Mikhail

  The metal clangs of the makeshift smithy rung through the stale, humid air. Tents and huts were spread around the camp, and torches were placed everywhere to light the makeshift paths. They'd arrived earlier today at the hideout together, and Twenty and Frehar were being treated by one of the Freeweavers in the medical tent.

  Elka and he were assigned a small tent at the outskirts of the hideout, and were waiting to meet some of the leaders. They had gotten some stew, which might as well have been made by a palace chef compared to the strange goo they'd been fed in the mines.

  Elka slept inside the tent, she'd fallen asleep almost instantly after dinner.

  Poor lass must be exhausted.

  Mikhail couldn't sleep, not yet. He had been in a constant state of alert since leaving the mines, and images of Nebo being dragged through the portal by the imperial still flashed through his mind.

  He rested his head on his arms and sighed. For now, all he could do was join the rebellion to get information, and hope to free the boy soon. The powerlessness angered him.

  A voice startled him. “Mikhail, I presume?”

  He looked up and saw an Acuamori woman standing in front of him. Her long, fiery red hair was tied back into a long braid, and she sported a scar across the left side of her face. The scar had taken one of her emerald eyes. Tall and slender, but her wiry muscles and confident posture betrayed her training. This was a fighter.

  He nodded, and got on his feet. “Aye, that's me.”

  She looked him over once, and stared up at his face. “You're not much at the moment, but I can work with that.” She stuck out her hand. “Nelea, I'll be training you soon.”

  He shook her hand. “Thank you, but I don't think I need it, I've been fighting all my life.”

  “You've been trained by a swordmaster before?”

  “No, but I've made do with my two daggers, and I've not lost a one on one fight yet in my life.”

  She laughed, it was a hearty laugh. “Then you've been brawling, newling, not fighting.” She shook her head, grinning. “You'll see what I mean. Also, daggers? Really? A man of your size?”

  He frowned. “I don't appreciate being mocked."

  “Sorry, that wasn't my intention, I just found it hard to imagine.” She shrugged. “Anyway, get some rest first and eat lots, you need to gain some mass.”

  “I don't have time to rest, I need to find out where my—"

  “Yes, yes, I heard about it from Frehar. I understand you're itching to go out there, but you won't be much use to anyone looking like an exceptionally tall corpse.” She smiled at him. “Trust me big guy, recover a bit and we'll get to training soon.”

  “Fine, but don't make me wait too long.”

  “I don't intend to, I look forward to seeing what you're capable of.” She turned and left, waving as she went. “See you soon.”

  Mikhail sat back down and stared at his empty bowl. He grabbed the spoon and twirled it around in his fingers, accidentally dropping it after a few seconds. He sighed and picked it up, and tried again, but failed after twirling it twice. His shoulders sagged. He picked up the bowl, and stood up to make his way back to the mess tent for more stew.

  Damned woman, fine, I'll eat until I can't anymore.

  “Where are you going?” Elka said, rubbing her eyes.

  He looked at her. “To get some more food, should I bring some for you too?”

  She yawned, and shook her head. “I'm okay, thank you.” She stretched her arms above her head. “I'll come with you though, I want to look around.”

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  He started walking.

  “Wait for me!” Elka quickly got up and ran after him.

  They made their way into the central area of the hideout, where the rebellion had put the most important tents, and stopped to look around. The medical tent, the leader's tent and others were placed in a circle around an empty area. They had built a makeshift square where training drills were held daily, and several instructors were shouting and working on improving their recruits’ form. Two men in robed armour came walking out of a particularly tiny tent, which was lavishly embroidered. It felt like it didn't belong.

  “Weird, isn't it?”

  Mikhail frowned and turned to the familiar voice. “Frehar, how the hell are you up and about already?”

  Frehar puffed up his chest. “I'm unbelievably resilient, my friend.”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, poet.”

  He laughed. “The Freeweavers fixed me up, apparently we have an amazing alchemist in our midst.”

  “Alchemist?” Elka interjected, a curious expression on her face. “I remember hearing about those, but I heard they were mostly snake oil salesmen.”

  Frehar grinned at Elka. “True, many are, but some rare alchemists who actually understand their trade do exist. Oftentimes they're trained by the Elysium Tower, or in our case, they're one of the Freeweave.”

  “How is Twenty doing?” Mikhail asked, staring at the recruits.

