Lord and Master of the Black Market Part 1-2

3 Years Prior

The cries of the wounded had not entirely abated as Azerie Ramses of Light, Supreme Justice, Lord of the Azerie, and Triumvir, marched through the carnage. He wore black like the Sentinels, but that was where the similarities ended. Thin, gold stripes adorned the cuffs of his sleeves. A patch with a blazing sun and the words Lord of the Sun written below it was stitched on the right shoulder. On the left were the Sentinels' emblem of scales and olive branches and the word Azerie above it. Tied around his waist was a gold sash with a sun embroidered on the end and holding the sash in place was a black pin of the Order’s stylized A. To ward off the winter’s chill, he wore a heavy black cloak that billowed behind him as he walked.

With two Sentinel Colonels flanking him, he was an impressive if not fearsome figure as he surveyed the damages. He was not happy. Sentinels and Black-Market criminals alike shied away from his ill-concealed fury.

The sprawling estate was a castle, with the classic soaring buttresses and its massive ironwood gates still in operation. Azerie Julian of Ice had splintered those gates to bits in the assault. The castle was long ago converted into a luxury resort by the first Auctioneer. Now, its ancient walls were reminded of the taste of blood and the screams of wounded men.

He stepped into the great conference hall. Chairs and tables were in disarray from the interrupted revelry. The stage at the back was burned from a fire that had broken out. Sentinels were running to and fro as they lined up prisoners along the wall, young men and women mostly. At the sight of him, their faces turned ashen. He walked down the line, his boots clicking ominously on the wood flooring. Few dared to meet his gaze. Some bowed their heads and pleaded for mercy.

A Sentinel approached. “Your Honor, Azerie Nexen has asked for your presence in the cellar.”

Ramses looked back down the line of Black-Market foot soldiers. “Get a medic in here. Some of these people are injured.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

He made his way through the cavernous halls down to the basement, which had been a luxurious saloon, and down a smaller flight of stairs to what might’ve been a dungeon when the castle was originally built. It was converted into storage, though its shelves were empty of whatever goods they once held. At the back of the room was an open door to a wine cellar.

Azerie Nexen of Night was just outside the cellar interrogating a young man. Nexen was smaller than most people realized, with the frame of an acrobat, dark eyes, and hair dyed jet black. He loomed over the felon like the specter of death itself.

“Please, Your Honor, I don’t know anything else!” the young man said between sobs.

“I’m a Night Azerie, boy. I know when men lie to me. Tell me who was the last one to enter this room.” The young man caught sight of Ramses, and his expression turned rigid with fear. Struck speechless, he did not answer Nexen’s question. The Night Azerie slapped him hard across the face. “Eyes on me! Who was the last one in this room!”

“I don’t know!”

Ramses placed a hand on Nexen’s shoulder, and his deputy backed off. Ramses regarded their prisoner. He looked no older than his early twenties, but there was a strength and toughness to his face that was not entirely smothered by his anxiety. “I am going to tell you what we know already. You will answer my questions to the best of your ability. My deputy here will know if you are lying. That is no Black-Market myth. Do you understand?”

He swallowed hard but nodded his understanding. A Sentinel brought him a chair, and Ramses sat down. “Fifty-two hours ago, the Order was tipped off to the auction taking place here by an unknown participant within the Black Market. They were highly placed, high enough to know the Auctioneer’s schedule. To test the waters, twelve Sentinels and Azerie Runon of Energy were sent as a reconnaissance team to pinpoint our targets and verify the information. Eleven hours ago, at nine-fifteen in the evening, the team was discovered and killed. Azerie Runon was tortured and dropped in this room,” he nodded to the wine cellar, “after his Essence was extracted. Shortly after midnight, the Auctioneer detached himself from the festivities and came down here to speak with Azerie Runon. Who, after the Auctioneer, set foot in this room?”

The young felon shook his head. “Please….”

Ramses sat forward, keenly aware Nexen was monitoring the prisoner’s mind with all the prowess of a master Night Azerie. “No one entered the room, did they.” The fleeting micro expression was so quick, Ramses wondered if it had been there at all. He looked back at Nexen, and the Night Azerie nodded confirmation. The Sentinels hauled the sobbing felon away.

Nexen grabbed the wine cellar’s door and slammed it shut. He marched up and down the length of the storage room at a furious pace. “The Auctioneer killed him,” he snapped. “He owes his existence to us!”

Ramses dropped his face in his hands in weariness and grief. He’d been awake for over twenty-four hours, and there was no sign that was about to change. His mind alone wouldn’t grant him rest. “The Auctioneer would never have harmed an Azerie. It goes against everything we know about him. We’re missing something here.”

Just then, Azerie Alexander and Azerie Julian descended the steps. Julian was limping from a wound on his left leg, and his uniform was splattered with blood that was not his own. His expression was stone-hard, and he cared not at all for the injuries he suffered. Alexander, like Ramses, had not fought in the raid itself and his uniform was unmarred. His auburn hair was messed from frequently running his hands though it, and his eyes that normally shone with good cheer burned with a cold fire.

“Avery didn’t make it,” Alexander said. “He’s dead.”

Ramses’ heart sank. They had jumped straight into the vipers’ pit unaware and grossly unprepared, and now two Azerie were dead among a hundred others. Worse, Avery was the last Earth Azerie in existence. Ever since the civil war fifty years ago, the Order walked the knife’s edge of extinction, and now that dark reality was upon them. God help us, this miscalculation will be our demise, he thought.

A long moment of silence elapsed before Nexen asked quietly, “What, exactly, have we walked away with?”

Julian withdrew his communicator and read off the report. “Three hundred and twenty-six prisoners in total. Nineteen are from the most wanted list. We have all of the lieutenants but for Rommel Prokov. The Auctioneer and Salikoth’s market lead are missing. No one has come forward claiming to be our informant. My guess is they died in the assault.”

Nexen swore violently. “All we have done was cut off the hydra’s head. Two Azerie are dead, and the Black Market is all but assured to rise from the ashes of this disaster with the Auctioneer stronger for it. He’s been given a clean slate! The infighting we’ve used to our advantage is gone! We—,” his voice broke, and he struggled to regain his composure.

Julian pocketed his communicator and said quietly, “We’ve lost.”

The pronouncement sent a chill down Ramses’ spine.

Alexander pinched the bridge of his nose. “Nexen, Julian, I want to speak with Ramses alone for a moment.” Ramses cast Alexander a questioning look, but his counterpart merely waited until the two deputies disappeared back upstairs. Alexander stared at the door to the cellar and his eyes glistened with unshed tears. “We’ve made a grave mistake. We were in no position to tackle the entire Black Market.”

