Chaths walked through the Crux alone. He didn’t mind.

There were times when he loved company, when the thought of solitude bored him to near-madness. At such times, he relished every joke and barb exchanged with others, conversation bringing light to his world like an oil lamp.

This was not such a time.

As he made his way down the winding corridors, Chaths was glad to lack company. At times like this, his was not a pleasant presence to find oneself in. At times like this, his thoughts grew distant and dark.

He often felt guilty to forego contact with others, even when the very thought of speaking to them repulsed him. He took comfort in the knowledge that, with such an unpierceable fog of melancholy shrouding his every sentiment, refraining from inflicting his presence on others was a kindness, if one they didn’t understand.

If Chaths had been a more poetic, or pretentious, man, he may have considered the dimmer-than-usual lighting of the Crux’s interior to be reflective of his state of mind.

As things were, he had a hard time envisioning a causal relationship between him being in a dispirited mood and the arclight crystals lining most of the building’s walls not having been refilled with magic recently enough.

Putting more thought into it, he realised the darkness may have had more to do with the hectic state of the city, and the fact that many of the people whose jobs it was to typically do such a thing had most certainly been re-assigned to do more immediately vital tasks.

The multiple completely empty crystal sconces weren’t lost on him, however. It seemed some servants had taken the chaos as their chance to make off with some rather valuable magical items.

Good for them. If the Sieve’s higher-ups had enough money to waste on fancy lighting, Chaths didn’t see why there should have been a single starving person in the city. If some of that wealth got pawned off in the chaos, he reckoned it only served them right.

As Chaths neared his destination, the lighting grew stronger, and the already rare absences of arclight crystals all but vanished. It seemed things were better maintained nearer to the contestant quarters. He’d been wondering whether his were just the exception.

It took him a long minute or two to locate the specific door he had come in search of, and upon racking his knuckles against the hard wood he was left waiting half again as long for the answer. When it finally swung aside to reveal Ajoke standing behind it, Chaths had entirely forgotten what he’d been about to say.

“What do you want?”

There was no pretence in her question, no hint that she intended to partake, or even tolerate, any kind of conversational dallying.

Just like old times.

“I was nearby, and I thought I might come to see an old friend!” Chaths grinned, carefully burying all traces of his true thoughts as he spoke.

It wasn’t pleasant to put on such a facade, but it was doable. And the alternative was practically tormenting everyone he spoke to.

“Was I not clear enough about the status of our “friendship,” Chaths?”

He paused at that, needing a moment to think before formulating an answer. Chaths and Ajoke had been together for only a brief period of some weeks. Or months, possibly only days. He had difficulty keeping track of such things.

What he could vividly remember was their love affair coming to a rather explosive end after she accused him of holding her back, and he rather foolishly responded by pointing out that she’d never minded before, provided he’d held her by the hair.

Heated words had been exchanged, worldly possessions had been thrown, and they may have made love once or twice in the middle of it all. The argument had ended with Chaths being expelled from Ajoke’s quarters, and later Bârëi as a whole.

Carefully selecting every syllable, he answered her.

“I’m not here for that, don’t worry.”

She bristled.

“I wasn’t worried.”

“Excellent.”

A silence hung between them, broken as Ajoke spoke once more.

“No, I wasn’t worried because I knew it was never going to happen at all.”

Chaths nodded.

“Yes, I got that.”

She stared at him, her face twisting one way and another, shifting through miniaturised expressions like brine swirling in an oceanic vortex. When she spoke, her voice was equal parts irritated and exhausted.

“Come in, you bastard.”

Chaths nodded in silent thanks, stepping through the door and glancing around as it shut behind him.

The room seemed similar to his at first glance, though upon closer study the differences were apparent. Burgundy rock tiles replaced the moulded sandstone of Chats’ abode, and though the colours were similar in their vibrancy, the specific choice of shade keyed him to their differences.

Bârëi furnishings were always somewhat surreal to him. So similar to Jyptian, yet immediately different in such subtle ways. Turning back to Ajoke, he realised the girl was staring at him expectantly.

To business, then.

“So, how have you been doing?”

She practically rolled her eyes at the obvious conversation starter, before proving its cogency by answering.

“How do you think?”

Chaths shrugged, walking absently as he talked.

“I really don’t know,” he said, truthfully. “There are some rumours going around about you, and if they’re true…”

“There are always rumours going around about me,” she snipped. “Most nobles, for that matter. Did you hear the one that Karma Alabaster takes whores to her bed a dozen at a time?”

Chaths smiled at that.

“I have, but the ones I’m talking about are a tad more serious than that.”

Ajoke opened her mouth, surely to deflect once more. Chaths interrupted, having no intention of letting her.

“Is your life on the line here?” He asked, making certain to look her right in the eye as he did so.

