Ten days had passed since the dream.
Darian marked the time by the rhythm of his duties—morning feedings, afternoon inspections, evening training—each day bleeding into the next with the relentless monotony of survival. He rose before dawn, worked until exhaustion claimed him, and fell into sleep hoping that the mausoleum would appear again behind his closed eyes.
It had not.
But last night, finally, the headache had vanished.
He had grown so accustomed to the dull throb behind his temples that its absence felt strange, almost unsettling. For ten days, that pain had been his constant companion—a reminder that the dream had been real, that he had touched something beyond the ordinary boundaries of sleep, that somewhere across the vast distances of the Grey Continent, two strangers shared his impossible burden.
Now, with the headache gone, he felt oddly adrift. As if a tether had been cut.
The morning feeding passed without incident. The horses had grown accustomed to his presence, accepting his care with the patient tolerance that working animals developed for those who treated them well. Darian moved among them automatically, his hands performing familiar tasks while his mind wandered through less comfortable territories.
His training had accelerated. That much was undeniable.
In the ten days since the dream, his connection to his wolf-blood had deepened dramatically. Transformations that had once required minutes of concentrated meditation now came in seconds. His senses had sharpened beyond anything his single tattoo should have permitted. Yesterday, during his evening practice, he had held his partial transformation—claws extended, senses enhanced, the beast riding just beneath the surface of his skin—for nearly an hour without strain.
Such progress should have taken months. Perhaps years.
The ring was responsible. He knew this with a certainty that transcended logic. Whatever the Ka-Tool's nature, it was not merely sitting dormant on his finger—it was actively working, channeling something into his cultivation that accelerated and refined his development. The two powers were not separate; they were interacting, each one feeding the other in ways he did not fully understand.
But therein lay the problem.
His wolf-blood grew stronger with each passing day. The ring's influence pushed him forward on the Beast Path with unprecedented speed, tempering his animal nature, honing his instincts, preparing him for levels of power that should have been years away. Yet the ring itself remained a mystery—a Ka-Tool he had never trained to manifest, never learned to wield, never even known was possible for one of beast-blood to possess.
The imbalance was growing.
He could feel it sometimes, in quiet moments between duties. A dissonance in his core, like two musicians playing different songs in the same room. His wolf-blood and his ring-power occupied the same vessel, but they did not harmonize. They coexisted in an uneasy truce that Darian suspected would not last forever.
If he wanted to survive—if he wanted to avoid the madness that Seraphina had spoken of—he needed to understand both paths. He needed to train both powers equally, to bring them into some kind of balance before the dissonance tore him apart.
But training his Ka-power openly was impossible.
The Fang of the Lesser Moon was a Beast Path school. Its masters, its students, its entire institutional structure existed to cultivate practitioners of the primal way. If Darian were seen manifesting a Ka-Tool, if anyone noticed the ring that had appeared on his finger, questions would be asked. Questions that would lead to investigations, to scrutiny, to the kind of attention that a thin-blooded village boy could not survive.
And it would not end with him.
Darian thought of his mother, counting copper coins in their rust-eaten house. His father, tending goats on grey mountain slopes. His sister, wearing the blue fabric he had sent, dreaming of a future that her brother's success might provide.
If he were exposed as a Convergent—one of the Fractured, bearing multiple paths—his family would suffer for it. The shame would reach across hundreds of miles, tainting everyone connected to him. His village would be investigated. His bloodline would be examined. Every person who had ever shown him kindness would fall under suspicion.
He could not risk it. Could not train his Ka-power openly, no matter how urgently the imbalance demanded attention.
Walk the tight path, Seruvan had said. Wait.
Darian was learning just how narrow that path could be.
—————
The afternoon light was fading when he arrived at Sethkhan's shop.
The old serpent-blood looked up as the door opened, offering a perfunctory nod of greeting before returning his attention to the ledger before him. This had become their pattern over the weeks of Darian's employment—minimal acknowledgment, maximum efficiency, an understanding between two people who preferred action to conversation.