“I know.”

“The fate of the Element of Earth is on your shoulders.” Ramses said nothing—he didn’t need to be told the obvious. It was another long moment before Alexander said, “We need to withdraw from active service. The Black Market is crippled. It will take the Auctioneer time to re-establish himself, and the Sentinels can oversee things in our absence. But we have to see to ourselves if the Order is going to survive.”

The thought of returning to Eldrin permanently was tantalizing. So much of his life was spent away from his palace it was his home in name only, not in practice. They could return to their country, their culture, and focus on rebuilding with the induction of new apprentices. He wanted an apprentice, he had for years. This idea was tossed around before, only before, their enemies were too numerous and too powerful for the Order to step away in good conscience. That was no longer the case.

“I agree,” Ramses said. “But there is more to this than meets the eye. The Auctioneer would never murder an Azerie. He is not the one who killed Runon.”

“I know you want to believe that, but the Black Market is a corrupting force even on the best of men.”

Alexander’s communicator vibrated and he checked the screen. The call was from Chief Director Ferrante. A sickening weight settled over Ramses at the thought of the court trials ahead of them and the public relations nightmare that would result. The other Triumvirs would support them, but he would bet his unused palace they would require at least he or Alexander to remain behind in active service.

Alexander denied the call. “They can wait until after we’ve razed this place to the ground.”

And they did. Once every Sentinel and Black-Market criminal were off the premise, the Order burned the castle to the ground and tore its walls to ruble. Ramses watched the billowing black smoke and the glow of the flames with a surreal sense of victory and defeat. A nagging thought lurked in the back of his mind. The Black-Market elite would face the gallows, all but the Auctioneer. Where was the Lord and Master of the Black Market?

**********************************************************************

Present Day

The rain of blows took every ounce of concentration to block, parry, and evade. With a flash of bright light, Ramses gave himself the moment he needed to disengage. He took several steps back, but Julian did not allow him to recover. The Ice Azerie flicked his free hand and razor-sharp ice shards whisked through the air for his chest. Ramses batted them aside with a gale of wind and retaliated with a whip of fire hot enough to singe the spongy tundra grass at their feet.

“Yield!” Julian cried.

Ramses backed away with his saber lowered. It was a close match. Had the Ice Azerie not called the halt, he would have. They were both breathing hard behind their helmets and, despite the pleasantly cool weather of Drakestone’s tundra, sweating beneath their armor. Julian wrenched off his helmet and sat down on a nearby rock in exhaustion. He reached in his coat pocket and pulled out a silver Essence case.

Ramses pulled off his helmet and sat down beside him, taking out his own case. Inside were one-ounce vials worth more than a year’s wages for the average household. One was of a deep magenta, another a grayish silver, and two of a rich gold as brilliant as the sun. The liquid moved like ink in water, and it edged on the spectrum of being a gas. It was Elemental Essence, the source of an Azerie’s power. There were downsides to it, just as with any power. Like a diabetic reliant on insulin injections, every Azerie was reliant on Essence to survive.

Julian produced a prepared syringe of Ice Essence and rolled up his left sleeve. “Been a while since I had to work that hard. I’ll be sore in the morning.”

Ramses prepared one of his own syringes. “Tell me about it. It’s been months since I had a proper dual.”

“You should practice with your Archmage, now that he knows who you are.”

Ramses stuck the needle in his upper arm. He would need more later. After such an intensive sparring session and so much of his supply being spent, he would need to adjust over the next couple days to get back to peak condition.

“McCrain would hold back.”

“Beat him and he won’t.”

Ramses had been furious with Agnus for telling McCrain, and even more so when McCrain nudged Otarion with the last few hints he needed to guess the truth. The Archmage King pointed out it was only a matter of time before the Sentinels got wise to his deception.

“They need to know who they’re protecting,” the king argued. “And they should know just what kind of hell will come down on their heads if they let one word slip about this operation.”

It was a valid point. Very soon, Ramses knew he would have to inform the unit of his identity. Some, such as Velds and her scouts, guessed long ago and he’d sworn them to secrecy. He suspected Sergeant Ironsi knew but had the good sense not to say anything. Otarion had been surprisingly slow on the uptake, but he got there in the end, and was the only one to test his theory with such boldness.

“Will you head back immediately?” Ramses asked.

“Yes, I want to get in a decent night’s rest before tomorrow. This entire week is back-to-back meetings, and I’ll probably need to sit in on a few court cases for Alexander.”

Ramses smiled to himself. He still wasn’t entirely used to the schedule of a Sentinel Major. Ironically, he had more free time each week than he ever had as an Azerie. Seventy-hour workweeks had been the rhythm of his life before taking on this operation.

“Speaking of meetings, I talked with Ferrante and Angus the other day. Apparently, the Assembly is talking about legalizing alcohol and gambling. The argument goes it would draw fewer people to the Black Market and minimize the Auctioneer’s power.”

Julian rolled his eyes. “Of course, it would, but that’s assuming we want to minimize his power at this time. Sometimes I wonder if they ever took basic economics in school.”

“Oh, the Directors understand. It’s their constituents who don’t.”

“What did Ferrante say?”

“He understands. Angus took the most mollifying. He understands the Auctioneer’s monopoly limits market activity, but he is convinced we can and should remove the Black Market as it is entirely. He’s not convinced the Auctioneer is someone to trust with so much power.”

Julian scoffed and set about peeling off his armor. “What does he think Salikoth was?”

“A disaster.”

“It was that too. Have you had any luck tracking down the Auctioneer?”

“Santos is preparing to return to the Factions. The minute I have him in custody, we can make headway. The poaching lieutenant will send agents to kill or rescue him. We apprehend the agents, and through them, threaten the poaching lieutenant. At that point, the Auctioneer will either intervene personally or contact us himself.”

“How do you plan to convince the Auctioneer you’re not attempting to arrest him?”

“By letting his lieutenant off the hook.”

Julian was silent a moment as he unbuckled his greaves. Of the Azerie in the Order, he was by far their best strategist and tactician. It was half the reason Alexander made him his deputy. “He won’t buy it,” he said finally. “The optimal choice in that scenario is to let the lieutenant go in return for apprehending the Auctioneer.”

“How would you do it?”

“Other than by force?” The Ice Azerie frowned as he considered the dilemma. “There are a couple of ways. I could intentionally leave myself vulnerable, weak enough the Auctioneer thought it was safe to expose himself. The other option is to use third parties. You could convince Lady Hur to act as your go-between.” Ramses couldn’t quite keep the discomfort from his face. Julian waved his fears aside. “She owes you her life. If she ended up in my courtroom, I would’ve seen her executed. Sorcerer Gamron is close to the Auctioneer. If we can establish a backdoor link between them, it’s your best chance of getting the Auctioneer to sit down with you.”

