljen at the confirmation. And then Soljen broke from the press of students and went the opposite direction.
Being the very last student out of the hall, slipping away from the press without notice was easy enough. The training hall sat alone at the farthest edge of Taen village. In less than fifty paces, Soljen had crossed into the dense foliage of the surrounding forest.
Chapter Two
The dense forest that surrounded Taen village was alive with the songs of birds, the buzzing of insects, and the rustling of leaves that whipped around from the warm winds cutting through the thick canopy overhead. It wasn’t long into Soljen’s wandering before the sting of the day’s failure faded from his memory and he settled into the natural surroundings.
On this day, Soljen walked without giving much thought to his destination. But that didn’t matter. It was the same journey through the woods each day. Before he realized it, he found himself at the same place he went after every training session, as if his body moved of its own accord. It was the small clearing nestled amid the dense foliage and trees.
Soljen stopped at the edge of the water bank and sat back against a moss-covered tree. He absently dipped his hand into the cool water.
“Did you forget about me?” a soft voice called out to him.
“Of course not, Neja.” Soljen turned to watch her step out into the clearing. He greeted her with as warm a smile as he could muster. “I didn’t want to be bothered for a little while, that’s all.”
Neja laughed, then shrugged the bundle she had slung over her shoulder to the ground. It was the heavy roll of the thick parchment she used for practicing her lettering with their mother while he trained the sword with their father.
“Whew!” Neja wiped her brow with the back of her sleeve. She wore the simple white and gray robes of the village calligraphers. She walked toward the stream, pulling the pins from her hair as she crossed the short grassy field to let it tumble down her back in a single black curtain, then crouched and began cleaning the residual ink from her fingers. Her brows creased as she looked over her shoulder at Soljen. “Father sure was in rare form today, Soljen.”
Rolling his eyes, Soljen settled back into the tree. “Shouldn’t you have been studying? If Father were to catch you watching—”
“Oh please,” she said, shaking her hands dry. “You know Father doesn’t pay attention to anything that goes on outside of that building when he’s with his students.” She sighed. “Besides, Mother noticing me is the real worry.” She shook her head. “I’m jealous; you get to spend every day with him. Training and fighting and having…well…fun.”
Soljen huffed. “Don’t be. He treats me worse than the others, by far. Don’t get me wrong, I never expected an advantage, being his son.” He shook his head. “But this…is just…I just don’t get it.”
“I know,” Neja said, walking back over to the bundle she had dropped. She squatted and shuffled through the dozen or so sheets of rolled paper until she found what she sought. She pulled free a thick roll secured together by a hempen rope and unrolled the thick paper to reveal a pair of wooden practice swords. “But at least you get to train.”
“Trust me, Neja. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”
Neja’s face hardened. “Says the boy who’s had the privilege of training with the best swordsman in the world every day.”
“You wouldn’t be able to handle it, Neja.”
Her brows rose in surprise and an indignant look flashed across her face. “I’m older than you.”
“By less than a bell.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it does.”
Neja tossed one of the practice swords into the dirt at his feet and stood, tears welling in her eyes as she placed her hands on her hips. “Is that what you feel, Soljen?”
Soljen tried to hold on to his anger, but he couldn’t, not with Neja. He sighed and shook his head. “No. Of course not.”
Her stance softened slightly, and she walked over and sat under the tree beside him, staring up at the mountain in the distance.
The silence stretched for a good while. For Soljen, the time was enough to temper his emotion, but Neja was different. He could sense his sister smoldering, her anger rising. He nudged her with an elbow. “Come on, let it go, Neja.”
“I did,” she said, her voice short and sharp. There was another moment of silence, and then she giggled despite herself.
Smiling, Soljen turned back to the view of the mountain range off in the distance. “You know Father would train you if Mother would let him.”
“Yeah, well, it’s all the same to me. I just want to train, Soljen. I want to be just like Father.” She grabbed the stick she had tossed at Soljen’s feet and hopped off the ground, into a balanced stance.
“Widen your stance a hair.”
She made the adjustment.
