KNITE:
Time erodes growth.
It is the curse of those who lived too long to stagnate. Eventually, life ceases to add to us. Instead, it carves away whatever our stubbornness cannot shield.
We so-called gods do not evolve; we distill.
The teahouse buzzed with voices. Many sat cross-legged on cushions and around tables. Festooned tapestries hung from the walls and off the ceiling, greens and purples outlined in stark whites as if they were flags of allegiance. Dim lanterns encased the space in an intimate glow. Jugs of tea exhaled clouds of steam. My own, brewed with rose petals and vanilla stems exported from Kolokasi, was saccharine, a splash of sugared milk adding to its plentiful sweetness.
He swaggered in unnoticed, a lone figure in the mass of well-to-do Roots and slothful Branches. Power clung to him, contained, shimmering, visible to my eyes alone. Once the youngest of Evergreen's rulers—until my arrival—Silas wore the title like a suit, a role to play, a state of being. He made his way to the dark corner where I was standing. Bloodshot eyes peered at me from beneath heavy lids. I stared up at him. He was smiling. As was I. I'd seen beneath his mask long ago. He didn't know I was wearing one. If he had, he'd not have come. He'd have run for the hills and sent his brother to protect his back.
"May I join you?" Silas asked. His politeness was meant to disarm me.
"My patience would be wasted if you didn't." I slid an empty cup forward and poured him some tea. Our intentions were alike.
Silas plumped down onto the cushion, no grace to his ungainly fall. "Was I expected?"
Our server, a pretty Root with coppery hair and a constellation of freckles across her cheeks, brought over a platter of desserts and laid them out on the low table.
"And foreseen, it would seem," Silas said. He stroked the girl's arm as she placed a bowl of honeyed fruits between us. "Did he give a time or a sign?"
The girl shivered at his touch. And though she kept her eyes averted, the terror in them was plain to see. For an instant, the touch had broken Silas' containment, and the pure, utter power beneath his control brushed up against the poor girl. Erroneous as it may be, there are reasons the common folk consider us gods.
"You have nothing to fear, child," Silas said. "A time or a sign?"
The girl kept her eyes fixed on the carpeted floor. She bowed, a fraction too low, her hands trembling as she adjusted the tray. "Sir had asked that we keep the food warm until such a time as his guest arrived."
Silas glanced over at the remaining dishes on the platter, picked three, seemingly at random, and waved the girl away. She did well to keep her composure, but her retreat was far more expeditious than her approach had been. That and she'd fled straight out of the building.
"You might've asked," I said.
"You might've lied," Silas countered.
"I meant you might've asked me if I wanted any of the dishes the girl has now absconded with."
Silas quirked a brow. "Were you cast out before you learned our ways?"
"Were you not told I was of House Bainan?"
Silas barked a laugh, purposely loud and abrupt. This was a master of the game, someone who'd honed the craft for time immemorial.
"You speak to me as though you are not my nephew," he said.
"Outcast."
"Perhaps by status, but blood is everlasting," Silas said. Until it is spilled, I thought. Or spoiled by the stink of betrayal.
Silas took a sip of his tea, smacked his lips, and, with a look of dissatisfaction, returned half its volume to the jug. He took out a flask, metallic and engraved, unscrewed the top, and made up the difference in his cup with its contents.
"Is that what I think it is?" I asked. He nodded. "Care to share?"
Wordlessly, Silas leaned over the table and filled my cup, generously taking it to the brim.
"You say I might've lied," I said.
"I did." Silas snatched at a plate near me before settling back onto his seat. His eyes watched to see if I flinched. I didn't.
"Then why are you here?"
"To meet you." He popped one of the fried balls of dough he'd just grabbed into his mouth. The messy way he ravaged the dessert had his lips slathered in melted chocolate. Silas spoke before he swallowed, unveiling the unsavory, half-chewed mush smeared on his tongue and stuck on his teeth. "And speak."
"But I might lie."
"Indeed, you might."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because lies reveal as much as truths."
"And you know the difference between the two?"
Silas smirked. "Eventually. Given time, lies tend to tangle into knots."
"Nasiil?" I asked.
"And Ileye," he admitted.
"So you've known about their trades?"
Silas shrugged. "I've never had qualms about slavery. They are a valuable resource for my line of work. All I ask is that they keep my involvement a secret."
"You're sharing a lot of truths for someone expecting lies in return."
