Second Dominion (Fourth Age)
Aurean Cycle no. 462 of the Macbeth dynasty, reign of Aldric II
First Quadrant, Sines – outer ruins
The heat was a crouched animal, motionless, breathing sand. The shadow of the broken arch trembled like a leaf, and beneath that leaf lay their circle. Rust–kneaded dunes stretched to the horizon; ribs of a devoured city jutted out like vertebrae; the air smelled of poorly burned incense, iron, and dried flesh.
Daisuke arrived first, with his men. His brown hair was braided short, leaving his broad forehead bare and showing a scar through one eyebrow, thicker than the other. His body was lean, wired for bursts rather than posing. He wore simple clothes—light tunic cinched by a worn belt, reinforced boots—but over them a technical mantle covering neck and shoulders. He kept his hands free: the right rough with rubbed calluses, the left bearing a thin ring etched with Hikari symbols. He stopped without sitting. He didn't want to look settled. Not yet. The wind carried back the sting of stones from when, as a boy, he ran barefoot on Shinkai's cliffs with Ryusei. They climbed ridges Asano had forbidden and came home with reddened soles and hands smelling of brine—he forced himself not to smile.
Faruzan was already there, legs crossed on a slab hot as a griddle. She wore a sand–colored desert dress, loose, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Skin like polished copper, violet eyes; on her face, an impertinent gentleness, a fine chain from nostril to lobe, tiny gold studs, freckles glittering as if dusted with powdered gold across her cheekbones. She was as beautiful as a dream of an oasis and out of place in this ruin. She'd tied her dark hair in a sloppy knot the wind was undoing by itself, and she laughed softly, as if within the motionless air a song only she heard were floating.
Daisuke pulled off his right glove and offered the waterskin without saying "drink." The heat did that for him. She reached; her scarf slid from her shoulder. Daisuke lifted it back with a dry, practical motion; his callused fingers lingered an instant on the cloth and on her skin, an involuntary reminder of a touch that had once belonged to another life. Younger, his father had taught him travel knots—not for beauty, but so you wouldn't lose the necessary. There, between fabric and freckles, Asano's smile and a messy knot on Ryusei's wrist flashed in his mind. He let the scarf go almost gingerly, then took back the skin.
"Thank you, desert prince," she smiled, freckles catching the light.
"Prince? Where'd you get that from?" he shot back, but didn't look away. His braids brushed his jaw as he lowered his head.
Faruzan took a sip and pulled a playful face."It's warm."
"Surprise you? You're the local," he said. "I could never get used to this dryness. When I was a kid, all I did was run the cliffs by the sea. My father yelled not to slip."
It came out half laugh, half nostalgia. Faruzan elbowed him. "Then you have the right to complain," she said. And laughed with him. For a moment, the horror didn't exist.
A sliver of laughter passed between them, incongruous beneath the broken arch. In that shared smile Daisuke looked like a brother, not a commander.
Eras came down from the obelisk again—that pile of flesh and bone their devotees called a "monument"—with the patience of an ancient butcher. Shadow swallowed him to the chest and spat him at the circle's feet. His mantle was wasted canvas on a massive body. His thick gray beard reached his chest; his bald scalp shone, and his eyes were so deep–set their sockets cast shade. Every movement looked measured like a rite.
The tattooed one arrived last, or perhaps he'd always been there. You noticed first the black geometry climbing from hands to neck, disappearing behind a gaunt jaw. Pale skin, thin lips, a gaze fixed like a nail hammered into wood. He wore no symbols. He didn't need them. They were on him already, and he looked at them as if he'd just drawn them.
And then the laugh before the echo: Jester. Sitting backward on his usual chair of wedged stones, white mask on, red dreads tied in a lazy bundle, grayish skin. He wore a wrinkled evening suit, stolen from who knows whom. He kept drumming off–beat on his knee.
Daisuke cleared his throat and began. Faruzan shot him a complicit glance before composing herself.
"My brother, Ryusei, will move for sure," he said. His voice betrayed the echo of an affection and a duty that wasn't simple hate.
Faruzan lifted her chin, curious.
"And where?" Eras growled softly, more by habit than challenge.
"To Vossheim, obviously." Daisuke clicked his tongue, but didn't smile. "If I got the message, he did too. Same for my sisters, but… I doubt they'll move." He drew breath, thumb brushing his ring. "If you want to learn something about someone, the Schwarzhaus is where to go. Ryusei will track him. Hell, they might both end up there. If my brother cuts down the Devil's Saber in front of the other Houses, he'll be seen as the one who restored Hikari honor. He'll gain new backers. He might even take some of mine—especially while he's on Shinkai and I'm away."
The word "mine" stuck between his teeth. Not only opportunism: a fear that his brother would be stolen by their own people—and at the same time that he'd steal them. Faruzan caught the flash of contradiction and lowered her gaze.