Soljen shook his head. “No, your back leg. And shift your weight. In the balanced stance, your weight must be evenly distributed.” He nodded as she made the adjustments. “There. You feel the difference?”
Neja nodded and tossed a stray lock of her hair over her shoulder. “I’ll be just like Father. In fact, I’m going to win sixty-five consecutive duels.”
Soljen cocked a smile. “So you’re going to surpass Father?”
Neja shrugged. “Sure. And then I might enlist in the Sai’jan guard.”
Brows raised, Soljen crossed his arms. “Well, this is new. Now you want to be a soldier?”
“Why not?” Neja shrugged. “Well, maybe for a little. But when I get bored, I’ll leave.”
“I don’t think it works that way.”
“It does in my imagination, Soljen. Then I’ll hunt down and challenge an oni.”
Soljen stiffened, the hairs at the back of his neck standing on end. Suddenly, the silence of the forest felt a little too close, the warm breeze chilling him enough to prickle his skin. “Do not invoke—”
Neja laughed. “Come on, Soljen. Don’t tell me you’re still afraid of those old stories.”
Soljen waved a hand and rose to his feet, taking up the practice sword at his feet. “Come on. Best we don’t waste more time sitting around.”
She took a few tentative swings and then nodded.
As always, Soljen first took time to drill the new techniques he learned that day, over and over, trying to remember the specifics of his father’s words, and remember his every correction, no matter how hard the lesson had been delivered. And as always, Neja watched and listened in complete silence at a distance just far enough to give him the room he needed to maneuver, but close enough to scrutinize each movement.
After a time, she followed along, slowly at first. As always, once they grew comfortable, they began experimenting with variations of their father’s technique, seeing how far they could push and twist the movements. This was where they both had the most fun.
After more than a bell of drilling, Soljen turned to Neja and nodded. Then, with no hesitation, Neja lunged forward, swinging her weapon hard toward his head. Soljen checked the attack, saw an opening, and lunged, but the point of his sword passed just out of reach as she gracefully spun away.
A soft whack landed across the flat of his back, marking first blood. Soljen spun around, a wide grin on his face as he saw Neja skipping away, practice sword lowered.
Soljen shook his head. “Oh no. This isn’t over yet.”
“Oh yes, it is, and you know it. That was a mortal strike.”
“Was not!”
“Oh yes, it was.”
“Fine,” Soljen said, stalking forward, his weapon raised before him. “Best two out of three.”
Neja backed away, laughing so hard she nearly stumbled over a root. “You’re just a sore loser.”
“You want a tainted victory, then. I wasn’t prepared.”
“Not prepared?! I thought Father just beat that lesson into y—”
Soljen rushed forward at a full sprint. Neja squealed, spun around, and bolted. Just like that, the chase was on. Neja had always been the faster twin, but as his body had begun its change, growing taller and stronger, he became steadily faster. If it were a matter of pure speed alone, he thought he might have surpassed her by now. But in the dense forest, her agility more than made up the difference between the two.
Neja was like a hare, zigzagging between the thin, ashen birch trees. Soljen was hard on her heels, stride for stride, and was closing in as the forest sped past. Just as he stretched to tag her with his stick, she juked to the right and he slid at an awkward angle before changing directions.
A root snagged his foot, and then he was tumbling. He didn’t fully process what had happened until he was flat on his back, staring up at the blue sky through the opening of trees. The pain came a moment later, shocking him up to a seated position. He tested the movement of his foot and found he could barely feel anything below his ankle. With the pain quickly fading, he supposed it wasn’t so bad.
“You okay, Soljen?” Neja asked between heaving breaths as she jogged back up to him.
“Yeah. I’m okay,” he said with a nod.
Carefully, he rolled onto his hands and knees, then slowly pushed himself back up to a standing position. Remaining perfectly still, he looked down at his foot, arms slightly extended for balance, and inspected his boot, expecting to see it throbbing and pulsating as it felt double the size. But no, no laces were bursting at the seams. “Nasty tumble there. Almost cracked my head good on that tree over there.” He thumbed in the direction of the offending tree as he stepped forward, then staggered to the side as fire shot up his leg. “Spirits above and below!” he hissed, scrambling awkwardly for that same tree.