Silas glanced upward, mock-thoughtful. "In the event that it all comes to light, Grono will kill you. True, he'll lecture me for a good while, but I'll endure his ramblings for a time. In a decade or two, he'll have forgotten, and I'll resume my work. That is a paltry cost for what I believe you may offer me."
I smirked. "And what is that?"
The faint wrinkles on Silas's brow betrayed his unease. I wasn't playing well. Not consistently. That unsettled him.
"You are well aware of why I've come to speak with you," Silas said. He was floundering. Faced with a confounding adversary, his honed instincts faltered. I was infringing on the norms of the game, an expert one moment, an amateur the next, each mistake followed by a masterful play that shed new light on the preceding fumble. No doubt, my trickery reminded him of a certain sister of ours; it was her way to lay traps and guide her adversaries to them.
"I have shared what I know of our enemies with your sons." My lips found the rim of my cup. The concoction graced my tongue, and I discovered a new favorite drink.
"You have more," Silas rumbled.
"In time, I may."
"But not now?"
"Not yet and not without incentive."
Silas drained his cup, mixed another batch, and drained that one as well.
"What about Momoose?" he asked.
"What about him?"
"How did you come to know of his death?"
"How much do you think four fingers of your brew is worth?"
"A kingdom to those who know its value," Silas said.
"Then consider me oblivious—it shall not suffice as payment."
"What about the threat of death?"
"The threat is worthless. The death? Perhaps, were it in your power to give it."
Anger burned on Silas' expression, and a ripple of sobriety rubbed the shine of drunkenness from his glazed eyes. "I am beginning to suspect that you do not know who I am."
"I am very much aware of who you are." The growl in my voice surprised both of us. I took a breath to rein myself in. "I am also aware of what value I hold."
"Circumstances change," Silas said. That was a threat. The second. Well-stated threats, but threats nonetheless. Threats were a mark of impending failure, a promise to console a loss.
"I thought my value was to Evergreen, not just you."
"It is… for now." Yet more threats, made worse by their blunt and rapid succession.
I took a sip of my improved tea. "Why is it you do not want Grono to know of the Af'titalans even in the event that your dealings with me come to light?"
Silas watched me for a time, red-faced and clear-eyed. Reason and patience took hold of him in painstaking slowness, and I watched the urge to kill me retreat behind its cover. When the tint of anger faded, he began to eat in earnest. All the dishes slid down his gullet, every bite aided by a gulp of his celebrated brew. I wondered where he kept it all—none of it seemed to affect his thin frame. With every plate licked clean, every drop of tea shaken out from the jug, he wiped the residue from his mouth, leaned back on his hands, and sighed in contentment. Gluttony had always put Silas in a better mood.
"What will your services cost me?" he asked, once more in control of himself.
"My services are many and varied. What is it you are asking?"
Silas poured another cup, all brew, no tea, and drank it in one shameless guzzle. "Despite his misplaced hubris, my brother was rather fond of Momoose," he said. "Let us start there."
"Why are you here?"
Silas nodded, grasping my meaning. "My brother hogs my glory. Whatever I accomplish is his, my every achievement forever accredited to his influence. This shall be mine and mine alone."
"Tired of being the youngest?"
Another cup drained. How Silas' small flask held such quantities was another mystery. Likely a power stolen from a soul, but whatever creature he'd sacrificed was unknown to me.
"Momoose?" Silas asked.
"Killed for his hubris."
"And the culprit?"
"Gone."
"How did you come by this information?"
"With my own eyes."
"You were there?"
"At the celebration? Yes."
"And the death?"
"That too."
Silas' jaw clenched in fake outrage. "And you did nothing?"
"Like all creatures of wants and desires, I do not act without encouragement."
"Money." Silas spat the word at me like it was a foul bug he'd accidentally swallowed. "No wonder you were cast out."
I shrugged, raised my cup high as if to toast the insult, and took a long, deep swig. "To riches."
"The Af'titalans?" Silas asked. "What will they cost me?"
"I only sell what I already own, not least because I cannot know its worth otherwise. That you are willing to buy will move me to acquire the knowledge. I trust the price will not be out of your reach, whatever it may be."
Silas labored to his feet, swayed to achieve a balance he never lost, and turned to leave. His final words fell on me as he made his way out. "You have half a moon cycle."