Sethkhan liked him quiet. Darian was happy to oblige.
The back room awaited with its familiar chaos of shelves and containers, and Darian moved into its dim embrace with something like relief. Here, at least, his wolf-senses served a clear purpose. Here, his strange abilities were assets rather than liabilities. Here, he could lose himself in the simple rhythm of inspection and cataloging.
He worked methodically, moving from shelf to shelf, letting his nose guide him through the maze of substances. Most of the new shipment was standard fare—medicinal herbs, common compounds, the everyday materials of an apothecary's trade. He verified each container, noted any discrepancies, set aside items that required Sethkhan's personal attention.
And then the scent found him.
It was the same as before—that complex, layered aroma that made his wolf-blood surge with recognition and hunger. Three bloodlines intertwined, somehow merged into a single compound, calling to something deep within his primal nature. The jar sat on the restricted shelf where he had first discovered it, unchanged, waiting.
But there was more now.
Darian's nose caught traces of the same scent elsewhere in the room—on Sethkhan's hands when he had passed through earlier, on the wrapping materials of a recently opened shipment, on the very air itself as if the substance had been handled frequently in recent days.
The shop was dealing in this compound. Moving it. Perhaps producing it.
And his wolf-blood wanted it desperately.
The craving was stronger than before, sharpened by his accelerated cultivation. Whatever this substance was, it resonated with his beast nature at a fundamental level. He could feel his transformation straining at its leash, his claws threatening to extend, his senses pushing toward dangerous sensitivity. The wolf within him was not merely interested—it was hungry.
Darian forced himself to step back from the shelf, breathing slowly, deliberately, pushing the primal urges down. He could not afford to lose control here. Could not afford to draw Sethkhan's attention to his interest in restricted goods.
But his mind was racing nonetheless.
Where did such a substance come from?
Three bloodlines merged into one compound. Three beast-bloods contributing their essence to a single mixture. Such a thing could not be created from willing donors—the quantity suggested by the shop's apparent trade would require far more contributors than could be found among consenting practitioners.
Are they buying it from the poor?
The thought was dark, but not impossible. Mithrakesh was full of desperate people—thin-blooded practitioners who had failed to advance, refugees from the disputed territories, those who had fallen through the cracks of a society that valued power above all else. Such people might sell their blood, their essence, their very beast-nature for enough coin to survive another month.
Or are they taking it by force?
That thought was darker still. Slaves existed in the Shahrivar Sovereignty, despite the official prohibitions. Border captives, debt-prisoners, those who had run afoul of the great clans—all could find themselves in chains, their bodies no longer their own. If the powerful needed beast-blood for their compounds, what would stop them from simply… harvesting it?
Darian imagined prisoners in dark cells, being bled regularly like livestock. Imagined their essence being extracted, refined, sold to those who could afford it. Imagined the fear and pain and hopelessness of such an existence.
The thought was horrible.
But it was also, he suspected, probably true.
He knew he should not ask questions. Knew that some knowledge came with prices too high to pay. Sethkhan had made it clear that certain aspects of his business were not for Darian's inspection, and the old serpent-blood had not survived decades in this trade by being careless about who learned his secrets.
Keep your head down. Do your work. Ask nothing.
It was good advice. Wise advice. The kind of advice that kept thin-blooded practitioners alive in a world ruled by power and privilege.
But it sat uneasily in Darian's chest nonetheless.
He finished his inspection and reported to Sethkhan, carefully omitting any mention of the restricted compounds. The old man accepted his report with characteristic brevity, dismissed him with a wave, and returned to his ledger without another glance.
Darian stepped out into the evening streets of Mithrakesh, the taste of secrets bitter on his tongue.
—————
The scroll room was empty when he arrived.