Neja was there in an instant, ducking under his flailing arm and grunting as she hoisted him upright.
“I can manage,” Soljen said through gritted teeth.
“I’m sure you can,” she said, already turning them around back toward the clearing. “But I’m going to help you anyway. And I don’t want to hear anything about it.”
There was nothing to protest. Soljen needed the help.
They hadn’t gone far, but it took them longer than Soljen would have thought to make it back to his tree beside the stream. Neja lowered him as gently as she could before taking a seat beside him.
“We’ll need to get Bo to take a look at that.”
Soljen nodded. “Yeah. He’ll be busy preparing dinner by the time we make it back, so it will have to wait.”
“Or…,” Neja said, smiling. “If we head back now, we could probably make it back to him before he leaves out for the evening hunt.”
“Nice try, but you’re not getting out of holding up your end of the deal.”
Neja sighed and rolled her eyes as she climbed back to her feet, then walked over to where she had dropped the large, rolled parchments. “I really don’t know why you want to learn your characters.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No, I’m not.” Neja tucked the rolls under her arms and carried them over to Soljen, resting them on the ground between them. “Nothing is worse than kneeling in that room for hours while Mother drills characters from a language nobody uses anymore. Such a waste of time.”
“Plenty of people still speak Old Sai’jan. And even with all this fourth mandate garbage—”
Neja’s laugh stopped Soljen short. She lifted a hand and shook her head. “Sorry. It’s just…easy to tell you’ve been listening to Father for way too long. The Avatar’s fourth mandate is for the future of Sai’ja. Our push to modernization and the opening of our borders is what will usher us into the new golden age of prosperity.”
Soljen waved her off. “Whatever. I’ll leave those debates to Father and Mother. All I’m saying is, even with all these changes happening, just about everything is still written in traditional Old Sai’jan.”
She paused to consider his words, then shrugged as she spread the first parchment out before them and began readying the working surface.
Soljen sighed. “Glad you finally understand.”
She paused, the leather sleeve that housed the ink and pen only partially unwrapped. “Oh, I definitely do not understand. But if you’re going to force us to study, then we might as well get to work.” She made a shooing motion toward him. “Make some room.”
Without thinking, Soljen pulled his leg back and immediately regretted the motion as another jolt of pain shot up his ankle.
“We will have to do something about that.” She thought a moment, then tore a long strip of the thin fabric around the hem of her robes.
“That might not have been the best idea,” Soljen said, staring at her ruined clothing with open horror.
She shrugged. “Should still fall to around my shins. Maybe Mother won’t notice.”
“She’ll notice.”
Neja paused, then nodded. “Yeah, she will.”
It felt like an eternity of torture as Neja carefully wrapped his injured ankle over the soft sides of his boot, but when she cinched it down and tied it off, the pain transformed back into little more than a dull ache. He sighed and looked over Neja’s shoulder at the mountain range to the far east. Golden light lit the very tip of the highest peak.
“Alright,” he said, shifting his body around to scoot closer to the paper. “Well, if you’re risking Mother’s wrath and all, we should get to work. Would want to have broken my ankle—”
“Your ankle isn’t broken.”
“Well, it might be.”
“You’d be in more pain…probably.”
“It hurts pretty bad, though.”
She tapped the paper. “Spirits, I’d actually prefer studying these letters to your whining.”
“I’m not whining, just saying you have no idea if my leg is broken or not. I know what I feel. And, really, last time I checked, old man Gon hadn’t finally keeled over you and you hadn’t become the new village healer.”
“You finished?”
Soljen blinked, then shrugged. “Yes.”
She tapped the paper again. “Read.”
Soljen looked down at the exact spot she pointed to. He frowned. “Hmmm… This is a bit tougher.”
“Stop stalling, Soljen. Read.”
He worked it over a moment, then frowned, and read aloud from one character to the next down the column. “I am a large mouth of a great, hairy gorilla?”
Neja’s laugh erupted so suddenly, Soljen flinched. He wiped away the speckles of spittle that rained down on his face. Their eyes met a moment, and her laughter only intensified, until she fell backward, pounding the ground beside her.