She answered quickly, almost like water rushing from a broken dam.

“It is.”

Chaths was silent, waiting for Ajoke to say more. Perhaps give details, or context. She did neither, and he found himself growing hot under the collar as he spoke.

“Why exactly is that?”

The girl looked away, the trace of a sneer on her lips as she strode towards a sofa.

“Why do you think? Bârëi has quite the pedant of a king, does it not?”

She was referring to Dumare, Deity lord of Bârëi. Her father. He was a man with a reputation for brutality and callousness, to the point where his own children had died by the dozen for failing to meet his standards.

Chaths had been well aware of the man’s heartlessness, and yet it had never once occurred to him that Ajoke may find her own neck on the chopping block. Surely she, who had risen to the level of Sage only two months after the start of her golden years, would be safe.

“What happened?”

His voice was hollow even to his own ears, and yet he found himself too uncaring to inject it with more feigned emotion. He stared pleadingly at the girl, hanging onto her every syllable as she answered.

“There was a meeting, and a disagreement. A stupid idea was suggested, and I pointed out the idiocy of it rather… heatedly.”

A sudden iciness froze Chaths’ heart in his chest as she continued.

“Unfortunately, the one who had proposed it was Lord Dumare.”

He knew his rage was irrational, useless even. There was no sense in directing it at Ajoke when her mistake had already been made, and its harvest reaped.

It burst from him nonetheless.

“WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?”

She jumped at the outburst, shock putting her a half step backwards. Her surprise lasted only for a second, however, and she quickly replaced it with defiance, body stiffening and jaw tightening the way it always did when she was prepared for a fight.

“I don’t answer to you,” she hissed. “What’s done is done, if you’re just here to complain about something I did weeks ago then-”

Chaths stepped forwards, interrupting with a more controlled tone.

“No, you do have to give me an answer, Ajoke. Tell me, why did you throw away everything just to get snippy with a fucking Demigod?”

He could scarcely believe what he’d heard, no matter how many times he went over it in his head. Ajoke. Clever Ajoke, sensible Ajoke, lucky Ajoke, born with all the talent and noble blood necessary for a life of luxury.

What in the Eclipse’s name was wrong with her?

“I won’t be talking to you about this now,” she said plainly.

Suddenly there was an intense eye contact between them, neither wanting to back down, neither willing to back off. It lasted five heartbeats, and as always Chaths caved first.

“Fine then,” he snapped.

Making his way across the room, he gripped the handle of the door and flung it apart, sending it slamming against the wall next to it with the excessive force. He didn’t check to see if he’d caused any damage, nor to shut it behind him.

Ajoke did that for him.

***

Chaths barely noticed himself powering down the halls. Dying light and stolen relics all seemed to be lost on him, hidden behind an opaque cloud of his own emotion.

It was stupid and unfair of him, he knew. He hadn’t been there when Ajoke had spoken out against her father, and she wasn’t the sort to do so for no reason. For all he knew, she’d saved a thousand lives with her defiance. A million, even.

He didn’t much care about a million strangers, though.

He turned a corner, and realised where he was heading. Curious. He’d judged Ajoke for invoking the fury of an Immortal, and here he was seeking solace in the presence of his own. Chaths really knew nothing about her situation.

As he continued his hastened pace, ignoring the burning of his side and the throbbing of his feet, Chaths found his mind wandering backwards. To his last meeting with Ra, then to finding out he’d be entering the Sieve.

Then to their first ever conversation, when he’d been nothing but a stupid, starving street rat, robbing a man with more combative power than am army of ten thousand. A smile played at his lips, piercing through the turbulent mist of vehemence. It disappeared as his recollection strayed further.

Before that stupid, reckless, incredibly lucky decision. The years leading up to it. Jericha’s streets, boiling days and freezing nights. Limbs heavy with exhaustion, hunger aching with emptiness. His only company, the other street rats. His only constant companion, the fear of death.

Chaths pushed the images and sensations that accompanied such memories into the back of his mind, pointedly ignoring the creeping tendrils of bitterness that extended outwards from them. He would be revisiting no more, those days were at his back.

Ra’s presence in the Crux had been insisted upon by the Organisers, likely because the thought of being close to the only Demigod on the island besides whoever killed Tamaias instilled some sense of security. It was for that reason that he needed only ascend a few staircases and turn a few corners to reach them.

As grumpy as it made his mentor, Chaths certainly preferred the vastly shortened distance to the East wing of the building. Not needing to walk several leagues whilst surrounded by the smell of poverty, public urination and decay in one of Bermuda’s slums was just another fortunate benefit.

He’d had quite enough of such things for a lifetime.

