CHAPTER 8

Finding Warmth

The novice is more likely to wag their tongue than the master. A Grievar who truly understands the path will speak simply by living.

Twenty-Fourth Precept of the Combat Codes

Murray fidgeted in his chair. His Scout uniform was too tight. Grievar weren’t meant to sit like this, in this sort of room.

He stared at the ornate high ceilings adorned with auralite chandeliers, hanging like translucent jellies and splaying spectral light throughout the room. Above him, a balcony ran around the perimeter of the great hall where he sat, its platinum railings shining from a servicer’s daily polish. Tall shield windows were spaced across the walls on each level, providing sprawling vistas to the eastern and western fronts of the Citadel. Between each window, elaborate portraits dotted the walls.

Murray stared out an east-facing window toward the Capital, about a mile in the distance beyond the Citadel’s grounds. Under the grey sky, he could distinguish the hardlight districts of the city by their stark spectral contrasts. The gridded squares of the hawker’s market set to bluelight, the bowl-shaped heart of Central Square ringed with redlight, and the towering skyscrapers of the Tendrum District with greenlight coursing up and down the structures.

In the middle of it all were the dregs, grey-streaked and dilapidated, without any noticeable light source. Dark clouds congregated over the dregs, and the domed roof of the Courthouse was barely visible, emerging from the shadows as if it were gasping for air.

Murray turned from the bleak view and appraised his surroundings. An audience of Grievar Scouts sat around him, uniformed and stiff-backed in their chairs, waiting for Commander Callen Albright to emerge on the podium for their cycle briefing. Some Scouts whispered and eyed each other with suspicious stares.

Murray remembered when this room was still the Knights’ mess hall. There had been a grand fireplace embedded in the brick wall, and tattered heavy bags hung in every corner. He would sit with Anderson, Leyna, and Hanrin at the beat-up long tables that used to line the room, enthusiastically recounting their fights over a hearty stew and a round of ales.

They’d been the young fists of Ezo’s Knights then, freshly graduated from the Lyceum. Brash kids full of hope and honor and adventures to come. Murray remembered how hard they used to laugh, loud enough to attract the ire of the veteran Knights from nearby tables who were carefully discussing Circle strategy. Murray hadn’t needed strategy then. His life had been simpler, run by instinct and bravado. And he’d had a purpose.

In that old mess hall, Murray had felt as if he were a part of something bigger. They’d been a team, one unit fighting in the Circle for a defined purpose. Defending Ezo. Upholding the Combat Codes. They’d been unified beneath the wisdom of a real leader, Coach, who would watch his Knights quietly from a perch at the back of the room.

Since then, the old mess hall had been completely gutted and remodeled to accommodate the state-of-the-art Scout conference center. The long tables had been replaced with rows of sterile steel seats. The fiery hearth at the center of the room was gone and in its stead a large lightboard was plastered on the wall.

The Scouts quieted as Commander Callen Albright took the podium on the balcony above. Callen was smaller than most Grievar, wiry in build, with flat, dark hair and bright yellow eyes. He wore a firmly pressed black uniform and stared down at the room of Scouts with an air of superiority.

Murray shook his head, looking at his so-called commander. Callen was young. Too young for his post.

The Albright family was one of the long-standing purelight Grievar lines in Ezo, one of the Twelve Houses, their ancestors tied to the Citadel for centuries. When the position for Scout commander became vacant, Callen was a shoo-in. Though he barely knew the inside of a Circle, the Albright heir had jumped to a lofty position within the newly formed Scouts branch, which his father had conveniently created several years prior.

And now Callen was one of the Citadel’s four commanders.

Callen cleared his throat, making sure he had the full attention of the Scouts. Murray continued fidgeting in his chair. Though it had been over a month since his fight with the Dragoon, his back still felt like a mech had run it over.

“Scouts! I applaud your efforts this cycle. As you all know, we’ve cultivated some promising talent.” Callen spoke with an airy voice, enunciating every syllable of the words. “Let’s begin our review with acknowledgment of some notable achievements.

“Scout Aeric managed to recruit a gem in the rough, a boy from the borderlands that was wasted on service work, lost amid a sea of harvesters.” Callen nodded, and Scout Aeric stood to acknowledge his praise.

Callen held his hand over the lightdeck in front of him, and the boards across the room flickered on. The feed showed a large blond boy working in Ezo’s borderlands among the harvesters. The boy swung a threshing hoe like it was a garden rake—he was massive. “He’s only ten, and though he certainly has Grunt blood, he’s larger than most of us in this room already,” Callen said in praise. “This giant will be taking on the Trials in short order to enter the Lyceum. I have no doubt he will pass and enter our funnel for the Knight team.”