“Really, Neja?”
Her laughter somehow intensified, her face becoming red as a summer beet. Wiping away tears with the back of one hand, she pushed herself back up to a seated position with the other. “Ok,” she began, but paused again as another wave of laughter threatened to overwhelm her.
Soljen waited patiently, expression flat, feeling the kindling of frustration in the pit of his belly turn to anger. When she finally calmed, Soljen was fuming.
Breath heaving, she waved him away, as if he was the one needing to stop, then nodded. “This was even better than I thought.”
“Are you going to help me or not? Because if not, I’ll happily limp back to the village on my own.”
“Okay,” she said, eyes still closed and a wide grin on her face. “First, read what is actually there. I wasn’t so specific with the type of animal.”
Soljen looked at the paper again, then nodded. “Ape.”
“Yes.”
He shook his head. “I am the mouth of an a—”
“No. The adjective is below the subject.” She paused, as if expecting a revelation from Soljen, but that didn’t come. She rolled her eyes. “It does not describe the hole of the ape’s top, but rather the ape’s—”
“Hey!” Soljen said, eyes snapping up to her with sudden realization. There was a moment of pause, then they both fell into a fit of laughter.
They were both wiping away tears by the time they recovered. The rest of the lesson sped past, with plenty more of Neja’s wit sprinkled in for entertainment. They hadn’t even gotten through the first full parchment before Neja called them to a stop.
Soljen frowned and looked up at the mountain. The yellow glow of the sun had only made it halfway down the mountain. “There’s still plenty of time.”
“Not on that broken ankle of yours.”
He sighed. “Yeah, I guess that’s a good point.”
She nodded. “Wait here. I’ll gather everything, then come and help you up. You carry the parchment and swords; I’ll help carry you.”
Soljen nodded. “Figure out a plan for what to tell Mother about that dress?”
“Not yet.” She shrugged. “But I’ll think of something.”
Chapter Three
It was good thinking on Neja’s part, leaving when they did. They made such a painfully slow progress that by the time they spotted the top of the tallest structure in the village—the rounded dome of the temple—it was already well past dark.
Drenched in sweat from the exertion of carrying Soljen’s weight, Neja looked terrible. Her clothing was shredded by the branches and rough brush. It would be impossible to hide from their mother.
Soljen tilted his head to Neja. “Hey, on the bright side—if ever there was such a thing as a bright side in the face of Mother’s fury—she surely won’t focus on that tear at the bottom of your robes at all.”
Neja laughed. “We’re going to get in so much trouble.”
“Oh yeah. Big time.”
They stepped into the clearing that marked the village boundary, and Soljen frowned.
Neja stiffened and came to a stop. She looked around. “Something isn’t right.”
“No,” Soljen said with a shake of his head. “Not right at all.”
“Where is everyone?”
Soljen nodded. “Good question. I’ve never seen the village empty.”
“Especially not at this time.”
“Not at any time.”
Neja nodded. “Yeah. Not at any time. Come on. Let’s get home.”
“Quickly.”
They passed the gardens that grew the village’s food; they were all deserted. Every home they passed was quiet, with no candlelight filtering out from within. Many doors of the modest dwellings were ajar, with what could be seen of the interior appearing as if all contents had been tossed about.
Near the village center, Neja’s head twitched. Soljen had heard it too, the almost imperceptible sound of rhythmic chanting, low and muffled. The sounds were coming from the direction of the temple.
“Spirits, what’s happened?” Neja whispered.
“Don’t sound so worried. You never know what kind of news it is.” Soljen thought his words were dung even as they left his mouth, but his instinct was always to ease his sister’s concern, even if she was right. Prayer assembly any time other than sunrise was always a bad thing: a death in the village, ill tidings from one of the neighboring villages. Occasionally, news from beyond the borders of Sai’ja.
Neja sighed. “You know this makes the mountain of crap we’re in even deeper.”
Soljen nodded. “Much, much deeper. Coming in late to a village prayer—”
“— with Mother and Father not being able to account for us for bells,” Neja completed his sentence.
