Ruin had lived up to his name.

The Manor house had never felt like home, but seeing it in such a state was still distressing. Fire had consumed a quarter of the building, and structural damage littered the remaining areas. Pieces of the curtain wall had punched holes in the building from the outside, and explosions from within had knocked out entire walls in their rush to escape. The attack had shattered every window, littering the courtyard with glass.

And bodies.

Alarion had never paid much attention to the staff. They were always there in the background, fulfilling their duties without complaint. Almost invisible.

He saw them now. The soldier who had argued with Sierra and the man who had laughed at the argument. The ones who'd been pacing the halls. There was the cook who tried to escape, and the maids who had tried to hide. The sight made Alarion sick to his stomach. It made him wonder about the sort of person who had just become his patron, but the more he looked, the more he realized that Ruin hadn't been responsible for most of the killing.

The violence was too sloppy. These were battles between peers or butchers attacking civilians. After he'd broken down the defenses, the 'one-man army' had let others do most of the dirty work of combat. Did that make it better? Or worse?

Given what he'd done, was he even in a position to judge? Sierra had said that her father had Ruin on a leash, but Alarion couldn't imagine what it took to bring such a power to heel.

The attackers had lost at least a few of their own in the battle. There were pools of blood and signs of battle without bodies, the sign of a hasty clean-up. It appealed to a certain tribal part of his mind, of us vs. them, but he knew that was wrong. Any man who'd died in the attack was as much a tool as the ones they were killing.

They were all Vitrians. Countrymen. People. Killed over something as petty as politics.

Worse yet were the signs of the cover-up: broken Ashadi blades and spears, fragments of Ashadi-scale armor, and scattered pages of a political manifesto. It was flimsy, the sort of deception that would never survive scrutiny, but Alarion understood. There wouldn't be any scrutiny. Whoever they sent to 'investigate' would be handpicked to overlook the fine details. It wouldn't be a lie. There was Ashadi literature lying in pools of Vitrian blood.

That would be enough for the hypocrites.

The route he took through the house was circuitous. The stairwell that would have previously taken him straight to his room had collapsed in the fire. He had to locate the servant stairs, and even those only took him to the second floor.

He navigated around collapsed hallways and human remains until he arrived at his room to find it ransacked. They'd searched for him here. Perhaps some had conflicting orders about what would be done with him. Fortunately, nothing was missing, and he repacked his bag in minutes.

Alarion looked at the bed. He thought of waking in it only hours before. How peaceful that had been. Then he thought of Sierra and the first, and only, time he'd lied to her. His heart ached, and he turned away.

He only had one thing left to do. He had to find a way to the third floor.

The stairs were no help, and climbing the exterior of the building was an equal non-starter. Ruin's potion had healed the worst of his injuries, but it would take days to mend the internal injuries he'd suffered because of the backlash from [Pig-Headed Resilience].

Not that he was an especially good climber to begin with.

After nearly an hour of searching, he located a bedroom whose ceiling had partially collapsed. It was unstable and liable to give entirely at any moment, but it held just long enough for Alarion to use it as a ramp to ascend to the third floor.

The devastation here was the worst of all. Entire sections of the building had collapsed, blocking the hallways and threatening the building's integrity. In some instances, he found workarounds, such as connecting doors between rooms that circumvented the blockades. Others he cleared by hand, and in one case, he smashed straight through a wall with his mace.

Through it all, one thought kept niggling at the back of his mind.

Dar's office is on the third floor.

With no other destination in mind, Alarion headed toward the office. Fifteen minutes later, he finally found what Ruin had hinted at.

"Y-young master. I am p-pleased to… s-s-s-see you well."

"ZEKE!" Alarion shouted as he smashed through a half-destroyed door to find his mentor on the other side.

Or what remained of him.

Something had blasted a crescent hole through the Steelborn's torso and the wall behind him, taking off one arm and everything south of the impact. Another attack had melted his already gruesome expression to near slag on the left side, destroying his eye lens and revealing broken mechanical sensors beneath. ZEKE didn't shift at Alarion's approach, not even to turn his head.

"You are alive!" Alarion said as he blinked back tears.

"I am still o-operable," ZEKE agreed. "Though my generator is critically damaged. I will be offline in a ma-matter of hours."

"No… we can-"

"It is alright-right-right," ZEKE reassured him. "I can be rehoused in a suitable Zephir Technologies Chassis, provided-ed-ed I am not offline for more than approximately sev-seventy-eight years."