The Scouts around Murray began to clap, another custom the Grievar had recently picked up from the Daimyo. Murray refrained from joining. If he actually believed in what the Scouts were doing here, a hearty O Toh would suffice, as it always had.

Callen continued his speech. “Though it is her first year with us, Scout Piara got her hands on an established Grievar Knight we’ve sought for a long time. She stole this gem from right under the noses of the Desovian council.” Callen flicked his hand at the deck again, displaying another feed.

The broadcast cut between scenes of a dark-skinned man fighting in a series of Circles around the world. He dismantled each opponent he faced with a combination of devastating precision strikes. Callen paused for dramatic effect, letting the Scouts absorb the highlight reel before announcing the Grievar’s name. “The Falcon himself, Sit Fanyong!”

Scout Piara, a square-jawed recruit fresh out of the Lyceum, stood and accepted her praise, nodding and smiling.

Callen continued to list the team’s achievements. “Although Scout Cydek was denied a great opportunity with his attempt at the Dragoon’s recruitment…” Callen paused and caught Murray’s eye from the podium, looking down at him with obvious disdain. “He was able to recoup his losses and come up with what some may consider an even better prospect.”

The feed displayed a boy with a shaved head viciously kicking a downed opponent, his eyes gleaming with delight as each blow landed. Murray recognized the boy. He’d seen him at Thaloo’s, fighting out of Crew Nine. Cego’s crew.

“Young Shiar may have been the only true purelight brood in the Underground, his inherent talents getting wasted in the slave Circles. Now Shiar can enter the Trials and be properly nurtured at the Lyceum, perhaps even becoming our next champion someday. Scout Cydek was able to realize this great opportunity. Let us commend him for that,” Callen said as the Scouts continued to clap.

Cydek stood up across the room, his piercings glinting under the chandelier’s light. He met Murray’s eye and smirked at him.

Murray chuckled. He didn’t mean to laugh, yet he couldn’t help it. All this pomp and circumstance. Grievar, dressed from head to toe in foolish formal wear, clapping as if they were Daimyo. Accepting praise for talent they had nothing to do with. These Scouts didn’t put their life on the line in the Circle. Yet they stood proudly, as if it were they who were fighting.

The rest of the room fell silent. All heads turned toward Murray, who was now laughing deeply, slapping the armrest on his chair.

Commander Callen’s eyes bulged before he visibly composed himself. “Scout Pearson,” Callen said dryly. “Apparently, you find the hard work of your fellow Scouts to be laughable.”

Murray wiped a tear from his eye as his laughter subsided.

“You know, that is quite funny.” Callen feigned a chuckle of his own. “It’s funny that you, who have served as a Grievar Scout for longer than any of this team—nearly a decade now—you, the eldest Scout, have not contributed a single ounce of talent to the Citadel since your arrival. You’ve brought us a series of broken lacklights every year, street scum who don’t even deserve to walk the Lyceum’s hallowed halls. And you’ve continued this tradition of yours to this day with the latest lacklight you’ve dragged off the streets,” Callen spat hatefully. “In fact, Scout Pearson, I’m still not convinced that you’ve ever contributed talent to the Citadel, even during your glory days as a Knight, which I’m sure you are reliving every moment of in those bleary eyes… eye of yours, stealing away our valuable resources due to your inability to move on,” Callen said.

Murray stood up. He didn’t stand like the other Scouts had, puffing their chests out and waving their arms as they accepted praise. He stood like a Grievar Knight whose honor had been insulted. Murray glared from beneath his furrowed brow, catching Callen’s eyes with a piercing stare as he calculated the distance to the podium and the time it would take to cross it and crush the commander’s windpipe.

Callen stuttered, though he stood several meters from Murray, high above on the podium. “Ahem, Scout Pearson, you can sit down now. We aren’t in a Circle where you can smash your way through your problems. Which actually brings me to one of the points of our meeting today. Thank you for that,” Callen said.

Murray slowly took his seat, keeping his eye locked on Callen like a predatory animal.

“We are Grievar Scouts. This team was formed two decades ago by my father for a purpose. Ezo was losing. Our Knights were failing us in the Circle. Desovi and Kiroth were simply better for years, which cost us dearly. Our in-house development programs were good, but the numbers didn’t add up. There were too many Grievar in Ezo to not tap the full potential of the population. The purelights that got away, gems lost amid piles of rubble. The lacklight freaks, those few who somehow gained an edge from their impure breeding. We needed to find those Grievar, and so my father formed the Scouts, the fourth branch of the Citadel, and brought Ezo back from the brink,” Callen said.