Soljen sighed. “Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
“Well,” Soljen said, stopping.
Neja gave him a curious look.
Soljen shrugged. “Since we are this late anyway, we might as well just skip this prayer and get back to the house.” He could see the gears turning in her eyes as he continued. “We can quickly change and get cleaned up.”
Neja nodded. “Better to get in trouble for showing up late to prayer than to get in trouble for ruining my clothing, disobeying Mother and Father, and staying out past sundown.”
“And then still get in trouble for showing up late.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.” Soljen nodded. “Even if we miss prayer altogether, it’s still likely the best option.”
“Well, then, let’s hurry.”
Soljen gestured to his arm slung over her shoulder. “That’s up to you at this point.”
They took a wide path around the temple, but otherwise made for their home as quickly as possible. Flush with adrenaline, Soljen was able to support more of his own weight, making for a much better time.
Everything seemed as though it would line up perfectly. Soljen had once again saved their hides. Neja would owe him, as usual.
They rounded the corner and saw their mother standing in the open back doorway of their home, panting, with a look right at the edge of panic on her face.
Crap.
Soljen and Neja froze. Uncannily, his parents always somehow knew whenever either of them was up to something; their mother’s head snapped around to them. Soljen’s eyes locked on hers.
“Where have you two been?!” Their mother’s voice was as close to a shriek as Soljen ever heard from the otherwise soft-spoken woman. She turned and yelled over her shoulder into the house. “They’re here!”
A moment later, their father burst out the door. Soljen and Neja gasped in unison. Their father was bruised, his clothing speckled with blood. And, most alarming, he clutched the family sword, Harmony.
“Get over he—” His booming voice was cut short as he assessed Neja and Soljen. “Spirits above and below. Did they find you two?”
Soljen frowned, but it was Neja who responded. “What? Did who find us?”
Their father snarled his frustration and sprinted toward the two of them. He made it to them in just a few long strides and shouldered Neja aside, then shoved her toward the house hard enough to make her fall to the ground. He threw Soljen’s arm over his head and pointed out toward the house with his free hand. “Get to your mother, Neja. Right now.”
Neja glanced back one last time, meeting Soljen’s eyes, then bolted away. Their mother was gone, and Soljen could hear the sounds of items crashing about within their tiny home.
His father didn’t bother trying to drag Soljen along, and instead wrapped his hand tight around Soljen’s waist and straightened, lifting the boy from his feet. His father took off in a sprint, circling to the front of the squat wooden house.
Their wagon had been prepared, ready for immediate departure. His father lowered him beside the open bed in the back and gave him an appraising look.
“Are you hurt or injured?”
Soljen frowned, not knowing how to respond. “Well…my ankle hurts.”
Master Boribun narrowed his eyes. “Can you work your techniques, boy?”
Soljen hesitated, then nodded.
“Good,” his father said, shoving Harmony into his chest. “Put the weapon in the bed and secure the provisions I’ve left there. I’m going to get your mother and sister. Be finished by the time I get back.”
Soljen nodded, but his father had already turned away. After breathing through the most intense part of the pain, Soljen turned and lifted the sword over the rail of the wagon bed. He paused just before resting it on the wooden floor, the realization that he had never before held his father’s sword weighing heavy on his thoughts. But now wasn’t the time for that. His father had given him a task, and he meant to execute it to the standard of excellence expected within the training hall, hurt ankle or not.
Every step was agony, but Soljen climbed into the wagon bed and properly tied down all contents, which wasn’t much. Aside from Harmony and a few weapons, there were a few garments of clothing belonging to all four of them, his mother’s most cherished scrolls and parchments, some extra rope, some dried food, and a few blankets.
Soljen barely finished before his parents came rushing out the door with Neja hurrying a step behind. They were empty-handed, leaving Soljen confused as to what they were doing in there. But that was one of the countless confusing things that left a hardening knot in the pit of his stomach.