Ramses rubbed the back of his neck. He was not thrilled at the idea of working with Sorceress Lady Hur. It crossed his mind already that this was a potential avenue, but he wanted to limit how many people knew of his presence. Trusting a de facto courtesan from Angus’ court was not his idea of secure.

“I will run the idea past Angus,” he said.

Julian withdrew a storage gem from his pocket and the armor and weapons disappeared in purple smoke. “One way or another, you need to prepare your unit. They need to know what your intentions really are.”

Ramses stood. “Give the others my best.”

“I will. It’s not the same with everyone else on Eldrin except you. Nexen has done a great job running things in your absence, but deputies aren’t Azerie Lords. You should make time to come home, even if it’s just for a few days.”

A pang of homesickness came with the thought. “Maybe after I’ve met with the Auctioneer.”

“Take care, Ramses.”

They shook hands. Julian took a few steps away from their sparring ground, and in a flash of icy blue light, he vanished. If free time was the upside of this role as a Sentinel Major, the molasses travel times of portals were the downside. Azerie didn’t use Nether Currents. They teleported. Arguably, it was their greatest advantage over the Factions’ enemies. If the Auctioneer was constrained by travel time in a portal, sometimes as long as ten or twelve hours, Ramses could be there within seconds. The only constraint on him was the same constraint faced by everyone else. The no-travel zones.

Every city was protected by a barrier that prevented portals or teleportation. In some places, it extended over a hundred miles. It was why platforms existed. The concrete circles so carefully maintained and guarded by Archmages were free of the barrier, and technically he should’ve been able to just teleport to the Dark Harbor’s platform. Except, it would’ve been a dead giveaway to his identity. Instead, he had to either drive out from under the barrier or wait for nightfall and fly in and out under the cover of darkness. It was an extreme hassle compared to the mobility Azerie were supposed to have.

Ramses collected his own things and in a flash of golden light, disappeared from the autumn tundra. In the same breath, he reappeared in a thicket of pines. The twilight overhead was just enough to see by and just dark enough for his passage to go unnoticed. Ramses pulled out one of his storage gems and withdrew a silver glider, not unlike a surfboard in its design. With a gale of wind, he lifted into the sky and zipped over the tops of the pines as silent as the wind that carried him. The lights of Capolio were many miles away.

He did not particularly like the Dark Harbor. The terrain reminded him too much of his early childhood. At seven years old, he was inducted into the Order. He could still picture his mother’s indifference as he was taken away. All things considered, the Order saved him from further emotional abuse and poverty, but he and Alexander had zero intention of continuing the practice. Their apprentices, whenever they actually inducted any, would be thirteen or older. They would have a say in their fates; at least, in whether they wanted to be in the Order or not.

The Elements themselves selected their Azerie. Light chose him. The events of that day were hazy with the passage of so much time, but he still remembered the irreversible instant the Essence of Light fused with his blood. That same day, the legendary Azerie Theodore of Light, the man who would go on to lead the rebellion in the civil war with great success, appeared at the ward and took Ramses as his own.

It was a half-truth to say he was adopted by a Triumvir. Theodore was never fully recognized as an Azerie Lord, but after the devastation of the war and the Order’s cataclysmic failure at the Battle of the Frozen Plains, he and Alexander were both made heir apparent. The reason was simple. Alexander was heir by law. Ramses was heir by divine right.

The fact he could use more than one element was unique. Azerie were, by definition, specialists. It was in his name; Azerie Ramses of Light. But with the Order’s demise and the brink at which they stood, the Elements intervened and granted him special privilege. He was their hedge against total extinction, and their favor was seen by most as a stamp of approval to begin a new dynasty as Azerie Lord. He could have, and he might have, but for the immense respect and deep friendship he shared with his rival.

In the end, they agreed to both serve as Triumvirs. The Order remained split, just like their country, and until the day when a new Light Azerie apprentice was inducted and made their joint heir, this was how the Order would function.

Ramses skirted the city itself and adjusted his course to the citadel. He landed lightly on the outskirts of the gardens among a nest of pines, and the glider was returned to the storage gem. Ramses wove through the garden paths back to the unit’s barracks. A few Sentinels were sparring on the practice mats and called their greetings as he entered.

Ramses watched their matches for a few minutes. Every one of his twenty-six Sentinels were expert soldiers. He tested all of them when he took control of the unit, and over the last few months, was very pleased to see marked improvement in their abilities. Serin took a hit to the side and used the momentary opening to slash at Letrell’s head. Letrell only just ducked out of the way.

“Very good, both of you,” Ramses said. “Remember to be aware of the opponent’s armor, Letrell. The strike was good, but it would not have incapacitated anyone in mail.”

The Sentinels retook their stances.

Ramses climbed the stairs to the enlisted recreation room. Half the unit was lounged about either playing at the card table, reading, or chatting with their comrades. Helmar was in the corner tuning a guitar. At the sight of Ramses, the old doctor brightened. “Would you like to play a duet, sir?”

“You have a second guitar?”

“Cowen does. She’s getting it now.”

It was tempting. He hadn’t played music in months. Piano was his primary instrument, though guitar was a crucial second. The instrument was invented in Eldrin. “Let me wash up, and I’ll join you.”

He climbed the steps to the officers’ quarters. McCrain was seated in their little lounge with the radio turned low. He murmured a greeting but kept his attention on the parchment in front of him and the painstaking care of each stroke of the brush. Ramses watched over the Archmage’s shoulder. Magicians wrought their magic through runes and arcane pigments, directing the flow of energy through the spells they wrote. It was difficult work, and every added letter was another added layer of complexity.

“Sir, watching over my shoulder is not helping,” McCrain said softly.

“You spelled temperature wrong.”

The Archmage swore under his breath. Ramses clapped him on the shoulder in encouragement and ducked into his room. He stripped out of the armor and tossed his saber and knife on the bed. The hot shower was soothing to his bruised muscles. Julian had done a number on him in their sparring session, but it was to be expected. Four months without practicing his elemental skills was going to leave him bruised and sore.

He was pulling on a clean uniform when his communicator vibrated with a call from General Jericho. Ramses answered. “You know, you could just come down here. It’s a ten-minute walk from your office.”

“And it would give your already suspicious unit that much more to speculate on,” the general said. “Stackhouse got word from our field agents. Santos is preparing to move. He was visited by one of the Auctioneer’s people this afternoon. No positive ID on her yet, but there is a good chance she is a market lead.”

