"Redemption is war waged against the self, and few ever staunch the bleeding." -Kahromei the Wizard

Cadance sighed, letting the book fall from his hands. It bounced off the bed, tumbled, and landed on its pages. They would crease, some might tear, and the spine was probably already damaged. He didn’t care. He was tired of reading. He’d sleep if he could, the sun was setting, but he only woke up a few hours ago. He could make food, he felt the distant pangs of hunger, but cooking would take time and energy. It would be a pain. He dragged himself up, out of bed, and to the door. Sometimes, he found doing nothing more painful than doing something. When it got painful enough, he would walk. This was one of those times.

He left the house as he was. He never bothered to change into nightclothes, and even if he did, it’d be dark soon. Too dark to care what strangers thought. Conventional wisdom said the night was dangerous. The only things awake in Ylican would be animals, the rich, the guard, the monsters beyond the wall, and criminals. If a watchman caught him wandering at night, they might question him, but he mostly kept to the same routes.

He walked until the light grew dim. The golden corona sinking in the sky, replaced by candles in homes and lanterns in the streets. The spots of light were scattered, and many followed guards on patrol, casting long and shifting shadows. He avoided the well lit streets. Along the walls, the homes of the rich and powerful, the poorer quarters. Too many people. Too bright and too loud. He avoided the dark streets too, mostly. The night could swallow a man. Sometimes he’d step into the shadows, to step away from everything. Sometimes he watched the shapes, cloaked in darkness. Heard the wind whistling against the shingles, whispering to the trees, their leaves crinkling overhead. The occasional footsteps, or distant laughter of guards. He’d peer out through that curtain of obscurity, overlooked as just another shade, a tree or a bush, a post perhaps. Then, as if he never left, he’d return. Return to those dim, empty streets, and wander.

He had no destination, no intentions. He could walk for hours, though his feet would hurt in the morning. If he walked long enough, his feet would complain even on the way back home, and he’d have blisters for days after. Every pain, every ache, every inconvenience he subjected himself to was in service to a greater goal. To avoid greater pain. To mitigate, or stall at the very least, the pain he knew was coming. Good days are for children, and fools. You can snatch a moment of happiness, but what’s left stays the same. Pain.  

Sometimes he’d dream up crimes, adventures and escapades. Dream of committing some petty theft, just for the thrill. Of breaking a merchant’s window or throwing rocks at a watchman. Imagine just letting go. Escape. And he could do it. When it was over, he’d either end up in jail or he wouldn’t. Maybe a guard would kill him, and he’d never feel anything again, though his last moments certainly wouldn’t be painless. But anything more than thinking would be a pain. Thinking was often a pain itself, or led to pain, and didn’t need any help from him to cause more.

He heard voices, or half heard them, coming around the corner. Harsh, breathy murmurs, the kind people used when they were trying to be quiet. The kind that made them fail, made them stand out instead, the kind that drew more attention than a simple soft voice. He turned around, cut across the narrow street, and took a detour. For a breath, he felt excitement, walking away with his back turned. They could come around that corner any moment and see him. They could be criminals, or corrupt guards looking for targets in the night. But even before he turned the corner, the dim flame kindling in his chest had faded.

Cadance wasn’t quite familiar with these streets. He knew some of them, and could follow them back home, but he wasn’t ready to go back yet. They gradually narrowed, and soon he was walking down dark alleyways, occasionally brushing his shoulders against the walls. Ahead, the alley opened back up into normal streets.

Something rustled around the corner, and he stopped. It wasn’t an animal, wasn’t a rich man, and certainly wasn’t a guard. A man stepped out, wearing baggy old clothes and a hood, and blocked the path. He drew a knife, and the steel sang against the scabbard. He couldn’t see much in the dark, but the man must not have cared much for his blade. Blades only made that sound in stories, or when the leather wore down in the scabbard, dulling the edge against the metal. He thought about how badly it would hurt, to get cut by a dull knife in the dark.