What a darkin’ fool. Did he actually believe this trash?

Ezo survived because the Citadel had pulled up every competent Grievar from PublicJustice, drafting the very best to serve as Knights on the international front. Command had claimed they didn’t need Ezo’s top talent wasting their best years fighting for the justice of convicts and bit-less peasants. The Scout program had only been established because Callen’s father, Stenly Albright, had donated ridiculous sums to the Citadel and wanted a brand-new Command position all to himself.

“We are Scouts,” Callen repeated with emphasis. “Which means we operate in a very specific capacity. The Citadel has provided us with an allotted war chest to purchase talent. Each of you has your own purse, refilled every cycle for this exact purpose. We do not acquire talent by other means—fighting in the Circle like a common merc, for example.” Callen shot his eyes toward Murray.

“This makes us look foolish. Weak, even. Imagine if the Kirothians saw our Scouts fighting in the Circle like uncultured brutes, as if we didn’t have any organization. They would capitalize on that,” Callen said.

Callen stared directly down at Murray again. “This sort of insubordination from Scouts is unacceptable. Cases will be handled on an individual basis, but hear me now—none will go unpunished.”

Callen left the podium, walking down the spiral staircase at the corner of the balcony and greeting the rest of the Scouts at ground level. The Scouts stood, some congratulating one another while others were already on the hunt for leads, feeding themselves with rumors for their next talent run. Murray stayed seated.

“I hear Gylshtak Toliat is unhappy with his team, might be open to jumping ship from Desovi,” one nearby Scout whispered to another. Murray snorted. It was a clear attempt at misdirection, trying to send his so-called team members out into the highlands of Desovi on an impossible recruiting mission while he clearly had his eye on another nearby target.

This was exactly what Murray hated. There was no honor among these Scouts. It was about getting ahead for yourself, lining your bit-purse with the commission from talent discoveries, all to get promoted to some decorative higher rank within the branch.

Grievar were not made for this work, for whispering from the shadows. Grievar were made to fight.

Murray was about to leave, eager to make the trip back to his barracks, when Commander Callen pulled up to his seat.

“Of course, because you aren’t as dense as you look, Scout Pearson, you know that I was referring to you as one of our insubordinate Scouts,” Callen said condescendingly.

Murray stood. He towered over the wiry commander. “Commander. Say what you need to and let me be on my way home. I’ve got work to do.”

Callen cocked his head. “Oh, work, you say? You mean as a Scout? Please don’t tell me you are attempting to train that lacklight find of yours before the Trials. If that is the case, Scout Pearson, perhaps I was wrong in doubting the density of your skull.”

Callen casually brushed off the shoulders of his pressed uniform. “Perhaps if the boy was a giant like Scout Aeric’s find, or an incredibly strong lacklight at the least, he would make it through the Trials. From what I’ve heard, though, your boy is just that—a boy who managed to win a few fights in a minor slave Circle. And for some reason, you took it upon yourself to secure him, risking the reputation of the entire Scout branch in doing so.”

Murray remained silent, staring down at the commander. “The stupidity of your actions aside, what you did made the Citadel look very bad. Unprofessional. If it were my call, you’d be out. In fact, if it were my call, you would have been out long ago, after your first year of subpar Scout work. Unfortunately, you appear to have some comrades in Command who think you aren’t completely useless. Old Aon won’t always be by your side, Scout Pearson. Keep that in mind. Another act of insubordination and I shall make it my personal mission to see you doing servicer work for the entirety of your path.”

“Is that all, Commander Callen?” Murray said with noted sarcasm as he turned toward the exit.

“Yes,” Callen said.

As Murray walked away, Callen called after him, “Oh, one more thing, Scout. Your pay is docked for the cycle. You obviously don’t have any commission, but you won’t be getting your standard stipend, either.”

Callen clearly wanted Murray to argue, to barter, to plead like a common market hawker.

Murray kept walking.

Cego leapt across the Circle into a front roll, springing from the dirt and shooting for a low single-leg, nearly flattening onto his belly as he dove for Masa’s ankle. Masa easily yanked his foot away and pushed Cego’s head into the dirt.

Cego popped back to his feet. He bobbed toward Masa, switching his stance to southpaw and then back to traditional, checking for his opponent’s reaction.