A new servant girl brought me another jug once my cup ran dry. Buzzing voices were encouraged ever louder by the laughter and merriment of drunken clients as the outside world descended into darkness. Music played in the background, deepthroated drums underscored by the sharp notes of a harp. All the tables except mine had been removed to make space for dancing. As had the cushions, though one more remained, waiting for my next guest. The ceiling had opened up, the work of a brownstone, and the tapestries that hung from it transformed into the folds of a canopy.
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His presence preceded his arrival. Waves of intangible power crashed into the teahouse, first in slight flutters, then in invisible swells of pressure. The music stopped. Laughter turned to silence. Bodies fell to their knees.
Grono wore his divinity like a man wears his skin. It shone silver, playing off his very skin. His jawline sat wider than his forehead. A flat nose, thick eyebrows, and small ears set him up as barbarous, what the duped people of modernity imagined the sensusless brutes of ages past might've looked like before gods descended to bring about civilization. Yet to strike this thought from anyone who observed him, besides the preternatural luster of his skin, he wore the most beautiful of armor, white as purity, thin as silk, hard, and tailored to his burly build. The metallic fabric ran the full length of him. He allowed himself a few decorative embellishments: a pair of clasps on his shoulders for an inimical cape, tall greaves that went above his knees and hampered his movement, and a few more impediments of taste.
"Leave," Grono commanded. The word fell like a war hammer, shaking the lanterns and rattling the very bones of the teahouse.
Everyone scrambled, and soon, the silence of fear was replaced by the silence of vacancy.
Grono stood over me. I had not moved.
"You play a dangerous game," he said.
"They tend to have the best rewards." I gestured across the table. "Do you care to join me? The tea here is rather pleasant."
Grono's armor slackened, its hard outline softening to drape over his hulking form. He sat, and his frame swallowed the cushion. Even sitting, he seemed to stand over me.
I leaned over and poured Grono a cup of tea. "I suppose you heard our conversation."
"There is nothing in or on this island that can escape my senses." Grono's eyes did not leave mine. A warning, perhaps. Or a test.
"When you know to look," I said, making known my knowledge of his limitations. "It stands to reason that you always keep an eye on Silas. I'd worried his attempt to hide his divinity might've hindered you. I'm glad it did not."
Grono's eyes narrowed. "Then I was as expected as he was?"
"Not exactly. I knew Silas would come. I knew what he'd want and why. You, however…"
"As you've surmised, I've come to protect Silas from himself."
"Yes, he is why you listened in. Why you've come, however…"
"The Af'titalans."
I shook my head. "You're entirely too avaricious to incur a needless debt."
"Perhaps I've come to nullify my brother's commission."
"Perhaps."
Grono paused, his intense gaze boring into me. "For reasons I cannot fathom, you do not fear our power."
"Should I?"
"Should the fox fear the wolf, the jackal the lion? A sane man would fear us more."
I smiled—I was the wolf, the Lion, and he the fox and the jackal. "Will you tell me why you've come?"
"I did not lie. Silas and the Af'titalans are why I've come."
"Then tell me what you truly want of me?"
Grono stood. The flow of his armor stiffened, altering into its impenetrable form. "I've gotten what I came for."
"A measure of me?"
"Partly. The rest will come to me in due time."
Grono took a moment to stare at a spot over my left shoulder, then left me to myself.
The teahouse, though emptied, remained heavy with the echoes of his presence. I let the silence stretch, savoring the stillness. This was not peace—this was the eye of something far larger. I poured myself another cup. The tea had cooled, but the sweetness remained. I drank slowly, letting the silence settle.
Then, a voice—soft, melodic, and jarringly out of place in the teahouse's fragile tranquility. "You've stirred the nest, haven't you?"
I didn't turn. I'd sensed his arrival much as Grono had. He moved like smoke, like memory. When he finally stepped into view, he wore no armor, no mask, no pretense. Just a simple robe of lilac.
"Greetings, Ileye," I said.
He smiled, and, as if in agreement, the color of his robe twinkled. "You've made quite the impression. My father is rattled. Grono is… curious. That's rare."
"I aim to please."
"No, you aim to win."
"Doesn't everyone?" I gestured to the seat across from me. "Will you sit?"
Ileye did, folding himself with the grace of a falling leaf. Not for the first time, I wondered about the dead mother who'd raised him.
"You've seen the Af'titalans?" he asked.
"I've seen what they leave behind."
"And you intend to use that knowledge?"
"I intend to survive. The two are often aligned."
Ileye studied me, his eyes unreadable. "You're playing a game with gods."