“Your coins and your boots.” A woman’s voice came from the hood. Not a man then, just men’s clothes. “Quick, and no one has to get hurt.”

Cadance didn’t move. Instead, he thought about what a pain it would be. How unlikely it was, and how unlucky he must be. I take this street, on this night, and now she wants me to walk back without my boots? She only had one boot, with a hole in the toe, and she wore a sandal on the other foot, but that was supposed to be her problem. She was making it his problem now.

“Coins and boots!” She hissed. There was that voice again, the one people used when they tried to be quiet. “Don’t make me repeat myself!”

If she takes my money, I lose the house. If I lose the house, I’ll be sleeping on the street, like her, and she won’t be too much better off. Everyone will suffer. As usual. He could feel the shadow of excitement bubbling in his chest, but he was less enthused than thought he’d be. He’d imagined getting robbed in the street before, but those were distant, fanciful dreams of escape. A means to an end. Faced with the real thing, he was almost let down.

The blade snaked forward, drawing a line of heat down his arm, to the back of his hand. “Coins and boots! Or I take your fingers!” Her voice was shrill now, strained, as if she were lifting something heavy. He looked down at the blood on his arm, black in the light of the moon overhead, and the heat exploded into a roaring fire. Living was a pain, and dying would be a pain, but the pain thrumming in his arm almost made him forget.

“Well,” his voice came out hoarse, in a choked whisper, “I guess I should.” 

I’m already hurt, and I could still be crippled, or die here. But why should I be the only one to get hurt? He’d dreamed up enough scenarios like this, maybe he should be grateful, even if the wrong dream came true. I guess I should fight. In the end, he was already in pain, so why should he be scared of a little more?

He leaned forward, and she backed up, and he caught a look under her hood. She looked relieved. He launched forward, slamming into her, tackling her to the ground outside the alley. The knife clattered somewhere in the dark, and it felt like he ran into a wall, but he forced his bleeding arm back and punched her in the gut. She made a kind of wheezing sound, and he pushed off the ground, scrambling to his feet.

She didn’t move. She laid still, black blood pooling beneath her head. She looked dead. Cadance had a bonfire in his chest and acid in his arm, and his body felt sore and wound up, like a coiled rope drawn taut against a knot. His breathing was fast, and his hands felt slick. He clenched and unclenched his fists, and only stopped when the blood ran down between his fingers, not quite black in the dim light.

And she was still.

* * *

It woke to the sound of muffled voices. She’d been dreaming about the window, but those dreams were gone now. The sounds of the distant surf floated in through that window, of water against the shore. It made the words hard to hear, and the footsteps only muddled them further. She caught only snippets of conversation, disjointed and random, until Kahromei stepped into the room. The apprentice, Palarus, followed close behind. She watched them converse, the room serving as simple scenery, the background for a lesson. The room in which she’d spent almost every day of her life.

“Today, young Palarus, we shall remedy that fact.”

“Should I collect my staff?” He seemed hopeful, eager.

“No, leave it. You won’t be making use of the cells until you can make one of your own. You will make no jumps ahead, no shortcuts. Knowledge is among our first defenses.”

“But not the first?”

Kahromei nodded, approving. “Life teaches the wrong lessons. It is your duty to learn the right ones, but your first line of defense will be your will. A true wizard must unite men beneath him, in common cause, in service rather than in search of power. When men grow powerful, they often make their greatest mistake. They find themselves no longer wholly Man, no longer free to follow their will, guided instead by the principals of their past. A true wizard must redirect their efforts, if he is to save Man from himself.” Palarus eagerly attended to every word, and followed Kahromei to It’s prison. She’d been kept too long to fear his approach, or to slink back, as if it might offer her some protection. She simply watched. “For now, we must focus on the lesson of the day. Names.”

“Does this one have a name?” Ever eager, he stopped just short of pressing his face against her prison, eyeing her carefully.

“More than likely, this one is named It.”

“It?” His eyebrows raised, his eyes went wide, and his mouth hung open a little.