Ramses raised an eyebrow. The market leads were the Auctioneer’s personal representatives. If they could capture one of them, their job would be much easier. The Auctioneer would not stand for one of his own to be seated behind an interrogation table. “Can we tag her?”

“I was told they’re trying.”

“Do we have an idea of what world he’s planning to portal to next?”

“Stackhouse is attempting to narrow that down. His guess is they’ll making for Juvel. Blue-Bone Hawk eggs are free for the picking this time of year, and they’re worth their weight in gold on the Black Market.”

“That’s not saying much. They weigh almost nothing.”

“You get my point,” the general growled. “Santos will be a hard man to find once he’s in the wilds. If we’re going to take him, we have to do it quickly. Santos is currently holed up in Laska. We have a shorter distance to travel if he heads to Juvel. How quickly can your unit prep to leave?”

“I have them on standby. We could leave within half an hour.”

“Good, and one more thing. Otarion said you were gone all afternoon? I didn’t hear anything about you leaving the base.”

“I went to Drakestone to spar with Julian for a couple of hours.”

There was a long pause on the other end and when the general spoke again, there was a note of incredulity in his voice. “You hopped over to Drakestone on a lark to spar with Azerie Julian of Ice without telling anyone? God above, did it occur to you my neck would be on the chopping block if something happened to you out there? It’s bad enough you’re only keeping a unit of twenty-six for protection!”

“I am fully capable of defending myself, but you’re right. I should’ve told you. I’m sorry.”

Jericho exhaled loudly on the other end. “I will call you the moment Santos is en route."

“Thank you.”

He ended the call and finished dressing. More of the unit was congregated in the recreation room. They were singing with great enthusiasm as Helmar and Cowen strummed on their guitars. Disla had produced a trumpet and was playing along with them. Ramses had not known of Disla’s musicianship, and he played surprisingly well. He smiled to see his Sentinels so joyous. Very soon, there would be little to sing about. Whether they caught Santos or not, they would return to the worlds. There were other threats besides the Auctioneer that needed to be addressed.

Otarion appeared at Ramses’ side.

“You look tired, sir. Is everything alright?”

“I just got word from General Jericho that we’ll be heading out soon.”

His junior officer did not let his smile fade, but the cheer in his eyes was replaced with solemnity. “Don’t worry, sir, we’re ready.”

It was a good evening. As Ramses settled into bed later that night, he realized something he had not expected—he didn’t want to stop being Sentinel Major Joshua Regis. He liked being part of the unit, and though he was their commanding officer, he was also one of them. That would not be the case when they learned he was Azerie Ramses of Light.

The scouts had been the first to learn the truth. Velds approached him the same day Otarion was recovered from the speakeasy. He asked them not to change their habits toward him to avoid tipping off the others, and for the most part they had, but they were less willing to share a joke or banter with him as they had before. Ironsi was more gradual, but the same was true for him. Otarion had less to change. He was a reserved young man to begin with, and his humor went over most of the Sentinels' heads on the occasions he made a joke. Ramses liked him very much and was heartbroken to see his overzealous captain reestablish the formal distance between them that was there when they first met. McCrain was the only one who had not changed, and Ramses was extremely grateful to the Archmage for it.

He shifted to his side and tried to sleep. It was a unique and rewarding experience to play the role of a Sentinel Major, but he wasn’t one. He never would be. The unit was still his, and the dynamic would be different, but that was okay. This was not a tragedy. At least, that was what he told himself.

An hour later, his communicator vibrated. Santos was on the move.

The unit groggily marched down to the equipment lockers and donned their field gear. Everything they would not carry on their backs was placed in Otarion’s field crates in the middle of the room, destined for the storage gem. Ramses watched the proceedings, stifling a yawn. They could rest in the portal. Within the hour, they marched out of the barracks for the platform.

“How long?” Ramses asked.

McCrain finished the portal and checked his watch. “With these conditions, six hours and twelve minutes.”

One by one, they stepped through. The unit arrived in the wilderness, just outside the nature preserve Stackhouse identified as Santos’ destination. The same barrier that prevented the poachers from simply portaling to their desired prey was the same barrier that forced the unit to the edge of the vast wilderness. Otarion, Ironsi, and Velds immediately got together with the map and compass and planned out their search patterns. Ramses listened more than he spoke. This was good practice for them, and the noose pattern Otarion outlined was expertly drawn.

Just before dawn, the Sentinels paired off and disappeared into the valley to take their positions. Otarion saw them off with a final word. “These are hunters. Do not take them lightly. If you discover anything, report it immediately to the Ranger Station. They’re aware of our mission and will coordinate our encirclement.”

Ramses paired with one of the younger scouts, Keller. The young man was beaming as they marched off into the valley’s bush. The region was breathtakingly gorgeous with its towering pillars of rock and mesas colored red from iron oxidation. The red was broken up by splotches of green from tall shrubs and spiny, gnarled trees. As they wove in and out of the bush, Ramses relished in the sun’s warmth, in the light breeze, and the scent of summer flowers still clinging to the season. Birds sang from the trees. It would’ve been serene if they were not on the hunt.

If we lose Santos, it will be months before we can find another inroad to the Black-Market elite. The Auctioneer. I have never wished him ill; can he not see that? He gritted his teeth as the ever-present weight pressed against his shoulders. Oh, God… I’m so tired. How long will you have me serve like this?

It was a frequent question without answer. Ramses was chained to his titles as surely as a prisoner to his shackles. He had freedom as far as the chain allowed, but so many things were out of reach, and the chain wasn’t going anywhere. It couldn’t.

Keller ducked behind a gnarled bush and checked his watch, then the map. “Sir, we’re behind. Santos’ gang will arrive within fifteen minutes.”

“Then we hurry,” Ramses said.

They did. Their encirclement would only work if the unit was in place before Santos and his poachers set foot within the preserve. It was a carefully timed maneuver, and if the poachers caught wind of the Sentinels lying in wait, they would run. Ramses leaped over a series of granite boulders and climbed for the ledge that was their designated overlook.

With only moments to spare, Ramses hauled Keller up the last few feet, and they settled into position in the shadow of a tree. The climb rewarded them with a panoramic view of the preserve. Keller, his body pressed against the ground, pulled out his binoculars. Ramses messaged the Ranger’s Station with their location. A moment later, Otarion sent him confirmation of the unit’s success. The noose pattern was set. Now, they waited.

“Sir, may I ask a question?”

“Always.”

