The world, for Mordecai, was four-o'clock-in-the-morning-sore. It was the ache in his shoulders that came before the sun, and the dry, copper taste of dust that lingered after it set.
This morning, the wind was a predator. It was a hot, scouring wind from the parched east, the kind that promised no rain, only ruin. It howled over the low-gabled roof of their small farmhouse, rattling the shutters in a loose, arrhythmic beat. Mordecai was already in the south field, wrestling with a fence post. The wind, as if insulted by his presence, tried to tear the heavy wooden rail from his grasp, whipping his black hair across his eyes.
He grunted, shoving the post into the shallow hole he'd dug. He was built for this, all sinew and corded muscle from a life of labor, but today the work felt heavier. The wind carried sounds it shouldn't. Far off, on the ridge road, he heard the thin, angry whine of motorcycles—the Dragon's Claw patrols.
His hands, already cracked, clenched on the wood. The Dragon's Claw was the martial arm of the wealthy, the enforcers for the Grandmasters who ran this territory. They were a reminder, as if he needed one, of how small he was.
A shadow fell over him, and he didn't need to look up to know who it was.
"You've been at this since first light, Mordecai."
Grandma Comfort stood there, a tin cup of water in her hand. She was a small woman, made smaller by the vast, empty field, but her spine was a steel rod. Her face was a map of loving worry, every line earned. "The wind is eating the topsoil. And they are out."
"Let them be out." Mordecai took the cup, drinking in three greedy swallows. The water was lukewarm, but it cut the dust. "They don't care about a patch of dirt like this."
"They care about everything," Comfort said, her eyes on the ridge. "They care about what isn't theirs, and they take it. Your grandfather knew that."
Mordecai's good mood, already thin, evaporated. He handed back the cup and slammed his calloused palm against the fence post, setting it. "He knew how to leave," Mordecai said, the words sharper than he intended. "He knew how to die. He knew how to leave us with a failing farm and a dojo full of spiders. That's what he knew."
Comfort flinched, but she held her ground. "He left you more than that."
"He left me that," Mordecai said, gesturing with his chin toward the barn.
He meant the toolbox.
It sat in the back of the dilapidated barn, under a pile of rotting canvas. It wasn't a farmer's toolbox. It was a long, heavy chest, made of a dark, reddish wood bound in scarred leather and pitted brass. It had been his grandfather's, and in the ten years since the man had died, Mordecai had never once tried to open it.
He'd see it every morning when he went for the feed, and every evening when he put away the tools. It was a dark, silent accusation. It was the anchor of his resentment.
His grandfather. The man was a ghost, a myth Comfort polished with her grief. Mordecai barely remembered him, just fleeting images: the smell of steel and wintergreen, hands that were all calluses and knuckles, and a voice that was always quiet, even when it was angry. He was a man who, in a world that valued strength and magic, had run a failing karate school for local children. "The old fool and his pajama army," the Dragon's Claw had called them.
And he had left. Left them. Died on some "journey" Comfort refused to explain, leaving a widow and a grandson to fight the wind and the dust alone.
And he'd left that damned box.
Mordecai turned back to the fence, his jaw set. "The fence won't fix itself."
Comfort watched him for a long moment. "You can't hate the memory of a man you never knew, child. It's like being angry at a stone."
"I know what he left us," Mordecai said, his back to her. "Nothing."
He heard her sigh, a small, defeated sound that was worse than her anger. She turned and walked back to the house, her small figure leaning into the relentless wind.
Mordecai worked for another hour, his rage making him strong. He hammered the rails into place, his breath hissing through his teeth. But the work was a poor distraction. Because when he wasn't thinking about the farm, or the patrols, or the box, he was thinking about her.
Esther.
The name was a quiet agony. He thought of her in the market yesterday, her hair the color of wheat, her laugh a bright, impossible sound in this gray world. He had been buying seed—the cheap, second-rate seed he could afford—when he saw her. And he saw him.
Kael. Senior student at the Dragon's Claw dojo, son of a wealthy merchant, and a brute who walked with the swagger of the untouchable. He hadn't been threatening Esther, not really. He was just talking to her, leaning in too close, smiling a smile that showed too many teeth. And Esther, she had been smiling back, that nervous, placating smile that the powerless gave to the powerful.
Mordecai had just stood there, his bag of seed clutched in his fist, his heart a cold stone in his chest. He was a boy of dust and sweat. Kael was a boy of leather and silver. This was the world. The rich and the strong ruled. They got the best land, the best magic, and the best girls. The rest, they got the fence posts and the wind.
The thought of his own helplessness made him want to strike something. He finished the section of fence and stalked toward the barn for more wire, his boots kicking up clouds of angry dust.
The barn was dim, smelling of hay and old iron. And there, in the corner, it sat.
The toolbox.
He stopped, breathing hard. The wind howled, making the barn's tin roof groan. A thriller's soundtrack for a mundane life. Today, the box looked different. It looked... patient. As if it had been waiting, and his anger had finally called its name.
He walked over to it, his boots silent in the dirt. He reached out and brushed the dust from the lid. It wasn't just dust; it was a thick, felted grime. Underneath, the wood was smooth, almost warm. A complex, star-shaped lock made of the same pitted brass was set in its center. There was no keyhole.
He hated this box. He hated it because it was a mystery, and he hated mysteries. He hated it because it was his grandfather's, and his grandfather had been a failure who ran from his family. He hated it because Comfort looked at it like it held the answers to prayers she hadn't said yet.
He saw it as a coffin. A coffin of his grandfather's secrets, and he wanted them to stay buried.
"What's in you?" he whispered to the box, his voice rough. "Old gis? Broken trophies? A 'World's Best Grandfather' mug?"
He put his hands on the lid, feeling the urge to pry it open, to smash the lock and expose its pathetic contents for what they were. He wanted to prove to his grandmother, and to the ghost of the old man, that there was nothing inside but junk. That the only magic, the only power, was in the dirt under his fingernails and the money in Kael's pocket.
The wind slammed a loose shutter against the side of the barn, making him jump. It sounded like a gunshot.
Suspense. The air in the barn was thick with it. Not just the wind, but a sudden, prickling awareness. He wasn't alone.
He spun, grabbing a pitchfork and holding it like a spear, his heart hammering. The barn door was wide open, silhouetting a small figure against the blinding, dusty light.
It was just Comfort.
She was holding a small, folded piece of cloth. She didn't look at the pitchfork in his hand. Her eyes were on the box.
"He wasn't a failure, Mordecai," she said, her voice quiet but carrying over the wind. "He was a guardian. He was just... early."
"He was gone," Mordecai said, lowering the pitchfork. He felt like a fool.
"He left you that," she said, nodding to the box. "He said you'd know when to open it. He said it wouldn't open a second before."
"More riddles," Mordecai spat, turning away from it. "I don't have time for riddles, Grandma. I have a farm to save."
He strode past her, out into the searing light, the wind tearing at his clothes. But as he walked back to the fenceline, he couldn't shake the feeling. He couldn't get the image of the star-shaped lock out of his head.
It wasn't a keyhole. It was a scar.
He looked down at his own hand, at the faint, star-shaped scar on his palm that he'd had since birth.
He shook his head, pushing the thought away. It was a coincidence. It was just a box. He had real problems. He had to fix the fence. He had to buy more seed. He had to find a way to live in a world where men like Kael got girls like Esther, and men like him... men like him got the dust.