"I'm playing a game with men who think they are."
He laughed, a soft sound, like wind chimes in a gentle breeze. "I suppose blasphemy is but a breath to a man willing to face gods."
I drained the rest of my cup and stood. "As you know, I have errands to be getting on with. I trust you shall not continue to follow me. Doing so will not be kind to your health."
Ileye chuckled. "You are either a mad fool or a—"
"Leave." My attention went past Ileye. Past the walls of the teahouse.
Ileye frowned, conflicted. Compliance or violence. Wisely, he chose neither. The man who approached was not so astute.
"Why?" Ileye asked.
"Your brother is near," I said.
"Mustar? How did he know you'd be here?"
I smiled. "Grono made sure of it."
"When he gets here, let me talk. He has no reason to attack."
"If I know him, and I do, he'll not be able to resist testing me."
"Let me talk."
"And if I know me, I'll want him to."
Ileye frowned. "Why?"
"Because Grono is watching."
"I fail to understand?"
The air shifted. It began as a tremor. Then came the scent: ozone and iron, like burning blood. Ileye stood slowly, his eyes wide, his lips parted in a silent curse.
The entrance to the teahouse shattered. A hail of splinters struck Ileye me. Mustar's figure stepped through the wreckage, short and lean, his skin the color of ash, his eyes twin moons of ice. One of Silas's oldest, the most volatile of his brood. That he survived his own reckless nature for so many seasons spoke of his prowess. His armor was jagged, asymmetrical, and forged from the souls of his many enemies. It pulsed with a dull red light as though it had recently been fed, yet, insatiably, it hungered for more.
"You," Mustar said, voice low. He stood shorter than I, one of the very few godlings who did, and his heavy, menacing armor did little for his scrawny neck. The man had spent several lifetimes forging a counterbalance to his meek and diminutive stature.
A blur of motion. I rolled sideways. The floor cracked. Dust rose. Ghostly flames flickered over Mustar's blade, the brother to his armor. It sang of its hunger as it materialized, a high, mournful note that echoed through the ruined teahouse.
Mustar grinned. "Good. I was hoping for a worthy fight."
He lunged at me once more, his blade and its ribbon of flame outstretched like a vow of death. I rose to meet him, twin blades whispering free from the sheath across my back. Twisting out of the line of his sword, I carved a sweeping arc through the air, silver crescents cleaving toward him. My blades bit into his soul-forged gauntlet. The clash sang with sparks, my swords hissing against the Alchemy of some venomous spirit—serpentine, no doubt, and steeped in acid. The teahouse's canopied roof tore free like parchment, and the Golem-hewn walls groaned beneath the weight of our fury.
"You're slow," Mustar said.
"You're arrogant," I countered.
I twisted the blade, forcing him to release it, then drove my elbow into his throat. He staggered back, coughing. I pressed the advantage, a flurry of strikes—blade, fist, knee. He blocked most. His souls absorbed the rest. But I saw it:
The flicker of doubt in his eyes.
He came at me fast, hiding behind a vicious smile, arms wide as if to wrap me in a terminal embrace, some twisted parody of affection. I drove my boot into his chest, felt the solid thud of impact, and used the recoil to flip backward, landing in a crouch. Everything stilled. I stayed low, arms held out to my sides, my swords held tight. The chaos that had roared around us just seconds before seemed to hold its breath. Mustar and I stood within reach of each other's weapons, poised to deliver the strikes the distance foretold. One wrong move, one twitch of a muscle, and it would all come undone.
Mustar didn't move. He just watched me, eyes narrowed, calculating. Something flickered there. Hesitation, perhaps. Caution? Whatever the case, it was an odd yet sure instinct for survival; Mustar wasn't known for restraint, but even men like him—by which I mean those thrust up by delusions of grandeur—learned to recognize danger when it stared them down. You don't survive long in Evergreen without that instinct. Not among godlings. Not even among the rabble of The Muds.
"How far are you willing to take this?" I asked. If there was a modicum of strain in my voice, he might have taken my offer to end it. As it were, Mustar took my question for what it was: a promise to survive whatever he threw at me. Somewhere behind me, I heard Ileye groan.