"But isn't that… a hotel? How would a duel work in a hotel?" she asked, genuinely.
"Well, the Von Edryck run tight rules there…" Daisuke said. "…but if you know how, violence isn't necessarily banned. Some settle everything in wine and words, some in the corridors. Rules are just another weapon," he added, more to himself than to her.
For an instant, the two traded a smile.
The tattooed one tilted his head."Seeds," his voice was dry paper. "Where birds watch, seeds root best."
"There's a detail: Ryusei is delusional," Daisuke went on. "When our father was killed and the Magatsu stolen, he swore revenge. Like all of us, sure, but he took it especially to heart. But our father was a Patriarch. And that man killed him. Do you know what that means? My brother will lose. And the Devil's Saber will have served him to me on a platter. I'll take Ryusei's Talons and live to fight another day."
The wind, still until then, threaded a whistle through the ruin. Jester stopped drumming as if he heard the key change.
"Mmh…" he purred. "Humble, the younger son…"
"More realist," Daisuke clicked his tongue.
"Well…" Jester stood. "Don't know if you heard about Ignar…"
"Everyone heard about Ignar," he hissed flatly. Eras shuddered; he too remembered the forced silence after that apocalypse.
"…but you also know that, curtain call, our man of the hour had taken a fine beating? And he's been inactive all this time… he's weakened."
Daisuke frowned. "You're saying… Ryusei could win? I could win?"
"Then let's go!" Faruzan clapped once. "I'll put on the nice scarves."
"A den of blasphemers…" Eras rumbled. "…who still believe in thought…"
Daisuke raised a brow. "You'd come too?"
"Of course!" the girl chirped.
Jester laughed, high and gratified, and cocked his head. "Slow down, little one! I said he's weakened, not weak," he rasped. "If he's even half what he was six years ago, you won't leave that hotel in a single piece. That's why I'll go."
"What difference does that make?!"
"That I was there. You didn't see him," Jester said, voice cracking with excitement. "It wasn't a battle, it was the end of sky and air, and he… he didn't fight—he reaped." He touched his mask, almost fond, then looked around: the tattooed one, Eras, Faruzan. "Ever wondered why three Apostle seats were vacant to begin with?"
"Oh…" the girl's smile faded for the first time.
"I'll go. If my dear rival is there… I'll pay my respects." He studied his hand; from within it an amorphous metal mass oozed out, quick–shaping into a blade.
"And my brother?" Daisuke asked.
"Who cares about your brother," Jester shot back. "If he's smart, he'll run. And since the place is so well frequented, I'll try to get a fuller picture of how much the Lysanders really know about the little… projects underway on Gaia Prime."
Daisuke tightened his belt. Looked at Faruzan. The wind lifted a wisp of her hair; he set it back with a near–familiar gesture. He wondered when he'd stopped allowing himself to be only Daisuke.
"Then I won't go," he said at last. Not surrender; avoiding a useless fight. "Keep me informed." He looked at Jester, serious. "And don't touch him unless you must."
Faruzan clicked her tongue. "I see. So… the prince stays with me?" she said, trying to lighten the air. But her eyes were serious.
"I'll stay." Daisuke smiled without joy, then added, lower: "And I'm not a prince. My father called me 'mouse' because I hid under the table to listen to stories. That's the most honorable thing I did before taking up arms."
Faruzan half–laughed. "Desert mouse. Fits you," she elbowed him, an invitation not to turn to stone. "And don't become a snake."
"Well, that'd be more of a sea thing anyway," Daisuke replied.
She elbowed him again—the same plea not to harden.
"…Good," the Hikari closed the meeting. "We stick to the original plan, then."
A small cloud of sand lifted as Jester wandered off, laughing to himself. Daisuke looked at Faruzan, then the bone obelisk, then the burning horizon. His eyes hurt. Not tears—just the weight of a knot he couldn't untie.
--
Fourth Quadrant, Calixis
The sun had dropped behind the rocky spikes when Law decided there was no immediate risk of bringing the cave down. He took Lacrosse outside, onto a slab of smoothed stone jutting over the void. The canyon below swallowed the wind and sent it back up in warm, sandy gusts. Long shadows drew lines on the sandstone; the air smelled of iron and resin.
"Before we break more sticks over your head…" Veynar had said with a chuckle, chin–pointing them toward the flat. "…let's see if you can do something that won't bring the mountain down on us."
The old man stayed up top, seated on a stone block like a step, eyes half–closed. Fingers laced on his knee, as if sipping another invisible cup. Law, meanwhile, prowled around Lacrosse like a bored cat.
"The attacks were to make you react," he explained, gaze steady on the boy. "But if we're going to teach you force, you need something to work it on."
He set down a fist–sized rock in the middle of the flat. "This is your opponent. Move it."
Lacrosse stared at the rock. Just a chunk of gray stone veined with orange. He knelt before it, hands on thighs, breathed. Sought that pulse at his nape: yesterday it had felt like a fidgeting little motor, now a taut knot. He closed his eyes, thought again of "breathing from the nape." Inhale: no response. Exhale: no response.