Though Masa had the yellow eyes of a Grievar, his were strangely dark, an olive hue that Cego couldn’t read, unlike a normal opponent. Cego knew Masa was at least thirty, but he looked like a young Grievar. His long mane of dark hair whipped around his shoulders as he moved.

Cego threw a series of feint jabs, clearly outside striking range. Normally, he’d follow up with an inside leg kick, something to get him within range and throw his opponent off-balance. With Masa, though, he knew he’d need something different. Something less traditional.

Cego spun, twirling his body in a full circle, using the momentum to whip his leg at Masa’s head. Masa easily ducked the wheel kick, following up with a deft foot sweep that took Cego’s remaining leg out from under him. Cego hit the floor hard.

Masa was already on top of him with his knee pressing into Cego’s sternum. The olive-eyed Grievar looked down at him.

“Too much, Cego-Ko,” Masa said quietly in his halting Jadean accent. “Normal combination. Two jab, low kick, cross. Stay regular. Not spinning like that.”

Cego took Masa’s hand and stood. He shook his head in frustration. “I didn’t think I could get through with my standard combos. I wanted to catch you off guard with something.”

Masa nodded, pointing at the Circle around them. “Circle. You follow its light. Need to follow your light.” The Circle glowed with a faint indigo hue, illuminating the shadowy corners of the barracks they trained in.

Since his arrival at Murray’s barracks in the Capital, Cego had been preparing for the Trials at the Lyceum, which were now only one week away. He had assumed the Trials would be similar to his experience in the Underground—pure tests of combat prowess in the Circle, the best Grievar emerging victorious. It didn’t turn out to be that simple.

The Trials would mirror the schools of study at the Lyceum, concentrated on different phases of combat. Cego was very familiar with some of these phases already, such as striking or grappling.

One phase that he had struggled to learn over the past month was Circles. Grievar Knights around the world fought in different types of Circles, each forged with varying proportions of the base elemental alloys. The composition of a Circle determined the sorts of spectrals that would be attracted, and, in turn, the wavelength of spectral light would affect a Grievar’s actions within the Circle. Murray’s Circle, which Cego currently stood in with Masa, was a mixture of rubellium and auralite alloys, smelted alongside standard non-elemental metals. But the spectrals that this Circle attracted were unlike any Cego had seen, a result of the unique mixture of alloys. Several deep purple wisps lazily flickered back and forth overhead.

Despite the apparent disinterested nature of the spectrals, under their soft indigo glow, Cego felt confident—too confident. He felt like he could throw flashy techniques, move at lightning speed, play with his opponent if he wanted to.

Though confidence was one important part of fighting, too much confidence left Cego vulnerable. He’d strayed from his standard techniques to try to surprise Masa, unsuccessfully. The Circle had influenced him.

Murray had explained that a Grievar Knight needed to discern how their mind was being influenced by the Circle around them. With the proper training, a Knight could use a Circle’s influence to their advantage, gaining confidence when it was needed.

Cego understood the theory, but when he’d actually stood in the Circle, it was hard for him to distinguish his own thoughts from those that were being influenced.

One problem was that he only had access to the hybrid Circle in Murray’s barracks. The purelight kids Cego would be going up against had far superior resources. Some of their parents owned Circles of every element. If he couldn’t even compensate in this Circle, one he’d been practicing in for the past month, how would he ever succeed under the influence of unknown Circles he’d never felt before? Cego breathed out steadily, trying to calm his nerves as Masa squared up with him again.

Despite Cego’s frustrations, Masa had been a great aid to his training so far. Though Murray was his head coach, the old Grievar had constant Scout duties to fulfill within the Citadel. Most often, Murray would provide Masa with instructions to lead Cego’s morning and afternoon sessions and would return in the evening to review progress.

Masa waited for Cego to attack again, slowly circling him with his hands raised. Cego breathed out, attempting to feel the pull of the Circle. He did still feel confident, though Masa had bested him several times in a row now. If anything, that was a good indicator that he was being influenced by the light.

Though he wanted to dive in with a leaping cross, Cego instead concentrated on Masa’s footwork. He was circling to Cego’s right in a traditional stance with his left leg leading. Cego matched his stance and moved in synchronization with Masa.

As Masa lifted his leg for a step, Cego shot out a quick inside leg kick, catching Masa beneath the knee and throwing him off-balance. Masa smiled and began to circle in the other direction, switching to a southpaw stance, with his right leg leading. He threw his own leg kick, which Cego checked with his shin.

Cego wanted to be done with this slow, strategic game of matching leg kicks and constantly analyzing his opponent’s stance and the direction he was moving. Cego wanted to go for a finish; he felt like he could easily do so.

