Training for Chosen was in two days, at first light. Tocho dismissed him with a stern warning not to be late. “It’s not only you anymore,” he’d growled. “Chief’s put me on the hook. Behave.” He stalked off.

Which concluded the warm welcome for Dorian’s status as Chosen. Wonderful.

Now he was walking his way back across the Rust Tribe camp, weaving between streams of people; leatherworkers, smiths, cooks, and the rest were all shuffling home, racing the setting sun. As he walked he spotted two hordes of men and women in the distance, each twenty or thirty strong, dragging the day’s catch to camp.

One was the gatherers—they searched for rare desert-flowers and potent beast-bones, mostly; every few weeks one would unearth something more serious: buried weaponry, perhaps, or ancient relics and talismans still brimming with qi. These sands were rife with secrets.

The other horde was of hunters. They dragged only one thing.

Adult Vordor. Three men tall, two men wide, with a wingspan that made a mockery of the biggest of Rust Tribe’s tents. It was the blackest thing this desert ever saw, like a pool of tar that had been fashioned into feathers, a bulging tumor of a torso, and a great fan of a tail. Its only other colors were pink; two claws big enough to wrap fully around a man, and a hairless, pink, three-eyed head. An alabaster tongue lolled out of its clamshell beak.

The hunters were dragging it with lashes that seemed to be the repurposed tendons of some other beast.

So these things will be my chief enemies? Dorian hummed. With the Rust tribe’s meager strength, all the greater Spirit Beasts that roamed the Izod Desert—Wyrms, Megapedes, Endspiders, Sphynxes, most Undead, and others—were far beyond them. But luckily these beasts also had a healthy habit of massacring one another, on occasion en masse.

After the greater Beasts had the best pickings of their victims’ meat, Vordors and humans swooped in to claim the remains. The desert was sorted in tiers; the greater Beasts, on the highest tier, and a lower tier of lesser Beasts—Vordors, humans, and sandwolves—which the heavyweights seldom deigned to even attack, the way a lion ignores an ant. It has bigger prey to hunt.

The in-fighting among tiers, though, was vicious; humans and Vordors were especially fierce rivals. Sometimes they became prey for one another. Like now.

Dorian kept walking as the hunters dragged the Vordor corpse by. He squinted. Early Vigor realm, he guessed… it must’ve taken the whole squad of high-level Origin hunters, likely veterans, to bring it down.

Soon he was entering the residential areas proper. Rust Tribe was gridded into sections. Though Rust were nomads, certain tents always huddled together—the destitute were a section, the parentless another; full-fledged hunters had their own, far larger tents. As a family of two, Dorian and Kaya were nestled at the outskirts.

Which meant he had to walk all the way through the motley of tents to reach his own.

As he passed, he swore that he heard his name in whispers. Mostly of children. Eyes seemed to linger on him. The few he caught held hints of awe.

He found himself smiling. News of me spreads, then. Lovely. By two days’ time, he’d expect the whole tribe to know of him—and not only for his martial talents. There was more yet to come.

For prodigies, fame was its own form of currency; it bought elixirs and treasures and positions untold. He relished the fingers pointed at his back, soaked in the hushed tones washing over him. He stretched out his arms like a cat’s as he walked, content.

Then, as he neared home, he heard a voice. And frowned.

The voice was not unpleasant. In fact it was all-too-pleasant. High, trilling, soothing, it could’ve been the love song of some tropical bird.

But it was singing human words, in a human love song, in a human voice.

Accompanying it, played gratingly well, was a lyre strummed softly. Dorian groaned. He didn’t need to round the last dune to know who the lyre, and the voice, belonged to.

He came to a scene straight out of a painting.

The hair caught his eye first: like a river of molten silver. Twin moonlights played across it so that it seemed to glow, alive. The man underneath was a slender picture of elegance: a lithe form dressed in light, form-fitting robes, a bone-lyre snug in his lap. He had the sort of face women wanted to caress and men wanted to punch.

Hento Rust, Young Master of Rust Tribe.

Dorian blinked. It was absurd to think Hento was Damien Rust’s son. It was like a creator god had split a full human in two and given all the harsh, sharp bits to the father, then molded all the softnesses and sensitivities into the son.

If Dorian’s memory was right, this wasn’t the first time Hento had camped outside his and Kaya’s home, serenading her. He returned so often Kaya had given up on chasing him off.

Hento’s silver eyes lit up once he saw Dorian.

“Io, dear Io!” he crooned, sitting up. His face split into a beatific smile. “Lovely to see you!”

“Can’t say the same,” said Dorian with a small grin. He moved to step past Hento, then squinted and frowned. Small lumps of gray and blue marred Hento’s cheeks and forehead. They almost looked like bruises, but off-color. “Uh. What’s wrong with your face?”

“My face?” Hento looked terrified. He felt at it with two fingers, careful, and touched the lumps. “Ah!” he cried. His eyes welled up with tears.

“It was those ruffians, Kuruk, and his gang! They ran up and caught me unawares. Oh, I’m ashamed to admit it, but those, those… lowlives…got in a few decent smacks!”

Right…

Dorian’s kept his straight face. That was my doing, wasn’t it? In the day’s hectic rush, his setting Kuruk on Hento had totally slipped his mind.

“I tried to smooth the bumps with ointments…” Hento bit at his lip, sniffing. “How bad is it?”

A funny look came over Dorian’s face. Hento’s face fell.

“Curses!” he cried, shaking a fist at the sky.

Then he wheeled on Dorian, intense. “A word of advice, young Io. Violence is the last resort of weak men.”

“Funny,” said Dorian. “I always heard it’s the first option of strongmen.”