They arrived, and Soljen’s father wasted no time lifting Neja over his head and gently placing her down on the bench. Tears filled Neja’s eyes, and a touch of their father’s hand on her cheek brought them rolling down in twin streaks. His father wiped both tears with his thumbs and kissed her forehead, then turned to his wife. “Lamai, you will ride in the back with Neja on this journey.”
His mother stiffened. “I will do no such thing, husband. My place is by your side, in all matters.”
“In this, wife, there will be no debate.” He grabbed her by the waist, ignoring her attempts to swat him away, and lifted her into the carriage as easily as he did Neja.
“You are as stubborn as the day our marriage was arranged, Boribun. I will no—”
“Please,” Boribun cut in, his voice shockingly soft. “Now is not the time. For the protection of our family…of our children. Please. Soljen will sit up front.”
Lamai didn’t respond as she eased herself down to the bench, back straight, head looking out past Boribun.
Boribun watched her a moment longer, looking as if he meant to say more, then grunted and turned away, hurrying around to the front of the carriage.
Soljen met Neja’s gaze for a moment, then hobbled over the bed divider into the bench beside his father.
Boribun waited until he settled, then cracked the reins, urging the aging packhorses into motion. Before he knew it, they had left the village and were traveling the packed road, with the forest quickly closing in around them.
For nearly a bell, no one said a word amongst a blanket of tension thick enough to smother. Each time Soljen looked up and thought to say something—anything—to his father, the words failed him. As always, his father was calm and exuded control of the situation.
“Father,” Soljen finally said, his voice tentative. His father did not acknowledge him, but neither did he chasten him for breaking what was a mutual silence, so he continued, “What has happened?”
“Death has come to the village, son. We are no longer safe there. And the village is no longer safe if we stay.”
“I do not understand, Father.”
Boribun took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled. Back straight, eyes toward the dark road, he gripped the reins tighter. “No. You do not. But you will.”
“Please, husband,” Lamai said. “Best not speak in details until we have reached the sanctuary.”
Boribun’s jaw tightened as he gave a single stiff nod. “Of course, my love.” He glanced down at Soljen beside him. “There is much you will need to understand, much I will need to tell you, once we reach Sai’ja City.”
“Sai’ja City…” Soljen breathed, shaking his head, eyes wide. “We are to travel all that way…now? Tonight?” He shook his head. “Father, where will we sleep? How many days will that take?” Soljen thought back to the bundle of food he had secured in the back. It seemed an abundance at first, but now. “What will we eat?”
“Silence,” Lamai hissed, the impatience thick in her voice. “You speak with the recklessness of a child, Soljen.”
Soljen looked around in confusion. His mother was on the edge of panic, as if an enemy was hard on their heels. Yet there wasn’t a single rider on the straight stretch of road in front of or behind them. Spirits, Taen sees barely a visitor passing through the small village once per week, and most of those arrived with the sole, and ultimately fatal, goal of challenging his father. There wasn’t another soul on the road, but he dared not say as much to his mother.
After a full day of hard training, it wasn’t long before physical and emotional exhaustion set in. Soljen found his eyes getting too heavy to keep open, as if being lulled to sleep by the rocking motion of the carriage. His eyes closed and his chin dipped to his chest, and then he was thrown forward, slamming into the front rail, and nearly tumbling over the front between horses and cart.
Ignoring the pain in his ankle, Soljen threw himself back into the bench and whipped his head around, heart hammering from the sudden surge of adrenaline as he tried to make sense of what had happened. There was nothing but a darkened road ahead. No fallen trees or broken wagons barred the way. Sai’ja was known to have its share of banditry, especially on the roads leading to one of the five main cities. But there seemed to be no one there.
“Lamai,” Boribun called out, his voice echoing loudly into the darkness.
“Yes, husband?”
“Please, hand me Harmony.”
Soljen stiffened.
Everything was eerily silent, including the horses, as their ears flicked this way and that. That fear that Soljen had found some semblance of mastery over surged back to the front of his awareness. Even looking over at his father and the calm and controlled manner he casually rolled his sleeves and kneaded his palms—the preparation Soljen had watched countless times before a duel—did nothing to calm him.