Alarion laughed. "I think I can manage that."

"Do you still have the b-bracelet?"

"The what?"

"The one you found in the p-p-protectorate. The one that housed the construct 'Alex'."

Understanding flooded Alarion's face, and he began to fish through his pack. "Are you sure it would be safe? It was badly damaged."

"S-so am I," ZEKE pointed out. "The g-governor did not permit me to examine it, but… y-yes. Yes. I should be able to i-interface with that."

Alarion held the item out to ZEKE as he asked, "Do I just press it against your body?"

"No. Whatever t-t-technology your friend used was more advanced than what was u-used in my creation. You must ex-ex-extract my mental processing u-unit and insert it into the device. From there I should be able to-to-to make the connections."

"How do I do that?" Alarion asked.

"You'll need to crack open my sk-skull. Carefully. And extract the crys-crys-crystalline object inside. It should be impossible to miss, though it is quite small. Sadly, my creators did not design me for refurbishment, so I have no access ports. Violence is our only option."

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"Will it hurt?"

"I imagine it w-will be excruciating if done im-im-improperly," ZEKE answered truthfully. "Place your weapon over my skull at the roughly one-third mark. Stab down and then pry open. Please use your full power, as my endurance attribute is considerably higher than your strength."

The calm way that ZEKE described the procedure did nothing to assuage Alarion's nerves as he followed instructions.

"Lucky Strike," he whispered. Then he stabbed.

True to his word, the stone was easy to find. It was an irregular piece of quartz contained in a small mount deep in ZEKE's skull. It was odd that everything he knew of ZEKE could exist in such a small object, a crystal so small he nearly dropped it while lining it up with the bracelet's fractured panel.

The moment he did, the stone sprang to life. Small tendrils of lilac energy arced off the stone, carving new patterns into the bracelet. Then the quartz shifted, spreading out to cover the channels it had dug into the device, until it was little more than a colored film atop the metal.

"ZEKE?" Alarion asked. There was no answer. Had he done something wrong? "Ezekiel? ZEKE?"

"I am here, young master."

Alarion gave a heavy sigh of relief. "Are you okay?"

"I am… adjusting. This environment is unusual." ZEKE's voice sounded distant, distracted. "There are… tastes. Smells. It is overwhelming. I may need some time to adjust."

"Alright."

Alarion would have preferred to bury ZEKE's body, but the machine dissuaded him from that the moment he started trying to drag it along with him. It was a shell, one he'd abandoned. Alarion had bigger issues to deal with.

"Have you found Mistress Elena? Or mistress Sierra?" ZEKE asked.

"Sierra is… she is gone," Alarion's tone spoke for itself, and ZEKE knew enough not to pry. "I have not found Elena."

"The last I saw them, they were fighting by the Governor's office."

The office wasn't far from where he found ZEKE, but it still took the better part of half an hour of clearing and pathfinding before Alarion found them.

They'd died together. Elena was on the ground, her back to a wall. Something, some of Ruin's magic no doubt, had blown straight through the governor and into her. Dar had died on his feet, standing between the enemy and his wife. A scattering of magical impacts surrounded Dar in an almost perfect circle, showing where his magical defenses had weathered the brunt of more than one failed assault.

He'd died protecting her.

"Why were they here?" Alarion asked.

"Mistress Elena asked to meet. She was hoping to find some alternative to handing you over for induction. The governor wasn't having it, of course. The argument went in circles until the attack. It is moot now, I suppose. I assume you intend to run?"

Alarion knelt, closing Elena's eyes. He moved to leave, stopped, and turned back to provide Dar with the same courtesy.

The journey back through the house provided ample time for Alarion to explain the night's events to ZEKE. The machine listened quietly as Alarion explained the battle with Sierra. He seemed as perplexed as Alarion was by Ruin's behavior. By the time they reached the ground floor, ZEKE had turned the conversation back in a direction where he was most comfortable.

"Have you picked a class?"

"Sort of," Alarion answered.

Unraveller [Exceptional](Rank I)

Description: Able to see the ties that bind, the Unraveller manipulates the strings of magic to work their bidding in physical reality and divine the outcome of events. This class focuses primarily on skills and attributes related to arcane magic, with a special focus on sympathetic and fate-based magic.

Requirements: Behold an act of True Prophecy. Basic spell-casting proficiency.