“Why don’t you tell the others who you are? They like you, a lot, but they don’t know if they can trust you. To them, things are just too opaque, and Sentinels don’t like that. It comes off as corrupt.”

He shook his head with a bemused smile. Otarion said much the same thing the other day. He supposed he should’ve been grateful for their attunement, and intolerance, of possible corruption. “I’ve been meaning to tell them, but an opportunity hasn’t presented itself. Don’t worry, I’ll tell them soon.”

“You have their loyalty, sir,” Keller added. “Even if you weren’t our Triumvir.”

The entire morning was spent hidden in the shadows of their perch. Ramses kept a close eye on the valley and his communicator. There was only one sighting from the scattered Sentinels and Santos was confirmed among them, but they quickly lost sight of the poachers within the dense valley. At eleven o’clock, the Ranger’s Station relayed his order for the noose to tighten.

He and Keller quietly moved from their perch and descended into the valley itself for their second position. They moved warily through the boulders and shrubbery. Ramses had his bow in hand and an arrow knocked. Keller moved with complete silence but for the occasional, muffled clink of his gear.

They reached one of the preserve's designated hiking trails and followed it toward their next vantage point. Less than ten minutes on the trail and Keller froze. Ramses immediately saw why. They reached a small clearing on the path, not far from the valley’s river. There was ample evidence a group had just recently stopped here for food and rest. Keller stepped off the path and retrieved a fresh orange peel half hidden in the weeds.

“How many?” Ramses asked quietly.

Keller scanned the area. “A group of about ten or twelve.”

“Any signs of game?”

Keller studied the site for another minute then shook his head. “It’s pretty clean for a hunting party. This could just as easily be the remains of a hiking group as it could be our target.”

“The tourists were warned away from the area yesterday. Which direction did they go?”

Keller pointed southeast, “Tracks lead in that direction, toward the river. I suggest caution, sir. Ten is a low estimate.”

Ramses adjusted his grip on the bow. “Our position at the river is just ahead. Move quietly. If we can spot them, we can tighten the noose further.”

They moved quietly and their camouflage uniforms would prevent a casual glance in their direction from revealing them, but the vegetation was dense. A chance encounter was entirely possible. Keller stalled on the path. The path continued to the right and gradually sloped downward. Straight ahead was a twelve-foot drop down to the riverbank.

“Do you hear that?” the scout asked.

Ramses strained to listen. There were voices in the distance. It was difficult to make out exactly what they were saying or identify the language. “If we can get down to the river, we will have a clearer view of the group.”

“I’ll go first, sir.”

The Sentinel stepped off the trail and carefully made his way to the cliff’s edge. He never reached it. There was a muffled click and a net launched from concealment. Keller fell to the ground in a tangled mess. A clattering bell jangled as the Sentinel scout struggled against the bonds. Shouts and whoops of excitement came from further down the trail. Keller froze. Ramses rushed forward with knife in hand and cut away at the nets.

“Sir, you have to get out of here!” Keller hissed. “I’m just a scout, your—.”

“Sentinels!” one shouted. “Get Santos!”

An arrow zipped over their heads by mere inches. The poachers sprinted up the trail towards them.

Ramses took up his bow and fired at the incoming poachers. The one in the lead took an arrow to the shoulder. He shot the next poacher in the thigh, but there were too many and they were coming fast. Ramses tossed aside the bow and drew his saber. He briefly considered using the elements, but the thought was immediately discarded. If he killed these men with such power, there was no guarantee he could get them all, and he would have to if he wanted to maintain his cover. Besides, not all of them deserved to die.

The poachers were on him in seconds. Ramses slashed and parried, all the while protecting Keller who frantically tried to free himself.

“DON’T KILL THEM! I WANT THEM ALIVE!”

Ramses spotted the source of the bellowing voice instantly. Ron Santos pushed through his hunters with fierce delight in his eyes. One of the poachers leaned in close with a wide swing. Ramses took an involuntary step back with the close shave and felt the ground disappear behind him. For a horrifying moment, Ramses felt himself tip backward. He saw Keller laying still in front of two hunters with their weapons trained on him. Santos was laughing. Ramses had enough sense to twist his body so he would land feet first, but the distance wasn’t far enough to complete the turn. He landed awkwardly on his wrists and shoulder. Sharp pain jolted up his arms. Ramses stifled a cry. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to his feet.

“Run, sir!” Keller shouted in Eldrinian.

“After him!” Santos shouted.

Ramses dove into the river. It swept him up in its current. Desperately, he commanded the current to carry him to the opposite bank. The current veered him in that direction without regard to the rocks. He struck against one and sucked in a mouthful of river water. He struck another with his feet as they scraped the river’s bottom. Within a minute, however, the river deposited him on a sandy bank. Ramses wormed onto the bank, holding his forearms to his chest. He could still hear the orders and shouts from the poachers downstream, but they were once again too far away to hear.

Gasping for breath, Ramses sat up and took stock of the situation. Santos and his poachers would come after him sure as the sun would set. He was an officer, and though they had Keller, an officer was too valuable to let escape. They couldn’t let him report to his unit their whereabouts.

Well, that was the first order of business. He reached into his coat pocket for his communicator and caught his breath at the pain of the movement. There was nothing in his pocket. He felt around in his other pockets, biting back tears from the pain as he did, and a horrible dread fell over him. His communicator was gone. Ramses lifted his face to the sky in despair. Had it fallen out of his pocket when he fell? Or had he lost it in the river?

Worse, there was no other way to contact anyone. Normally, he could simply teleport to the safety of another world. He was out of sight, and he had the Essence to do it. Except, they were deep within the preserve’s barrier. No communicator, no escape, and possibly broken wrists. The injuries were the worst of it. Technically, he didn’t need his hands to manipulate the elements, but it was significantly harder without them. It was all he could do to block out the terrible, throbbing pain.

By the heavens and all that is holy, what am I going to do?

The shouting of the poachers grew louder. They ran along the opposite bank like a pack of hunting dogs. One shouted in triumph and pointed to the opposite bank where Ramses sat. He scrambled to his feet and disappeared into the safety of the bush.

Evading the poachers was not easy. He had a head start thanks to the river, but there were plenty of places they could ford it. Ramses scanned the surrounding area as his mind raced for a strategy. He needed time. The Ranger’s Station was the only civilization for fifty miles or more. The little settlement was his only hope of contacting Otarion and getting medical aid, and the poachers knew it. If Santos was smart, he would already have men rushing to the station to head him off. That’s what he would do. Cut off escape routes, encircle the target, and close in like a noose. It was what they had been doing with these poachers all morning.