Harmony’s polished wooded sheath slid into Soljen’s periphery over his shoulder, the hilt held out toward Boribun in Lamai’s trembling hands. Boribun looked at Soljen, and in his eyes Soljen saw, for the first time, something akin to the recognition in which a father regards a son. It was impossible to understand what all went through Boribun’s mind in that moment of connection, but Soljen felt it, and he needed it.
Boribun looked back at Neja and finally Lamai, his expression slightly changing each time. Without a word, he hopped down beside the wagon and strode forward, beyond the horses, out to the edge of the lamplight up the road. There he waited, sheathed sword held in a loose grip down by his side.
Posture rigid, Boribun called out into the night in a booming voice. “Let’s not play games. Reveal yourself.”
The sudden nervousness among the horses was the first sign of trouble. They stamped and tossed their heads this way and that and neighed with frantic energy. Twice they tried bolting away but were held fast by the harnesses, keeping them locked to the wagon.
And then the silhouette of a man…or demon, tall and lean, with a pair of long horns protruding from the blackness where his forehead should have been, rose from a shadow in the ground. At his waist was a massive sword reminiscent of the Sai’jan guard’s Katana, but easily a third longer and twice as thick. The weapon utterly dwarfed Harmony.
“Boribun…,” the demon-man said, his voice rumbling over Soljen like thunder.
“I knew the Okaji were not bound by honor,” Boribun said, raising the still sheathed Harmony to his waist and bringing his sword hand across his body to rest on the hilt, mirroring the ready stance as if he had the sword properly attached to his hip. “It is why I sought to take my family and flee, to spare them and the innocent villagers back in Taen.”
A grating hiss escaped the apparition. “The people of Taen will see no harm. Of that, you have my word.”
“What good is your word, demon? You now break your own code.”
“We have violated no code, Boribun.”
Boribun laughed. “Do you think you’re the first of the great clans—the first of the Okaji even—to try to assassinate me? I have been contracted five times, demon. I have killed a representative from most every clan, including your Okaji. If counting the duels forced upon me from your kind, I have known seventy-two victories.”
“Your legend grows still, truly worthy of the title Master and Sword of the West.”
“That number does not have to swell to seventy-three this day. Honor the tenants of the pact. Challenge me and die.” He shrugged. “No shame will come to your house when the full tale is told and the lasting message is of Harmony’s blade striking another final blow. But it will be an unnecessary death.”
“You misunderstand, Boribun,” the demon said. It stalked forward, hand still resting on the hilt of his giant sword. “There has been no contract for your head.”
Boribun remained silent as he held his ground. He did not retreat nor back down from the demon’s advance.
The demon walked just close enough for the torchlight to illuminate its body and give a full view of his form. He was no demon at all. He was a man wearing a mask painted in red and black that depicted the snarling visage of a demon, framed by a shock of wild black hair that encircled the mask like a great mane. A row of jagged fangs protruded outward from the mask’s gaping maw, adding a feral edge to the appearance. And of course, the twin ebon horns that curved upward from the forehead to a sharp point dominated the mask. The masked Okaji wore all black, from gloves to boots to linen, matching the massive sword at his hip.
“The Okaji that challenged you earlier,” the demonic man said, “did so for her own pride. I allowed her the chance to test your legend. She died honorably, and for that reason alone, I will give you one chance to come with us willingly. Do so and your family will see no harm.”
“Us?” Boribun asked, his voice uneasy.
In answer, a second shadow stepped from behind an ashen birch tree, shocking Soljen. Had it been there all along? Surely not, the tree’s trunk was not wide enough to conceal the bulk of even Neja, let alone the hulking form that stepped around. The newcomer was just on the outer edge of the lantern light, but Soljen just barely made out twin daggers held in each silhouetted hand.
Boribun shifted his stance, positioning himself in such a way as to keep both in his line of sight.
A third shadow emerged, this time standing from what was the grass and weeds just off to Soljen’s side of the carriage, well within the sphere of lantern light. Another half dozen rose, and soon it was clear that Soljen and his family were surrounded. None approached or spoke, except for the first that had revealed himself.
Boribun straightened, relaxing his hand. “So, this is the way of things this night.”