Growths - STR – +5 – 40% | AGI – +5 – 40% | VIT – +5 – 40% | INT – +5 – 60% | WIL – +5 – 60% | PER – +5 – 60% | LUK – +6 – 50%

Note: Due to the flaw [Single Minded], this class was automatically selected.

—

Ebb and Flow [Rare]

Description: You have long understood a balance in the nature of combat, a push and pull, an Ebb and Flow. By forming a sympathetic connection with your opponent, this understanding becomes more than a mental heuristic, benefiting those who 'go with the flow' and punishing those who do not.

Requirements: None.

Type: Active

Effects: While in use, channel a minor amount of MP and stamina. The user creates a slight sympathetic connection with all targets who engage in direct combat with the user. For the duration of this active skill, the user and all targets are subject to the condition [Ebb and Flow]. While under this condition, the effectiveness of all offensive actions is increased up to a moderate amount for thirty seconds, while the effectiveness of all defensive actions is decreased by a slight amount for the same period. Then, the effectiveness of all defensive actions is increased up to a moderate amount for thirty seconds, while the effectiveness of all offensive actions is decreased by a slight amount for the same period. The condition will alternate between offense and defense until this skill is deactivated. This condition can be resisted by those with defenses against involuntary sympathetic links.

Growths: LUK +8

Note: Due to the flaw [Single Minded], this skill was automatically selected.

The choices, involuntarily selected during the heat of battle with Sierra, suited him just fine. More than fine, in the latter case. [Ebb and Flow] was a creation all his own, a formalization of how he'd fought since all those months ago with the dragon. It had already carried him through a life-or-death situation, and he was sad to admit that it would not be the last.

With nothing to do but wait, Alarion settled on a sea-worn post at the manor's dock. It had been months since his arrival, though it felt like a lifetime. Now only minutes remained.

He fished into his pack, searching for the silver pocket watch near the bottom. Alarion had never been one to care what time it was. He ate when he was hungry; he slept when he was tired. But the item felt reassuring in his grip, a reminder of something. A name always on the tip of his tongue.

It opened with a satisfying click.

Then something fell out.

Alarion flailed, nearly dumping himself into the ocean to keep the scrap of parchment from falling in. New pain erupted in his gut at the strain on his still-wounded body, but the boy ignored it as he unfolded the tightly pressed letter.

The handwriting was elegant and sharp, written without blot or blemish.

Alarion,

If you are reading this, then you no longer remember me, and that wounds my heart. But no matter what happens, no matter what path you walk, know that I will always remember you.

I will remember you as courageous and foolhardy. As introspective and stubborn. As one of my most promising students and, if you forgive an old woman her longings, the son she never allowed me to have.

There is so much that I wish I could tell you, but even now I am limited by sympathy. The more I say, the greater the risk of discovery. I have linked this letter to your reward and enchanted it not to reveal itself until your departure, but I fear what she may do if she were to discover that I have told you even this much. I urge you to destroy this letter after committing my advice to memory.

Keep her favor and her device, but do not trust her—not her agents, nor her Incarnate. A week, a month, a year. She will eventually come to you with honeyed words and an offered tribute.

There are answers to any question if you know where to look. You are not the first, you cannot be the last. Study. Research. Visit those who have the knowledge you seek.

You are no true orphan. When you understand, seek me out in the old places. I will be waiting.

As I write, I pray this letter finds you well. That you complete your lessons, that you rebuke your would-be masters. But I suspect the world will be no more kind to you than it was to me. So instead, I offer what solace I can.

When I was about your age, I lost someone very near to me. The memory of him haunted my entire life, a whisper in the wind that only I could hear. I see that loss in you, and only one remedy ever soothed that wound.

You are loved, Alarion. With no expectations. No obligations. No conditions.

In hopes of reunion,

Valentina Lyons

The name burned up at him from the bottom of the page, and with it came a vivid memory—a woman in gold and white, an embrace. Alarion couldn't remember her face, but he remembered that touch—the warmth and the comfort.

He rubbed away tears as his eyes dipped just below the signature to a small postscript.

P.S. Should you meet the hollow man in his true skin, drop a mountain on him.

"Young master?"

"Hmm?" Alarion snapped back to reality, crumpling the paper in his grip like a guilty child.

"I asked if you were alright."

Alarion squinted against the rising sun as they sat together on the shores of the Isle. Just at the horizon, a Vitrian ship approached.

"No," he answered softly. "But I think I will be."

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