This had become his habit in the days since the dream—arriving early to his evening training, spending the first hour among the texts before transitioning to physical practice. Most of the scrolls held nothing he had not already studied, but occasionally he found fragments of useful information. And lately, he had discovered something more directly valuable.
The footwork manual sat where he had hidden it, tucked behind a collection of dietary guidelines that no one ever consulted. It was a modest text—twenty pages of diagrams and instructions, describing a movement art called the Stalking Wolf Form. Nothing advanced, nothing secret, nothing that the school's masters would object to a first-level practitioner studying.
But it was practical. And it was free.
Beast-kin fought with their bodies. This was the fundamental truth of the Beast Path—unlike Ka-Forgers with their manifested weapons or Seraph-Crowned with their external anima, those who walked the primal way transformed themselves into weapons. Claws and fangs, enhanced strength and speed, the instincts and abilities of their ancestral beasts. Everything flowed from the physical form.
Which meant that martial skill mattered enormously.
A practitioner with superior transformation abilities could still lose to one with inferior power but superior technique. The scrolls were full of such stories—legendary battles where cunning and training triumphed over raw strength. Darian had no illusions about his bloodline; he would never match the natural gifts of the great clan scions. But skill? Skill could be learned by anyone with sufficient dedication.
The Stalking Wolf Form emphasized footwork—the foundation upon which all combat technique was built. It taught practitioners to move with the fluid grace of their ancestral beast, to flow around obstacles rather than through them, to position themselves for attack while remaining ready to retreat. Simple principles, but profound in their implications.
Darian had been practicing for six days now. Progress was slow—slower than his meditation advancement, certainly—but measurable. His feet were beginning to find the patterns without conscious direction. His weight was learning to shift smoothly between stances. The movements were becoming, gradually, instinctive.
Whatever the future brings, he thought as he rolled up the scroll and prepared to practice, being more skillful doesn't hurt.
He moved to the training yard, finding a corner away from the few other practitioners who had already begun their evening routines. The grey light was fading toward darkness, but his wolf-enhanced eyes needed little illumination. He began the first sequence of the Form, letting his body flow through movements that were still awkward but improving.
Step. Shift. Turn. Flow.
The world narrowed to the immediate—to the placement of his feet, the angle of his weight, the rhythm of his breathing. Here, at least, there were no secrets to keep, no dangers to navigate, no impossible contradictions to resolve. Here, there was only the body and its endless capacity for refinement.
Step. Shift. Turn. Flow.
His thoughts drifted as he practiced, moving through familiar territories of concern. The imbalance between his paths. The mysterious compound at Sethkhan's shop. The dream-mausoleum and the two strangers he had met there. The uncertain future that stretched before him, full of threats he could barely comprehend.
Ten days since the dream. The headache is gone. What does that mean?
He did not know. Could not know, without more information than he possessed. Perhaps the connection had been a one-time occurrence, never to be repeated. Perhaps it would return when certain conditions were met—conditions he could not yet identify. Perhaps Seraphina and Khaemon were wondering the same things, far away in their imperial capitals, equally isolated and equally confused.
The thought of them brought an unexpected comfort.
He was not alone. Whatever else happened, whatever dangers awaited, he faced them alongside two others who understood his burden. They were strangers still—nobles from enemy empires, products of worlds utterly unlike his own—but they shared the same curse. That made them… something. Not friends, perhaps. Not yet. But more than allies of convenience.
Partners in damnation, a dark voice whispered. Walking together toward the same cliff.
Darian pushed the thought aside and focused on his footwork.
Step. Shift. Turn. Flow.
—————
The night was deep when he finally returned to the dormitory.
His muscles ached pleasantly from the extended practice—three hours of footwork drills, followed by an hour of meditation to refine his wolf-blood connection. The ring on his finger had pulsed faintly throughout, responding to his efforts in ways he could not interpret. Whatever relationship existed between his two powers, it was active even when he focused on only one of them.