Clear your mind; free yourself of influence. Cego heard Farmer’s voice, as he so often did since he’d blindly stumbled onto the Underground’s streets.

Cego exhaled again. He needed to stick with his strategy. He shifted along with Masa, waiting for him to lift his right leg this time, timing it with a perfectly executed inside leg kick.

This time, as Masa was thrown off-balance, Cego added two quick jabs to the attack, one grazing his partner’s forehead.

The dance continued, the two combatants circling each other warily.

Cego feigned the inside leg kick, this time swiveling his hips but not sending his leg out. Just as he expected, Masa reacted, ready for the kick, bringing his hips back and his head forward. Cego was already moving, though, launching a cross that he attempted to pull at the last moment to avoid serious contact with his partner. He still connected solidly, catching Masa just under the eye and knocking him to the ground.

“Sorry!” Cego reached down to help Masa up, who accepted his hand.

“No apologize,” Masa said, rubbing the bruise that was already swelling. “You did good, Cego-Ko. No follow Circle light this time.”

“Impressive,” Murray said from the entrance to the barracks. “Masa is hard to catch.”

Murray was standing beside a near-identical replica to Masa, minus the long hair. This Grievar’s head was completely bald.

“Tachi, what do you think? Is Cego ready?” Murray asked the young man beside him.

“Cego-Ko… not ready,” Tachi replied without thinking. Murray chuckled, looking at Cego’s frustrated expression. Tachi was the polar opposite of his twin brother.

Instead of taking it slow to let Cego learn and testing his responses to various attacks, Tachi went at him full force every time. Though Cego could sometimes get the better of him, he often ended up battered and limping after his sparring sessions with Tachi.

“Well, I think you’re ready. Just do what you just did in there. Stick to your plan,” Murray said.

“What about the other types of Circles? What… what if I’m fighting in cytrine during the Trials? How will I know how to react?” Cego asked.

“Every Circle is different, but for each, you need to listen just the same.” Murray walked over to the Circle. He knelt and placed his hands on its steel frame. “Just like with Violet here. Different Circles will speak to you in different voices. Some whisper, some shout, some sing to you. Circles are no different from folk; you just need to know which ones you can trust. Though I’d say I’d rather trust any Circle than most of the folk in this town.…”

Cego was still getting used to Murray’s strange affinity with his Circle, whom he’d formally introduced to Cego as Violet when he’d first arrived at the barracks.

“Speaking of…” Murray said as he produced a glinting coil of red metal from the cloth bag he was carrying and handed it to Tachi. “Let’s make that replacement we’ve been talking about, Tachi.”

Cego watched as Tachi knelt beside the Circle and began to unscrew one of the thick steel plates at its base. The purple spectrals suddenly seemed curious as to what Tachi was doing, hovering over him, one even landing atop his shoulder.

Murray had told Cego he’d first seen Violet when he was traveling across the Isles on assignment as a Knight. He’d taken a boat into the famed aquatic markets. As he rowed past ramshackle stilted huts, the hawkers cawing in a language he didn’t understand, Murray had caught a glimpse of purple-hued steel from the corner of his eye. Deep in the recesses of a hut, under the fading island light, he’d seen Violet.

After his fight at Aquarius Arena on the Emerald Isles, Murray had made a point of rowing back out to that hut and striking a deal with the hawker. Though Violet was broken down and rusted, Murray had spent several fight paydays for her.

Despite being over three decades old now, Violet was in great condition. Murray polished her every morning, meticulously ensuring her frame was gleaming. He spent hours per week detailing the engraved sigils laid across Violet’s face, fighting back the rust.

Aside from keeping Violet’s exterior shining, Murray continually updated her inner mechanisms as well, bringing fresh clasps, coils, and gears back with him from the Deep. Cego hadn’t even been aware that a Circle was more than a solid hunk of metal until he saw Tachi, Murray’s resident engineer, open Violet up.

Cego watched in amazement as Tachi’s dexterous fingers performed surgery on Violet, removing a corroded rubellium coil. Murray hovered over the whole operation in nervous anticipation—Cego couldn’t remember ever seeing the burly Grievar so worried.

“What’s it all do?” Cego asked, peering into Violet’s mechanical innards.

“Most stuff in there for spectral light amplification,” Tachi replied, speaking rapidly, his eyes never leaving Violet. “Inner tube needs to conduct light without interruption, from coil to coil in loop, then feed back out to talk with spectrals.”