Mustar roared. A shockwave rippled outward, hurling tables and lanterns into the walls. I was blown back, my feet skidding across the floor. The walls toppled over, jagged pieces tumbling out onto the streets. The closest spectators rushed back. More faces watched from behind curtains, on balconies, or in alleyways. The neighbouring buildings—a restaurant that served exotic meats and a Tunneller parlour that services those who wished to pay for the privilege of ignorance—had emptied and looked worse for wear. A few bodies lay under heavy slabs of fractured stone, dead. More would follow. This was but a taste; our battle had only just begun. Soon, given Ileye failed to restrain Mustar with words, the death toll would rise, and the few unlucky souls who had already departed would become the trickle that portended the torrent.
Another lull. Mustar's hesitation reemerged. He did not appreciate the crowd. They made the unpleasant prospect of losing far more unbearable, and my capable resistance had planted the seed of defeat in his mind.
"Brother!" Ileye landed between us, facing his brother. He gestured at the amassing horde, these fools who'd been drawn in like moths to a flame. Only the slow burn of fire was nothing compared to the predation of a Leaf's indifference. "Do not—"
"Silence." Mustar's calm utterance hit harder than his boiling countenance. As always, the prospect of a hard-fought battle superseded all else. As did his desire to be feared. "I will not let your words sway me this time, brother, reasoned though they may be." He raised his flaming sword once more, its tip pointed at my heart. "Step aside."
Ileye held his ground. Mustar advanced undeterred.
"Prithee, Mustar," Ileye said, "this will not end well."
Anger quickened Mustar's steps. "You think so low of me? That I'd fall to one such as him?"
"Father has commissioned this man's service."
Mustar shook his head. "He injured my Lalita."
"She is not yours. Besides, the girl was back to full health after a single night's rest."
"And Momoose," Mustar tried.
"He was your enemy."
"Exactly. His life was mine to take. This man has taken from me the sweetest victory of my long-lived life. He must pay for that, too."
"Then why not wait until he has failed or accomplished what our father has set out for him?"
Mustar's steps slowed. He cast an irritated glance at Ileye. The excuses he'd prepared felt flimsy. If he were clever, he'd have crafted better ones. If he were fearless, he'd have drowned out Ileye's counsel with action. But he was neither clever nor fearless.
"Your words always take the wind from my sails, brother," Mustar said.
Ileye smiled. "Only when you're sailing in the wrong direction."
"Fine." Mustar sighed. But I alone knew that sigh carried as much relief as it did disappointment. He pressed his sword to his chest. The blade melted, seeping into his armor like ink into cloth.
"Another time," he said to me.
"I look forward to it," I replied. "For what it's worth, I don't make a habit of harming children, nor did I intend to rob you of your prey when I watched that bloated braggart get stuck like a pig. I'd prefer our next bout to be more amicable—but I'll relish it all the same. It's rare to find a worthy opponent among our kin." I needed to ingratiate myself with Mustar. I could not do so from a position of weakness, not without pressing myself under his influence. No, that would not do. Mustar was cut from the cloth of weapons and armor, of strength, and to stand above the sole of his boot, I had to be able to stand against the edge of his sword.
"Indeed." Mustar's countenance brightened. "I might say the same of you. But you understand I could not let such slights go unattended."
"We elder gods know that truth well."
Mustar nodded. "Then let us attribute our hostile past to misunderstandings and part with no malice between us."
I nodded. Mustar turned and strolled away. The crowd parted before him, whispering behind their hands. They bowed as he passed. Their fawning disgusted me. As did how easily their reverence lifted his mood.
"You pull at his string nearly as well as I," Ileye said.
"I take it you are the reason he's not on the front lines?"
Ileye watched his brother disappear into the distance. "The Scorpions need him."
"Because of The Hoard?"
"And because I'm not ready to train a replacement."
My laughter trailed behind me as I walked away. Ileye, ever the clever one, did not.
***
Blood dripped steadily—two racks of ribs and a thick cut of loin. The butcher's paper was already soaked through. She'd slaughtered a fresh boarlet at my request. My ears still rang with its death cries, a squeal of pain that set my teeth vibrating. The butcher hooked the animal onto a beam, slashed open the artery on its neck, and waited for its beating heart to exsanguinate its soon-to-be corpse. My impatience cut the process short. Half alive, she began to skin the animal. The thing was still bleeding when I left, and so the meat she'd wrapped for me was dripping red when I stepped into the inn.