Ramses stumbled over a twisted tree root and crashed to the ground. It took every bit of his willpower not to reach out with his hands. Instead, he twisted to his side and struck his shoulder.

This was a lost cause. He needed time and a place to hide. Far to his right was an escarpment of rock too sheer to climb, but there would be nooks and crevasse. Ramses hauled himself to his feet and ran for the rocks. The chances of a convenient cave were low, but he didn’t need one. He just needed a wide enough space to make a hiding place.

Ramses stumbled into a narrow clearing and found what he was looking for, a crevasse just big enough for him to squeeze himself into. He turned back to his trail and repaired the disturbed brush and dried the water of his footsteps. Then, very carefully, he eased himself into the rock. Gritting his teeth, he raised his hands and reached for the desert foliage. Tears stung his eyes as his wrists protested against the tiny, controlled movements the work required. Still, the branches and leaves did as he bid and enclosed the entrance in a thick tangle of foliage.

And none too soon. Two poachers sprinted into the little clearing. One swore. “He went this way, he must’ve!”

“He did, I saw him!” the other said.

They widened their search. Ramses swallowed hard as he watched their progress. More of Santos’ poachers joined their search in and around the base of the escarpment. One came very close to the bushes protecting his hiding place. They stabbed their saber through the branches twice and Ramses only narrowly avoided the blade.

“Well?” Santos snapped.

“He’s hiding around here somewhere,” one of the poachers growled.

“That fool,” another spat. “He doesn’t have a communicator. It smashed in his fall. He’s dead out here without us.”

“You hear that, Sentinel?” Santos shouted. “Your communicator is gone! You’ll die of exposure in this desert unless you turn yourself over to us! We won’t hurt you; we just want to talk, and we’ll turn you over to the Rangers.”

Ramses silently prayed one of the other scouting teams heard, but it was an unlikely hope. They were deep inside the noose and far from the perimeter. “What do you think he’ll do?” someone asked.

Santos gazed out at the desert valley with his hands on his hips. For several minutes he thought through the dilemma. A line of blood dripped to the rock at Ramses' feet, and his heart stopped. His hands were torn from the fall, and blood and gold Light Essence poured from the wounds. There were drawbacks to Essence. The fact a single cut could reveal his identity was one of them. The fact Essence acted as a natural blood thinner was another, and in a profession where injury was normal, it was a particularly cruel irony. He needed to treat his injuries immediately.

“He’ll make for the Ranger’s Station as evening draws,” Santos said. “It’s his best chance at getting help. I would bet good money he’s injured. Between the fall and the river, he’s going to be hurting.”

“Do you think they were hunting us?”

“The scout claims they’re looking for a missing hiker. It would be extraordinary for them to be here only hours after we arrived.” Santos clapped his hands together. “Right, we keep searching for him. I don’t want to report a dead Sentinel officer to the boss. Bad enough we have the scout. Lew, take half the men and scour the bush. I’ll take the other half and head for the station. We have to keep him away from the Rangers at all costs.”

They moved on. Ramses let his head fall back against the rock. He waited several minutes, listening as the poachers continued their search and edged further and further from the clearing. Two doubled back to ensure their quarry hadn’t emerged from some undiscovered hiding place. Ramses had no intention of moving.

It was twenty minutes before he was confident enough to pull out one of his storage gems. Sucking in a pained breath at the movement, he pulled a small medical kit from the yellow smoke. He couldn’t treat himself more than washing the cuts and wrapping his hands in tight bandages, which was hard to do well with both hands bruised and the bones broken. He would need painkiller, but medicines and drugs had subdued effects on Azerie. The pain medication in the kit would not help much, but it was something. Ramses popped several pills in his mouth and washed them down with water from his canteen. Exhausted, he slumped against the rock and waited for them to take effect.

His mind raced through what to do next. Santos was going to the Rangers’ Station. Thanks to Keller’s quick thinking, and good acting, he successfully convinced the poachers not to run. The noose enclosed the waystation, and if they could not find the poachers before nightfall, the noose would tighten around that little settlement. Miraculously, Santos was still in their clutches.

The question was how to evade the remaining poachers and rejoin his unit. Santos was right about one thing; he was hurt, and he absolutely needed medical attention. He would have to wait for nightfall. Under the cover of darkness, he could fly to the Rangers’ Station and bypass the poachers lying in wait. He wondered what Otarion would do when the unit learned their commander had gone missing.

He would not want to be Santos in that scenario.

Ramses shifted into a more comfortable position and settled in to wait. When the sun was fully set and the twilight faded to night, Ramses waved the tangle of desert foliage aside and pulled his glider from the storage gem. The lights of the station were many miles off but clearly visible from his vantage point. A straight shot, he told himself. Don’t make it more complicated than it already is.

With a deep breath, he called upon the air currents and zipped off toward the lights. The feat hurt even more than he expected. His hands were so bruised and swollen that the little movements, even just twitching his fingers, caused spikes of pain, and pain meant a loss of focus. Sweat beaded on his brow as he silently sped over the desert valley. A fall would mean his death. It was a strange thought. When was the last time he was this vulnerable? What his enemies wouldn’t give to see him now. He reached the lights. Fighting through the pain, he brought his glider to a shallow descent onto the roof of a hotel.

Ramses heaved a sigh of relief as he released the winds. The roof was flat but for a rounded dome at the entrance. Chairs and other furnishings were scattered around. In cooler temperatures, it was probably a beautiful place to come and watch the stars. In the brutal summer heat, it was abandoned. He replaced the glider in his gems and found a set of stairs leading down to the pool deck below. Some folks were still there enjoying the cool waters at this late hour.

Ramses kept a wary eye as he went. The settlement was little more than an outpost. There were a couple of hotels, equipment stores, and of course, the Ranger Station itself, but no homes. People couldn’t stay here long, and it was only by the Order’s good graces there were tourists at all. Which meant, it was small. Nowhere near large enough for a lone Sentinel to go unnoticed.

But there was no choice. Ramses slipped inside from the pool entrance and found himself in a large lounge. It was late, yet half a dozen people sat around as they enjoyed late-night conversation. Across the room were the domed entrance and reception desk. The woman at the check-in counter was busy with a group of new guests and did not notice his arrival. Very few noticed, in fact, and the ones who did merely looked on with mild curiosity. He scanned the room for poachers, but it was difficult to make out anything in the dim lighting.

He stopped a young man in a server’s uniform. “Excuse me, where is your telephone?”

“Front desk, sir.”