“Pshh!” Hento turned up his lip. “Strong in the least important sense.” He leaned in so that their faces almost touched. “Men like Kuruk might seem strong. Don’t be fooled! He can go on, the fool, living his sublunary life—chase power, that ephemeral horizon. Always sought, never attained! Climb that dune, only to find a higher dune awaits!”

Dorian nodded slowly. In every life he found idiots like these. Big of mouth, small of brain. His ol’ pal Fabro had banned all poets in his erstwhile empire. Dorian was starting to see his point.

Hento, meanwhile, was working up into a fit. “The pursuit of power,” he cried, wagging a finger, “is endless! A road paved with suffering. The power drunkard is a man in constant transition. He always seeks more, never satisfied with what is! His life is an homage to futility. Pursue something higher, dear Io.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. He glanced to Hento, to his lyre, to the tent, then back to Hento. “Like my sister?”

For a blissful, awesome half-second, Hento froze.

Then he smiled. “Exactly!”

Dorian’s left eye twitched. Damn, this motherfucker is shameless!

“What else is there to pursue but beauty?” grinned Hento. He made to pat Dorian on the head, which Dorian dodged. Hento didn’t seem the least bit upset by it.

“Oh, don’t blame me, Io!” he said. “It is simply my nature. I am but a moth to the flame that is Kaya. I am drawn, unbidden!”

Dorian’s eye kept twitching. Is he aware I’m her brother?

“Drawn…to her personality.”

“Yes,” sighed Hento dreamily. “Her two lovely personalities.”

“….”

“Another piece of advice,” said Hento with a wink. “Women are like cacti you want to drain.”

“…”

“Prickly on the outside. But once you get closer, you’ll find there’s ways around their thorns! Then you stick your spigot inside—“

“—Ooookay, that’s enough!” said Dorian, sidestepping Hento with haste. “I should go.”

He nearly wished Hento good luck, then remembered what exactly he’d been wishing for, shut up, and just dashed inside.

“Send Kaya my best!” said Hento from behind. Dorian snorted.

A few seconds later, the soft strumming of a lyre started again…

***

He found Kaya in the midst of a slow kata—“Forms,” flowing, practice movements which helped execute the [Fist of the Rising Sun’s] techniques more fluidly. Her head snapped up as he burst in. Two balls of cloth were wedged into her ears.

He waved. Hi!

She gestured to the door, mimed singing and did Hento’s foppish, extravagant strut. Is he still singing?

He nodded.

She sighed, pinching her nose.

Dorian thought for a second. He could just proceed as planned, but the word ‘spigot’ floated across his mind… he shuddered, pointed to where Hento was. He wants to— he made an obscene gesture.

Kaya rolled her eyes and mimed scissors. Let him try.

He nodded with a sigh of relief. Then he walked over to his potion and the few ingredients he’d laid out from earlier. He pointed a thumb outside. Going to drink this and cultivate outside.

She jerked her head in understanding, then closed her eyes and resumed her kata.

Dorian shrugged, grabbed his stuff, and left.

He had just one last show left today.

***

“No,” said Alchemist Hu. He couched his cheek in one hand and drew a little circle on his desk. He didn’t feel hungry. He felt rather full, actually, so full his belly strained against his overalls, so eating more was out of the question.

Which meant there was nothing to occupy him but the nuisance standing in front of him.

“What do you mean, no?” It screeched.

“I mean, no, I won’t take you on as an apprentice,” sighed Hu. “Leave, kid. Ta-ta.”

It got up in Hu’s face, so close Hu was forced to identify it as a he. Tall, thin boy, kind of familiar-looking. “Do you know who my father is?!” He asked.

Hu gave him a side-on glance. “Why on Ylterra would I know who your father is? I don’t even know who you are!”

“My father’s the head chef!” said the boy. “He will hear of this, mark my words!”

At this Hu perked up. “Oh, Atohi? Tell him I loved his go-squid soup—from where did he import it? The Azcan Oasis? Delightful stuff!”

With a last, frustrated squawk, the kid turned and stalked out. But not before punching Hu’s poor tent flap as he left.

Hu sighed. It was the second kid today who’d come begging for an apprenticeship. For alchemists, apprentices inherited the master’s tools once they retired or passed; he'd been getting at least one apprenticeship request a week the day he started getting gray hairs. Now his first white hairs were starting to emerge, and these kids were popping up like Leaping Scorpions on Mating Day.

Hu humphed. Upstarts. It took a lot more than connections and a little dance to become Hu Feixao’s apprentice!

Outside, moons were making their slow crawls up the sky. He scratched his tummy, frowning. He supposed it did get rather lonely, working alone, and he was no spring chicken…

Groaning, he resolved to go drink some ale. The mild pang of joy he’d get from it wasn’t worth the vomiting later—he was already so full he feared he might pop like a balloon if he hit a sharp edge—but at his age, you didn't deny your habits.

Then, just as he stood, he stopped dead.

Out of nowhere, a sharp twang of qi vibrated through the air. It was close. Couldn’t be more than thirty feet from his tent. It moved in a distinctive, thick churning pattern that he knew far too well.

“Alchemy,” he breathed. But as far as he knew, there were no other alchemists in Rust Tribe! A hobbyist, maybe? A neophyte? Then he probed just a little deeper into the sensation, and his heart stopped.

That thick churning pattern was the only thing holding together a small volcano of qi. No cauldron. No ladle. Just energy.

WHAT?! SOMEONE’S FREE-FORM BREWING OUTSIDE MY TENT WITH THAT MUCH QI?? HAVE THEY LOST THEIR MINDS?!!

Yelping in panic, he ran for the door flaps, tripped on a stray doodad, fell on his face, screamed “OWW!,” picked himself up, brushed off his face, and kept running.

This wasn’t happening. Not on his watch. Nobody was allowed to blow up his tent except himself!

Time Elapsed: 16 hours.