“Talk?” Cego suddenly thought about the little spectral that he used to speak with in his cell. He’d seen no sign of the wisp since he’d come up from the Deep.

“Tachi means communicate,” Murray responded. “The Circle’s alloy makeup and how it’s set up inside help it communicate with the right sort of spectrals.”

“What if… it’s set up wrong?” Cego continued to pepper the usually quiet man with questions.

“Most Circles aren’t done perfectly,” Murray said nervously as Tachi slowly inserted the new coil. “But I’ve seen some real broken Circles cause havoc, mess with a Grievar’s head, even drive ’em crazy.”

Murray breathed a sigh of relief as Tachi nodded at him and began to close the hole in Violet’s exterior.

“Aren’t Circles like Violet… Daimyo tech?” Cego asked. He’d become accustomed to Murray’s distrust of Daimyo tools, weapons, mechs, or meds. However, the old Grievar’s obsession with Violet seemed to counter those beliefs.

Murray shot a steely glare at Cego.

“A Grievar takes pride in the Circle they train in, maintains it, treats it with respect—like it’s a part of their own body.” Murray knelt and ran his hand along Violet’s polished surface again. “We may fight for the Daimyo, but the Circles are ours.”

Cego thought back to his memories of the island and training in Farmer’s Circle. He could remember the old master instilling in the three brothers a similar respect for the simple ironwood frame.

This Circle is your home; treat it so.

Cego watched the purple spectrals dance overhead, seemingly pleased that Violet’s surgery had been successful.

“But the spectrals… Do they only affect us? Don’t the Daimyo feel their light too?” Cego asked.

“Yeah, they feel it,” Murray said as he swiped at one of the little wisps playfully. “The Daimyo use alloys and light everywhere in their cities. Bluelight to keep the Grunts from revolting. Yellowlight in the neurogens and cleavers to keep the addicts smiling. Even redlight in their SystemView feeds to keep folk fearful, on edge. But we Grievar feel the light more than any other breed. It’s always been a part of us.”

Murray dragged a cloth cover out from the corner and laid it over Violet. The spectrals drifted to the ground and seemed to settle down with the cloth. Perhaps they were tired from all the excitement, Cego speculated.

Murray waved for Cego to follow him into the living quarters. “All right, kid, let’s get going inside. Mealtime, then we need to wrap up your Codes lessons.”

Murray’s barracks were spartan, as was fitting for a Grievar. Just the essentials for living. A bare-bones kitchen with two small rooms branching from it and a heavy oaken table at its center. Masa and Tachi, the twin brothers, occupied one room, and Murray, the other. Cego had opted to stay out in the training shed—the dusty interior reminded him of the lofted room on the island.

Cego, Masa, Tachi, and Murray sat at the oak table in the kitchen. They ate Grievar fare. Though far more nutritious than the fighting greens Cego had subsisted on in the Deep, the food wasn’t much tastier. Tonight, they had chewy, vat-grown venison strips with rehydrated teva leaf. Murray wasn’t the creative cook that Leyna was either; he’d dragged in the bulk storage container and thrown something onto the sizzler.

Almost all of Ezo subsisted on stored and processed foods, vat-meats and rehydrated plant fare that tasted like bark. Murray told Cego that fresh meats were a luxury only the Daimyo could afford regularly.

Living on the Surface was a sharp contrast to the fragments of life Cego remembered from the island. Though the memories were difficult to grasp—they slipped from his mind like fine grains of sand through the fingers—some vivid images stuck with him.

Silas’s long, lean body thrashing through the waves, swimming back to the beach after hunting sarpin miles offshore. Silas had always been the fisher. He’d been by far the strongest swimmer of the three brothers. He’d return to the black sand beach with a line of sarpin strung across his back, his toothy smile flashing with the setting sun.

Cego had been the forager. Farmer would send him to scale every cliff along the edge of the island to collect various herbs and sprouts. Cego took to climbing naturally, finding grips with his hands and feet as if they were meant to be there. He’d enjoyed the heights, feeling the sea wind brushing the cliff face, gazing at the emerald waters that surrounded the island.

Sam would contribute to the meal with a bucket of blue crabs he caught from the nearby tide pools. Farmer and the three brothers would roast the fish and crabs over a bonfire as they watched dusk fall on the island.

After their meal, the brothers would put two crabs in the center of a makeshift driftwood ring and watch the creatures fight. Cego and Sam would take sides and bet on the victor, yelling in excitement when one of the crabs broke through its opponent’s defenses with a quick-pincered jab or a deft scuttle maneuver. Silas would sit away from the firelight, shaking his head at their childish games.