He nodded in thanks and picked his way through the chairs and couches toward the desk. Immediately, he veered left and stepped into the shadow of the large fireplace. Sitting in an alcove in the entrance with one eye on the door and one on the front desk’s telephone was a rough-looking man with one too many weapons to be labeled the average tourist.

“Well, now, you are in dire straits.”

Ramses stiffened with equal parts dread and relief. The woman’s voice was dripping with an all too familiar amusement. He turned to find Sorceress Lady Hur seated in a high-backed chair beside the cold hearth. She was a stunning woman with luscious dark hair pulled back in elegant braid, high cheekbones, and olive-toned skin. The silver cord around her waist holding her baton was a clear sign of her occupation. Thanks to the deep purple of her dress, she was easy to miss in the gloom. Ramses sorted through all the possible reasons Lady Hur would be here, but there was only one explanation that mattered. Angus. The Archmage King was hedging his bets.

“The heavens must have a sense of humor to do this to you,” she said.

She winked, and Ramses glared. “What are you doing here?”

“You disappeared, and his majesty was anxious. That poacher has been waiting there for over two hours. They’re watching the streets too, and they’ll find you before long. Sit down before you make a scene.”

Ramses cast another look at the poacher, then took the seat across from her. The highbacked chair and the way it was angled meant he was blind to the entryway behind him, and he hated to turn his back on the enemy, but it was preferable to turning his back on Lady Hur.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“The hotel roof had the best access for a glider.” She moved from her place and sat down on the little coffee table in front of him. Without bothering to ask, she grabbed his forearm and rolled up the coat sleeve to reveal the badly wrapped bandages. Concern flashed across the sorceress’ face. “Can you even function without your hands?”

He didn’t answer, and that was answer enough. As gently as she could, she unwrapped the bandages. Her concern turned to dismay as the extent of the injury was uncovered. “Oh, Ramses,” she breathed. “What have you done to yourself?”

“I think they’re broken. Can you help me splint them?”

She took a small paintbrush and palette from a hidden pocket in her dress. “I need you to hold very still.”

Ramses fought the urge to pull back as she slowly and meticulously painted runes around his wrist. The tip of the brush was cold, and her grip was merciless. It was all he could do not to wrench his hand away.

“Have you heard anything from the Sentinels in the area?” he asked, trying unsuccessfully to turn his thoughts elsewhere.

“They’re closing their encirclement. They caught a few poachers in the bush, but whoever they’re looking for has so far evaded them. What is going on?”

“Angus didn’t tell you?”

“He only had time to tell me to watch over you.”

“We’re closing in on a poacher with direct links to the Auctioneer’s poaching lieutenant. I will have him behind an interrogation table by the end of the night.” Lady Hur pursed her lips. Ramses' eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You doubt me?”

“I… will be pleasantly surprised if this works out as you expect. A man that highly placed will not be allowed to fall into your hands. None of that explains how you got into this predicament. Why didn’t you call for help?”

“I lost my communicator when I broke my wrists.”

“No communicator, you’ve managed to break both of your wrists, and you can’t escape because we’re under a world travel barrier.” She shook her head in amazement. “Nexen would keel over if he knew you were this helpless. How did this happen?”

“My scout and I stumbled across one of their traps. Keller was caught, and I fell down an embankment by the river. I jumped into the water to escape and—,” Lady Hur clamped a hand over his mouth and just in time. Excruciating pain lurched up his arm as the bone shifted into place. Red spots blurred his vision. He sucked in a breath to scream, but she clamped down harder in response. Relief followed. An immobilization spell created a rigid cast to prevent further movement and a freezing cold settled over his hand and wrist as though an ice pack was placed there to soothe it. He slumped against the chair and turned his face into the headrest as the throbbing slowly receded. “You could’ve… warned me,” he gasped.

“Now you know for the next one. The runes will make sure the bone sets properly. I also added a mild freezing spell on a twenty-minute timer to reduce the swelling.”

Ramses wondered at the glowing cobalt blue runes. He’d been treated by magicians before, but the most they could do was stop bleeding and lessen pain. The true complexities of the human body were often beyond their ability to fix. “How did you do this?”

Lady Hur smirked. “How every complex spell is done. I layered them. Most magicians can do three, maybe four. That right there is seven.” He looked more closely at the runes. Sure enough, there were seven distinct sentences, and they weren’t simple commands either. “I wasn’t given the title sorceress for nothing,” she crooned, clearly pleased with herself. She got to work on his other wrist. “Can you contact your Sentinels through the Rangers?”

“That’s the idea.”

Lady Hur looked up toward the entryway and slid her palette back into the folds of her dress. Ramses twisted around to see. Santos and three others entered the hotel. The head poacher approached the woman at the front desk. Two hunters moved to search the lounge. Ramses’ newly casted hand reached down for his knife. Before he could draw it, Lady Hur moved onto his lap.

He swiveled back to face her, eyes wide. “What are you doing?” he hissed.

“Hiding your uniform. I need you to relax, this has to look convincing.”

He tracked the two as they made a circuitous trip around the dimly lit lounge. As they neared the hearth, Lady Hur brought a hand behind his neck and kissed him. Ramses lurched back and hit his head against the chair.

“Lighten up, Ramses,” she whispered in exasperation.

“Don’t call me—!” She kissed him again. The protest was muffled into a groan in spite of himself. Lady Hur shivered with suppressed laughter. He forced himself to relax and wrapped his newly casted hand around her waist hoping to somehow make this look normal. The seconds were unbearably slow as the poachers came closer. To his consternation, they stopped to talk with a young server.

Oh, move! he mentally pleaded. He didn’t trust her roving fingers as they dug past his uniform coat. It was small mercy there were so many layers. The poachers continued their circuit. One snickered but said nothing. Ramses watched them out of the corner of his eye as they moved on. Blind as he was to the entryway behind him, he could do nothing but endure Lady Hur’s meticulous attention.

“Don’t be so stiff,” she whispered in his ear. “You’d think a woman’s never given you attention before.”

“Stop enjoying this,” he growled. “Are you paying attention to them?”

“Santos is talking with the receptionist.” She pulled back sharply to get a better view of the entryway. “They’re staying. Either your scout is dead or held somewhere else, but there are seven heading off to the upper rooms. Santos is among them. No, wait….” She squinted to get a better look. “There is a young one in clothes too big for him. It’s hard to tell, but it looks like he’s being held at knifepoint. Clever keeping him among their number like that.” Ramses tried to push her off to see, but she pressed him back against the chair with surprising strength and buried her face in the crook of his neck. “Santos is coming,” she murmured. “Don’t say a word.”