“The common man holds many beliefs about named creatures, and they are often backwards. This creature is rather insignificant, serving little purpose, and in part that is my fault. It had no name before its capture, and now it languishes here. Can you guess why it might have such a name?”

“If you were younger…” He paused, considering. “Perhaps you performed some experiment? Research into names themselves?”

“No, Palarus.” Kahromei tapped his golden staff. “Power. That is why beasts have names. The power of Man, and of more- ‘powerful’ creatures. While you and I can control what little Well we have of our own, the masses are not so enlightened. I am sure you remember a time you could not sense your Well. Unless you’ve already forgotten, lost in the grandeur of wizardry.” He made a stern look, and Palarus quickly shook his head.

“Of course not, I remember, and I remember what you have taught me.”

“Do you now? Perhaps I shall quiz you again on the properties of absyn root and jade tail?” He smiled wryly, and Palarus paled, but he continued. “When enough people use a name, attribute it to a thing, their collective power can shape the very soul. Titles function in much the same way, though they are fundamentally different. The masses, fearing the beast that lurks in the woods, give it a name. When enough people use that name, unconsciously leaking power from their Wells, and when enough of that power follows the currents and settles on the beast in question, that power can even form the basis of a soul, if it is without. With enough power in your cells, and with intention, you could bestow quite the powerful name yourself. Do you understand now?”

“I think so, but I have a different question, i-if you don’t mind.” Kahromei looked as though he would refuse, but instead nodded, and so he asked his question. “If it serves no purpose, in being here I mean, then why keep it trapped?”

“The strong take,” he replied, “and the weak take from those who are weaker.”

Palarus practically beamed. “I know that one! That’s Secuuldacarr, right?”

Kahromei’s face twisted, dark and scowling, and his reply was hard. “No, not Secuuldacarr.” The apprentice practically wilted under his gaze. “Abalay. Stohk Abalay said it. In both a public address and a treatise on coastal politics. Secuuldacarr repeated those words and, since, has too often been awarded that credit.” He turned, making for the door, and Palarus hurried after. “I expect you will not quote, or attempt to quote, Secuuldacarr in my presence. Unless it is in irony. Though I recommend, in all things, to refrain entirely.”

* * *

Ian noticed the sound first, rising above the trees and weaving through the foliage. Then he noticed the buildings. From their roofs, armored figures looked down into the streets and over the treeline. Then the 12 unyielding feet of stone, atop which stood an attentive group of guards. Below them, the moat was calm, in contrast to the town it encircled. The guards, laden with gambeson and chainmail, bristling with weapons and strapped into shields, denied him passage. He was only allowed inside when a passing guard recognized him. 

They swiftly lowered the drawbridge, but then, these guards seemed to do everything fast. Even inside the wall, they were on edge. Closely watching every building, every passing citizen. The streets were less crowded than last time, and there were checkpoints along each of the brick walls, neatly dividing the town into sections. They searched all cargo, bags, and pockets passing through. Seems I missed the exposition, they’ve gone straight into the rising action. 

As soon as he came to a stop, tugging gently at the reins, his horse collapsed in the street. Every step of the way, on grassy hills or cobbled roads, the damned horse laid down at every opportunity. The first time it happened, they were on a slope, and it almost tipped the cart. He’d given the yoke more slack since then, but it never ceased to annoy him. I didn’t even know horses could have bad habits. Sure, she’s working hard, and she deserves a break now and then, but she’s more dramatic than- He realized he never learned the merchant’s name, or the name of the horse that threw him, and sighed. She’s dramatic enough to be on stage. And if he tried riding her, he might end up with worse than a new bruise and a torn pack. He could hope she wouldn’t crush his leg, pinning him to the ground at the slightest hesitation, but he’d rather not test it.

Since he’d left, something had happened in Eren, something big. If it were about the dragon, they’d be keeping folk inside and out of sight, guards included. Instead, they were looking for something. And they’re liable to find more trouble.

With a rebellious horse, and his curious cargo, Ian planned to leave them to it.