I walked up to the bar and slapped the slabs of meat onto the counter. The innkeeper, a clean-cut man of middling age, gave me the same look he'd given me when I first entered his establishment: a conflicted expression somewhere between annoyance and apprehension. I was not his usual clientele. Wealthy merchants were. My leathers and the swords strapped to my back marked me as something else entirely. I suppose my unruly horse and the blood I was trailing into his place were engendering a preference in him. I doubt he'd be receptive to those of my ilk in the future. Yet the extra gold I placed on the counter and the others I'd already fed into his pocket kept him silent.
Kip stared at the hunks of meat, a tankard of ale in hand, that eternal silly smile he wore plastered to his ruddy face. "Boar, is it?"
"It is," I said.
"Where you fixing to cook it?"
"Wherever you've left the package I'd asked you to retrieve."
Kip raised his tankard. "Drink?"
"Purchase a barrel for us. The libations can wait for when we make camp."
Kip drained his drink in a single swallow and slammed a hand onto the counter. This earned him a glance from the innkeeper. The man was quickly growing weary of our presence. When Kip scooped his trusty hammer off the floor with a careless swing, the weight and size of its outrageous head swinging onto Kip's relatively small shoulder broke the innkeeper's silence.
"Please do not wreck my floors," he said.
"Rest easy," I said. "My friend here is stronger than he seems."
Kip, grinning like a fool, followed me towards the stables, twirling the hammer as though it were an inflated feather. "I'm a friend, am I?"
We left the inn on horseback. Strangely, Qaniin—my stubborn mare—took a liking to Kip's Golodanian gelding, a thick-limbed, squat creature bred in Kip's homeland for strength and endurance. Such beasts as that which he rode were trained to carry heavy Golodanians across steep terrain and long distances. Something about the muscled, brown-spotted white horse appealed to Qaniin, by which I mean, she didn't pester him with bites, kicks, or shoves.
Kip led us towards the eastern gate. Dawn was hours away, yet the illuminated streets remained full of empty festivities. We threaded past jolly drunkards, eldritch addicts, and working Roots, and only as we neared the city's outer banks did the noise begin to fade, bleeding into the hush of residential quarters where the saner portion of the populace lay at rest.
Two hooded figures waited for us by the gate. The usual guards were nowhere to be found, and the iron gate, which was habitually left open, was closed.
"Wait here," I said to Kip.
Qaniin trotted onwards, grinding her teeth and slobbering. I tugged on her reins and she stopped. She was breathing heavily now, her muscles taut and tense. Smart girl. Qaniin felt the potential for conflict.
"Good evening, gentlemen," I said. "Or is it morning?"
"You're leaving." Nasiil lowered his hood as he spoke.
"I am."
The other figure stepped forward, hand on his pommel, but a gentle touch from Nasiil rooted him in place.
"You've met with Ileye," Nasiil said. His placid eyes refused to blink.
"I have."
"Then?"
"I've concluded the matter."
"Yet you're leaving without informing us. Do not deny it. Had you been on your way to see us, this is not the gate you would pass through."
I looked down at my feet, at the ground they stood upon. Then at them. "Here I am, and here you are."
"Through no intent of yours." A little heat entered Nasiil's tone.
I quirked my brow. "Are you sure? Did you truly believe you'd found me of your own accord? I revealed myself to your spies, paraded myself down to the teahouse, fought your cousins in open view, and strolled to the gate without any effort to obfuscate my path. Had I not found you here, I'd have deemed you unworthy of my services."
***
He was as bald and naked as a newborn. Hunger and pain stripped the hair from him. So too had it taken his frame and sanity, a bundle of skin and bones and a fractured mind. He lay there moaning uncomprehensibly, restrained only by the bindings of his recent experiences. Kip had added to those. Cuts ran the length of him, across his thighs, down his forearms, over his now visible ribs. His lips were gone, torn off, showcasing missing teeth and bleeding gums. His left ear was but a hole. Blank, bloodshot eyes stared into the distance with no lids to protect them from the winds. He stank of infection. Here was Muraad, the great conqueror, one of Evergreen's greatest, reduced to such unfortunate depths as to be pitiable by the lowliest of Muds. The sight brought a pleasant flutter to my cold heart.
"I hope you do not hold it against me," Kip said. "Then again, you must've known I'd not be able to resist."
"I do not doubt he had a hand in the pain you suffered during my absence," I said.
"More than his fair share." Kip kicked him hard enough to break a pair of ribs. "The cunt refused to make my compupance enjoyable for me. What is it you needed him for anyway?"
"To prepare him."
"How and for what?"
"By commanding his trust and breaking that which he holds for others."
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