He swallowed hard at the sound of heavy footsteps from behind. His casted hand dropped to his knife once more and brushed Lady Hur’s baton. He withdrew the baton from its holster. If there was a fight, he would fight with Energy. What Archmages called Arcane, Azerie called Energy. The shared source of power might just preserve his cover if he pretended to use the baton, though with broken wrists the odds were not good for success. Worse, civilians were in the line of fire. Someone was going to get hurt.

“Didn’t think to see a gal like you in a place like this,” Santos said, “Have you seen any skulking Sentinels around?”

Lady Hur smirked up at the poacher. She looked him up and down with a practiced eye, and her grin widened. “You think I’d hang around if I saw one?”

“When you’re finished there, room fifteen.”

His steps receded, and the commotion from the entryway subsided. Lady Hur breathed out a tense sigh and sat back. Ramses fixed her with a harsh glare. “Mention this to anyone, and you won’t live long enough to regret it.”

Lady Hur looked away. The comment hurt her. More than that, Santos’ assumption sapped all her usual confidence and attitude. Ramses immediately regretted his harsh words. “I’m sorry. I… if it makes you feel better… I don’t think you look like a prostitute.”

That earned him a small laugh. “Thanks, Ramses.”

“Don’t call me that. My name is Joshua Regis, at least that’s what my Sentinels know me as.” Lady Hur frowned at that but didn’t question it. “Can you mend my other hand?”

She moved back to her place on the coffee table and got to work. “There is still a poacher watching the telephone. What will you do?”

Ramses grimaced as she went back to tracing runes. All he needed was to call in his Sentinels. They were surrounding the outpost. If he could just give them the right building and room numbers, they would have the poachers before midnight.

“I need you to carry a message to the Rangers. Tell them Sentinel Major Regis has tracked the poachers to this address. Have them contact Sentinel Captain Otarion. Tell them to prepare to use raid pattern R as in red. Santos is in room fifteen. I will wait on the hotel rooftop for them.”

“Brace yourself,” Lady Hur said as she neared the end of her runes. Ramses bit down on the collar of his uniform coat as the bone snapped into place. The pain was just as agonizing, and the relief just as sweet.

He took a moment to catch his breath and for the pain to recede before he stood with the baton in hand. “Go quickly. We may not have much time.”

The sorceress collected her things. “I’ll meet you on the roof.”

Ramses made for the pool exit once more. Outside there were fewer people at the poolside and none noticed as he moved through the evening shadows to the roof access. The roof was empty as before. Only the soft aqua-blue glow from the pool below lit the deck. Ramses moved to the darkest nook and summoned a sphere of orange light that glowed no more than a struck match. From his gems, he withdrew his armor, helmet, a combat uniform, and saber. He briefly considered his bracers, but with the state of his wrists, he didn’t think it was a good idea.

Ramses changed into the uniform. It was slightly heavier than the camouflage thanks to a layer of tight-knit mail added on the inside. With the addition of the collar, greaves, and rank pauldrons, he was a far more intimidating sight and far more protected. He was buckling on his saber when Lady Hur reappeared.

“Your plan is a go. The Sentinels are moving in.”

“Then we wait.”

Lady Hur settled on the couch. In the stillness, Ramses realized just how much his body hurt. Not just his wrists, they ached beneath their casts from the strenuous task of buckling armor, but everything else. His shoulders, his left knee from bashing it into a rock in the river, and several other bruises and cuts from his escape through the bush. He stared up at the late September stars. What he wouldn’t give to go home for some rest and to spend time with his Azerie.

“Can I ask you something?” Lady Hur asked.

“Nothing is stopping you,” Ramses said irritably. In the darkness, he couldn’t see her facial response, but a stretch of silence followed.

“Your bones won’t take that long to heal. With what I’ve done to them, they will mend within four weeks. You should take that time and return home. I’m sure the others will want to see you. They miss you just as much as you miss them.”

He stared at her. Lady Hur was supposedly an expert of the mind, just like Nexen. That didn’t mean she could read exact thoughts, but she knew when someone was lying and could read emotional states better than anyone. For how distracted and emotional he’d been over the last hour, it was unsurprising she hit the nail on the head. “I may just have to take that time. Two broken wrists will put anyone out of action.”

“May I ask you something?”

He smiled. She was persistent, he had to give her that. “Yes, go ahead.”

“You said your name was Joshua Regis, and that wasn’t a lie when you said it. Was that your name before the Order?”

A twinge of annoyance followed the question. “You know better than to ask that.”

“This is different, it’s a yes or no question. It’s more like guessing than outright asking.”

It was a very personal question and a very impolite one, but then she risked her life for his down there. That was worth an answer. “Keep this to yourself.”

Lady Hur sat up with interest. “I’ll keep it secret.”

“Well, you’re right, Joshua Regis was the name I was born with, but when the Order inducted me, there was already a Light Azerie with the name Joshua. It was a common practice then to adopt a middle name or new name to avoid duplicates. So, I took on my middle name, Ramses.”

“How did Alexander escape that fate?”

“Name and element have to duplicate, so the chances are better than you think.”

“Alright, here’s something less personal, why no nicknames? It’s never Alex or John or, well your name isn’t conducive to nicknames, but you know what I mean.”

“Family is sacred to my people. Nicknames are used by parents and siblings as a form of endearment, but outside of that circle and it's intrusive.”

“Friends don’t use them?”

“Not unless the person specifically asks them to. It’s a show of great trust and friendship if you’ve earned that right. In that sense, we’re a more formal culture than that of the Solunans or Aeronies.”

“Were the Azerie the same way?” she asked in fascination.

He thought back to the years before the civil war, to Master Theodore and his wife, to the two older girls he once thought of as his sisters. The memories were so old, so dim, he could barely recall their faces much less their voices anymore. “Yes, it was the same. You had your master and their spouse, and they were your parents. Their apprentices present and former were your siblings. I suppose that’s why none of us use nicknames. It’s… from a time we prefer not to dwell on.”

Lady Hur was silent another moment, then said in a quieter voice, “I never gave it much thought, but you, Nexen, all of you, were orphaned from that war. You would’ve lost everyone.”

He turned away and paced the length of the nook. “That goes without saying.”

“I can’t imagine what you’ve been through.” Her voice was sad but with a hint of awe, a note he’d never heard from her before. “You’ve lost so much, and the burden of your service… I’ve never seen a mind like yours before. How do you keep such hope?”

He regarded her through the night’s gloom and debated if he ought to give the real answer. Not fully, he decided. He’d given enough of himself for one day. “There is an old saying that suffering produces perseverance, perseverance produces character, and character produces hope. Make of that what you will.”

She said nothing more.

To be Continued