Cego’s island home was starting to seem more like a dream than a memory, though. Waking up in the loft with Arry’s wet nose on his face. Sitting on the black sand beach and breathing with the tide. Diving beneath the waves as the old master watched from his perch atop the dunes.

Cego had spent his first week on the Surface in complete shock, staring at the bleak world around him. Though the sun occasionally peeked from the grey skies over the Capital, it was only a glimmer compared to the bright orb that rose every day over the island. Everything felt different here, as if Cego had emerged from the Deep to a completely changed world.

Cego still hadn’t told Murray or anyone else about the island. He didn’t speak out loud about the black sand beaches or the emerald waters. He kept silent about his brothers and the old master. Those scattered memories were all he had anymore; they were his only home.

“Thank you,” Cego said as Tachi passed him the plate of vat-meat. Among these new companions—two Jadeans who most often spoke to each other in their own tongue, and Murray, who could be silent for hours at a time—dinner conversation was not the liveliest affair.

“You two work on throws earlier?” Murray uncharacteristically broke the silence, looking at Masa and Cego.

Masa nodded. “Yes, Murray-Ki,” he said, using the Jadean honorific for teacher. Cego had slowly been picking up on the strange intricacies of the Jadean language. Masa and Tachi referred to Cego as “Ko,” to denote his position as their student, and Murray as “Ki” as their master. However, when Cego asked what he should refer to Murray as, Masa told him “Murray-Ku,” which also denoted master, but with a higher level of deference than Cego had with the twin brothers.

“Cego, your throws are solid, but I think your harai goshi could use some reps,” Murray said as he ripped a piece of vat-meat in his hand.

Cego picked at the dry ferns in his wooden bowl. What he would give for fresh fish, sliced down the center and grilled over the spit.

“Yes, I still need to get used to the gi, though,” Cego said. Though he’d practiced some of the throws before, he’d never donned a gi in the past—a thick, woven long-sleeved uniform that enabled strong grips by him or his opponent. Fighting slowed down in the gi; it was less of a scramble and more of a strategic match of constant reactions and counterreactions. He’d rather be unencumbered.

“Why do I need to practice in the gi, anyway?” Cego asked. “It seems silly to train in that uniform when I’ll be fighting without it.”

“The gi teaches your mind to slow down. You can concentrate on the details instead of just blasting through the techniques,” Murray replied. “Plus, some of your Trials will likely be in the gi, so get used to it. In Myrkos, foreign Knights fight in the heavy gi—most would likely freeze on that barren tundra without any layers.”

Cego nodded. After training with Farmer and then fighting in the Underground, he figured he would be better prepared for the Trials. Recently, though, Cego’s confidence had wavered.

There were so many things about Grievar combat that he still didn’t understand. Combat in various types of Circles, each affecting his mental state in a different way. The clothing he wore during his fights that could change his strategy, how he’d have to approach each opponent. There was potential for fights in various environments to mimic the conditions of the other nations, within Circles set in the bitter cold or in the sweltering heat.

Why hadn’t Farmer prepared him for any of this? Though his training in the basics of combat had been thorough, it now seemed rudimentary given the vast number of variables he would need to take into account when going into the Trials and, if he got beyond that, training in the Lyceum.

Murray must have noticed Cego’s furrowed forehead. “Don’t worry, kid. I know it’s a lot to pick up in this amount of time. Most purelights you’ll be going up against have had a lifetime to learn this stuff.”

Cego stopped chewing. Murray sometimes had a strange way of boosting his confidence.

Murray looked up at Cego from his empty plate. “What I mean is… you’re picking this stuff up fast. Just keep your basics in mind; that’s where you have the advantage over these other kids. You’re strong there.”

Cego nodded again. Murray’s teachings were like his home—spartan. His house was made for efficiency. The things he owned, the sizzler, the small rooms, the training loft, Violet—each served a singular purpose. Even the food they ate, though it wasn’t tasty, served the purpose of giving them the energy they needed. Murray didn’t give much with his teachings, but what he did give was efficient; it had a purpose.

“All right, twins, you clean up here, Cego and I are getting a jump on Codes before lights-out,” Murray said.

“Yes, Murray-Ki,” Masa and Tachi replied in unison.

It was raining again.

Sitting on a small wooden stool in Murray’s room, Cego listened to the drumming on the tin roof. A fire was lit in a diminutive hearth in the corner of the room. Cego rubbed his hands together; even indoors, he could see his breath as the Capital’s night air became colder. The fire didn’t seem to provide much warmth, not like the huge bonfires on the black sand beach of the island.