  Frehar's expression saddened. “It seems his leg was crushed. He'll be alright eventually but the process will hurt tremendously for a few days.”

  “I see.” He didn't like the thought of the big Acuamori writhing in pain. “I'll visit him when I can.”

  “So,” Frehar said, touching the back of his neck. “One of the Freeweavers requested for you to meet her, she's in that tiny tent over there.” He pointed to the embroidered canvas.

  “Why?”

  “I told her about what happened in the slave mines with Nebo and she wanted to speak to you, other than that she didn't say much.”

  Mikhail shrugged. “Fine, but after that I'm going to eat more, that annoying woman came to pester me too.”

  “Who, Nelea?”

  “Yes, she insisted I’d come and train with her.”

  Frehar laughed. “She’s fiery alright, I wish you the best. Now come on, follow me.”

  They left for the small tent together, with Elka right behind them.

  Nebo

  Nodryev studied a pattern in a dusty tome that was opened on top of his desk. “What is a Dunmori’s purpose, boy?”

  “To be greater than those that came before.”

  “And what constitutes greatness?”

  “Greatness of the soul is decided by Sahrion, greatness of their deeds is judged by the emperor.”

  “And what do Dunmori decide for themselves?”

  “Everything, and nothing. I choose the domain in which to achieve greatness, I don't decide for whom to achieve it.”

  “Ultimately, why must you strive for greatness?”

  Nebo hesitated.

  “I asked you why, boy.”

  Nebo met his teacher's stern gaze. “According to your doctrine; for the glory of the empire.”

  A stinging pain spread across his cheek when Nodryev struck him. “Don't get cheeky with me, you can't afford to be.”

  Tears welled up in Nebo's eyes. “I apologize, Threadgiver.”

  “I don't care about your insincere apologies, fool. I care about you entering the Tower without having your head separated from your body first.”

  Nebo nodded while caressing his burning cheek. “I'll try to refrain from sarcasm, Threadgiver.”

  “Listen, child, this is basic imperial doctrine. I’m not interested in your personal thoughts, yet.” Nodryev sighed, and leaned back into his chair. “Make the doctrines your own for now, enter the Tower, hone your weaving, and then you can choose what to believe. Before then, accept the system and learn to thrive in it.”

  Nebo nodded, and squeezed his hands together. He knew Nodryev was right, but he couldn't bring himself to fully embrace the teachings of an empire that had cost him so much. Even pretending to accept it left a bad taste in his mouth.

  Nodryev stood up, took some time to gather his thoughts, and rummaged through a cabinet close to his desk. He stopped for a moment, and took out a scroll. “You should read this, it isn't very long but it should grant you some measure of insight into the imperial mentality.”

  Nebo reached for the scroll, but Nodryev pulled back momentarily.

  “I want you to ban preconceptions from your mind, boy. Read it with an untainted mind, it will prepare you for your weaving as well. Can you promise me that you will try?”

  Nebo looked at the scroll, then at Nodryev, and nodded while taking the scroll. “What is it about, Threadgiver?”

  Nodryev’s eyes narrowed. “Didn't I just tell you to ban preconceptions from your mind? How do you intend to do so when I tell you about the contents beforehand, you fool?”

  Nebo felt a flash of heat flush his cheeks red, and he looked at his feet. “May I go, Threadgiver?”

  “You may.” He said, turning towards the shelves of books.

  Nebo bowed slightly, and walked out of the room, scroll in hand. He made his way through the dark corridors towards his own room, alone with his thoughts.

  Cruel old man, fine. If you want me to read the scroll so badly, I'll make sure to understand the contents in a single hour. I'll make you regret humiliating me, and when I've learned all I can, I'll escape and find Mika.

  He opened the door to his room and saw Vrathel busily sweeping his floors. The diminutive demon seemed to be a housekeeper, cook, butler and guard all in one. Nebo didn't like the creature.

  “Get out, Vrathel, I'm busy. I'll finish sweeping myself.” He said, and sat down on his bed.

  The creature bowed, his cruel smile unchanging, and scurried out of the room.

  He put the scroll down next to him, sighed, and rubbed his face with his remaining hand. He hadn't gotten used to missing an arm yet, and sometimes still reached for things without realizing it was gone.

  Rain tapped lightly on his window, and he set to focusing on the gentle sound to ban other thoughts from his mind.

  Alright, let's try this scroll.