"You're not blowing out candles," the old man needled. "The feeling won't come if you force it."
"Try remembering the panic," Law advised, a touch of irony. "First time came from there. Don't actually scream this round, though."
The boy shot him an offended look, then focused again. He tried to summon that fear without letting it explode. Felt the nape–knot pulse again, a sharp thud. His fingers opened on their own, as if the impulse wanted to exit there. The rock vibrated for an instant, slid a centimeter, and settled back. Lacrosse's eyes went wide.
"See?" Law tapped his shoulder. "It's there. Keep going."
The second attempt was harsher. The knot pulsed and the impulse flared too wide forward: the stone hopped and smacked another rock, chipping it. A shiver ran his nape, metallic taste on his tongue.
"Breathe," Veynar said, voice level. "Each strike drains. You'll hollow out if you let it go like that."
Lacrosse drew breath. The warm wind slid over his porcelain–smooth face, lifting a veil of dust. He tried a third time: pictured the stone as hanging by a thread, and his energy as a hand that only had to touch it. The knot answered with a more controlled thrum: a vibration born, down his spine, spreading to the fingers. A brief violet wave burst and lifted the rock a few centimeters. It hovered a blink, then thudded down.
"There we go," Law muttered. "Keep the wave short and steady. You don't need to shove—'shift' the gravity under that object, don't toss it." He gestured as if lifting an invisible blanket.
They spent the morning like that: Lacrosse making the knot vibrate, Law correcting, Veynar commenting. At first the strikes were always too strong or too weak; once the stone flew at him and Law deflected it at the last instant with a slash. Another time it smashed into the wall, raising a dust cloud that made them laugh. But slowly the boy learned to dial the wave's length and intensity. His hands shook, his head throbbed, but between breaths he managed to lift the rock and set it where he wanted.
"Not bad, kid," Veynar conceded after yet another try. "You moved something without getting us killed. Means you're not completely useless."
Lacrosse smiled, shy. "Thanks… I guess."
"Don't thank me," the old man retorted. "Now try something that isn't stone."
Law scattered a handful of rusty nails on the slab. "Let's try moving these," he said with a shrug. "They're light. Shouldn't kill anyone if you mess up." He brushed a nail along his blade's spine. The bit of iron clung to the sword a heartbeat longer than it should have. Law watched, intrigued. "This… wasn't magnetized," he murmured under his breath. "Weird."
Then at Lacrosse: "Right, try the same as with the rock. Not sure they'll behave the same."
The boy frowned. "So I try to shift them like the stone?"
"Exactly. The wave might run through your hands, not just the knot," Law added, touching his wrist. "Like the pulse slides down the arms and leaves the fingertips. Feel it."
Lacrosse studied his hands, then closed his eyes. He felt the throb at his nape and tried to split it, imagining two streams running down his arms. A light sting traveled his limbs, a spark–like tingle. He opened his palms toward the nails.
The first attempt, nothing moved. Second, the nails trembled; one rolled a finger's breadth toward him and stopped. Lacrosse huffed, disappointed, but tried again. This time he pictured his energy as a fine net unspooling from his palm to touch the iron. He felt the knot vibrate in accord with his fingers. A blue flash skipped through the air and a nail jumped. Instead of lifting and dropping like a rock, it flew to him and clicked onto the back of his hand.
"Oh?!" Lacrosse jolted. It wasn't the same shove he'd given the stones: it was like something had "pulled" the metal.
Veynar arched a brow. "That isn't gravity…" he observed. "…you drew it like a magnet."
"Try sending it away now," Law said, more intrigued than didactic.
Lacrosse summoned the impulse and felt the tingle reverse. Instead of attract, he pushed. The nail popped off and skittered away, pinging Veynar's boot. The old man didn't budge an inch.
"Lighter next time," he grumbled, rolling his eyes. "I don't have many pairs."
The boy laughed, exhausted, and slumped onto the stone. The wind brought him the iron smell of the nails he'd moved. He looked at his hands: smooth, lustrous surfaces veined with hairline tracings like ceramic cracks, dust settled on them without ever soaking in. They were new hands. They belonged to someone who could raise stones and shove nails without touching them, and still didn't know who he was.
"Enough for today," Law concluded, noticing the tremor in his shoulders. He handed him a canteen.
Veynar climbed down from his step and ruffled his hair. "You've done enough damage for one day. Law, get him something decent to drink. Tomorrow we start again. We've still got a heap of metals and stones to convince that gravity is an opinion."
Night wrapped them as they reentered the cave. Lacrosse looked back once, toward the training ledge. The nails still glinted on the ground, and the stone he'd lifted sat a few paces away. It looked like a sleeping head. He wondered if one day he'd be able to move the world as easily as he now moved a rock.