The imbalance remained. Grew, perhaps.
But he was too tired to worry about it tonight.
Nefara was still awake when he reached his pallet, the serpent-blooded girl's eyes reflecting the dim lamplight as she watched him approach. They had developed a cautious friendship over the weeks of shared residence—nothing deep, nothing that required the revelation of secrets, but enough to smooth the edges of dormitory life.
"Long practice," she observed quietly.
"Footwork." Darian sat on his pallet, feeling the exhaustion settle into his bones. "The Stalking Wolf Form."
"I know it. Basic, but useful." She paused, studying him with those vertical-pupiled eyes. "You've been pushing hard lately. Every night, longer and longer. Are you preparing for something?"
The question was casual, but Darian heard the genuine curiosity beneath it. Nefara was observant—all serpent-blooded were, it seemed, watching and waiting and cataloging information for future use.
"I'm trying to catch up," he said carefully. "My bloodline is thin. If I want to advance, I need to work harder than those born with stronger gifts."
It was true, as far as it went. It was not the whole truth.
Nefara accepted it with a small nod, apparently satisfied. "The Serpent School has positions opening next month. Assistant handlers for the ritual beasts. The pay is better than stable work, and the exposure to advanced practitioners could accelerate your cultivation."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you're not an idiot, and you work hard, and those qualities are rarer than they should be." Her smile was thin and knowing. "And because it never hurts to have a wolf who owes you a favor."
There it was—the serpent pragmatism, the calculation behind every kindness. But Darian did not resent it. In a world ruled by power and politics, honest self-interest was almost refreshing.
"I'll consider it," he said. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me until you get the position." She turned away, settling onto her own pallet. "Sleep well, wolf-boy. Tomorrow brings new challenges."
Darian lay back, staring at the ceiling as the dormitory settled into its nighttime quiet. Around him, dozens of young practitioners slept or pretended to sleep, each one nurturing their own ambitions, their own secrets, their own private calculations about how to climb higher in a world that rewarded strength and crushed weakness.
He fit right in, in that sense.
His thoughts returned, as they always did, to the dream-mausoleum. To Seraphina's composed desperation. To Khaemon's shadowed secrets. To the vast space they had shared, ancient and mysterious, connecting three souls across impossible distances.
Ten days, he thought. The headache is gone. Maybe tonight…
But even as hope flickered, exhaustion claimed him, pulling him down into sleep before he could complete the thought.
He dreamed of nothing.
—————
The next morning brought no answers, but it brought routine, and routine was its own form of comfort.
Darian rose before dawn, fed the horses, attended the morning ceremony at the Serpent Temple, and returned to his duties with the mechanical efficiency of long practice. The shop awaited in the afternoon, the scroll room in the evening, the endless cycle of work and training that defined his existence.
But as he went about his day, he found himself thinking about the future with new clarity.
He could not train his Ka-power openly. That path was closed to him, too dangerous to contemplate. But perhaps there were other ways—indirect methods, hidden practices, techniques that could develop his ring without drawing attention.
The Ka-Forgers in the caravan had manifested their tools openly, but they had also spoken of meditation, of heart-training, of inner cultivation that preceded external manifestation. Perhaps some of those techniques could be practiced in secret, adapted to his unique situation.
Perhaps he could find texts in the scroll room—not in the Beast Path sections, but in the general philosophy collections that touched on all traditions. Perhaps Sethkhan's shop contained more than herbal compounds—the old serpent-blood dealt in information as well as substances, and knowledge could be purchased if one knew how to ask.
Perhaps, when the dream-mausoleum opened again, Seraphina and Khaemon would have insights to share.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
The word was a mantra against despair.
Darian had no guarantees, no certainties, no clear path through the darkness that surrounded him. But he had his work ethic, his growing skills, his cautious alliances, and his secret connection to two strangers who shared his burden.
It was not much. But it was something.
And in a world that offered the powerless so little, something was everything.