Murray sat at the edge of his cot, reading from a book with a worn leather cover. There were hundreds of similar books stacked in piles along the walls of his room.

Codes was another portion of his new training that Cego needed to pick up in time for the Trials. Murray took Codes very seriously, perhaps more so than the combat training itself.

The Combat Codes were written in old-fashioned language and the meaning of each passage often needed to be puzzled out. Murray said the Ancients had written the Codes as a doctrine for all Grievar to uphold—both in the heat of combat and during everyday life.

“A Grievar shall learn from the rainstorm. Upon finding oneself under a sudden downpour, there is the inclination to run below the eaves of nearby structures. But when pacing between buildings, hiding from the storm, one will still find themselves involuntarily soaked. Standing firm in the rain from the start, a Grievar has made a choice, at least,” Murray read.

Cego nodded.

“What is the rainstorm?” Murray asked. He followed each passage of the Codes with a series of questions to test Cego.

Though Cego hadn’t heard this particular passage before, he had a knack for interpreting the Codes. They were strikingly similar to the words he often heard echoing in his head—Farmer’s words.

“The rainstorm is the opponent,” Cego answered. Murray nodded and Cego thought for a moment before continuing. “The Grievar wants to run away from the rainstorm and hide under the shelter of the buildings. But if he does that, he’ll get wet anyways. He might as well stand outside in the rain, because in that case, at least he made his own choice to get wet instead of the storm forcing him to take the action.”

Murray nodded again, clearly impressed. “Spot on, kid. Now, what about combat applications?”

Cego was ready for this one. “Opening your guard. If your opponent is about to break open your guard, and you can feel that he is about to do so, there is no point in using your energy to fight it. You’re better off making your own choice to open your guard, which gives you the edge and timing, maybe leading to a sweep or attack as your next move.”

“O Toh,” Murray responded in approval. “Great example, kid. Now, how about worldly applications?”

Cego wasn’t so sure about this one. Beyond the example in the passage itself, how did it apply to the world around him? The Surface world was still alien to him, and Cego had never fully grasped how the Underground operated, so he latched on to something from home, something he was familiar with. “When climbing a rock face, you can’t just take the straight path up. You need to make choices about which holds to grab on to, and sometimes the best path can seem the most difficult.”

Murray shook his head. “You need to think about how the Codes apply to life. Being a Grievar isn’t just about fighting or learning techniques. It’s about the folk that we’re fighting for, as darkin’ foul as some of those folk may be modernday…”

“You made the choice to fight for me,” Cego said abruptly.

Murray looked at him curiously, finally thrown off guard by one of Cego’s answers.

“You made the choice to fight for me, which changed everything. Going into the fight at Lampai, you knew you were standing in the Circle because you wanted to be there. Not because someone was forcing you to fight.”

Murray let out a deep breath. “Kid, I know sometimes it’s best to leave what’s done behind, not talk about a past we can’t change. But I also know that wherever you’re from, you got taught some sense, some good.”

Cego felt a sudden urge to tell Murray about the island. But instead, he asked a question, a defensive habit he’d developed recently.

“Why are you doing this, Murray-Ku?” The Jadean formality slipped out of Cego’s mouth without thinking. “Why did you become a Scout? If so many kids down there are broken before you even pick them up, why do you keep doing it?”

Murray paused, the flames from the hearth dancing in his yellow eye. “I’m no Scout. Was never made to be one. You know that, everyone at the Citadel knows that, yet I kept doing it,” he said.

The burly Grievar looked up at Cego. “For so many years, I felt like I wasn’t making any choices. Just had to stay close to the light, had to take the next step though I didn’t know where I was heading. But now, things feel different. It’s because of you, kid. You’re right, I made the choice to fight at Lampai. I made the decision that you were worth fighting for because I see something in you. Something I don’t see much of anymore.

“I saw it when you were fighting N’jal, when you didn’t straight out put a foot through his skull when he was helpless on the floor. I saw it when you were watching the harvesters on the steppe; you were genuinely interested in what other folk did out there. I made a choice to bring you up here, and I’ll see that through. We’re going to get you into the Lyceum.”

It was the most Cego had ever heard Murray speak of himself. Cego realized he’d never said it before, though he should have so many times along the way. “Thank you, Murray-Ku.”

Murray nodded. “All right, on to the next,” the old Grievar said as he flipped the book to the following passage of Codes.

Cego stared into the fireplace, rubbing his hands together. He was finally starting to feel some warmth.