Pulling up before the door, Chaths brought a fist thudding against it. The impact was heavy, yet blunted by the great thickness of the surface. Looking more closely at it, all reinforced hinges and hefty planking, it made him wonder whether it had been built for defensive purposes. Perhaps an antique, taken from some ancient fortress.

His wondering was interrupted by the sliding of bolts and the clicking of locks. The frame around the entrance shook for a few moments, the intrepid vibrations punctuated by a storm of creative cursing. Then, with a lurch, the door opened inwards.

Ra seemed harassed as his face appeared in the small crack. The lines of his face seemed to have doubled in depth and width, bisected by yet more creases formed from the irritated frown which appeared a permanent fixture. There were no bags under his green eyes, yet the way they seemed to dart to and fro conveyed every waking moment of bother his time in the Crux must have caused.

It was one of the most amusing things Chaths had seen in days, and he completely failed to fight back the smile from his face as he spoke.

“Old man,” he greeted. “Were you expecting someone? Perhaps several someones, all armed with muskets?”

Opening the door fully, Ra stepped aside and gestured frantically for Chaths to enter.

“Hurry, hurry!” He snapped. “I’m convinced those busysbody bastards have someone watching me, if they see you dawdling on the doorstep I’ll have another dozen secrataries asking me stupid questions in moments.”

As tempting as it was to take his time, just to see the newly-born paranoia in his mentor flare up to yet greater heights, Chaths couldn’t bring himself to be quite so cruel as that. He swiftly moved in past the door, jumping at how violently it slammed shut behind him.

In the brief time they had been inhabited by the Demigod, Ra’s quarters had changed alarmingly. Their furnishings, previously every bit as pristine as Chath’s, had become mired in refuse. Crumbs and stains littered much of them, and empty bottles and tableware occupied the floor so thickly as to almost act as a carpet.

It was nothing new to Chaths, his mentor had always possessed an almost supernatural ability to reduce the quality of any domicile he called his for too long. Still, the speed with which he had done so this time shook him.

“Are you here to remind me about some bothersome meeting?” The Demigod grumbled, making no attempt to hide the apprehension in his voice.

“No, I’m here to see my dear, much cherished father-figure.”

Ra grunted at that, though his amusement was clear. He turned, eyes sweeping across his room, clearly searching for something.

“What have you lost this time?” Chaths inquired, not at all surprised.

“Nothing,” the Demigod snapped. “Damned cleaners must have hidden it, it was right on the table!”

For the life of him, Chaths couldn’t locate the legendary table. He began glancing at particularly large clusters of discarded rubbish, scrutinising them for the elusive article of furniture. After a few seconds he spotted it.

“Is that it?” He asked, pointing. Ra glanced at him, then turned to follow his finger before cursing.

“Very funny. What are you actually here for?”

Chaths’ mouth worked silently, unable to find the right words to explain his presence. After a few moments of trying, he simply forced out the first ones that came to him.

“Why do you want me to win the Sieve?”

His question elicited the exact look of annoyance he’d expected.

“Are you still on about that?”

“Yes,” Chaths replied. “Because I’ve been teamed up with a psychopath and watched someone get turned into mince-meat, why in God’s name is it so important that I keep taking part in this crazy event?”

Ra looked at him evenly, delaying just long enough for the silence to be uncomfortable, possibly intentionally, before he answered.

“Hm, when did you get so combative?”

“It might have something to do with my spending the last week waking up a half-dozen times each night for fear of having my head ripped off in my sleep by my own teammate.”

The Demigod grunted at that, running a hand through his tatty, pale hair and chewing a worn lip.

“Alright. I want to see my protege accomplish something.”

Chaths remained silent, waiting for his mentor to continue. His quiet lasted right up until the moment Ra turned his back, at which point he realised the man was finished.

“Is that it?” He barked, awed by the sheer obtuseness of his mentor. Ra didn’t so much as glance at him as he fired back.

“Yes. Do I need more reason than that?”

“Ideally? Yes, if you’re going to be putting me into death matches.”

The Demigod shrugged at that.

“Oh don’t be so overdramatic, you wouldn’t know a death match if you wound up in one over a bottle of facepaint.”

Chaths found himself bristling.

“I don’t wear facepaint.”

Ra chuckled.

“Oh yes you do, and everyone knows it as well.”

Fighting the urge to inquire as to how exactly that was, Chaths forced them back on-topic.

“Whatever, my point still stands. You must have more motivation than just wanting bragging rights.”

Upon hearing that, his mentor straightened. Slowly turning, he revealed a face marred by surprise.

“Do you really believe it’s just so that I can show off about you?”

His tone disarmed Chaths, and his earnest expression muted him.

“You’re an extraordinary prodigy, Chaths. You truly are.”

“Yes, I know-” he began to respond, only for Ra to silence him by speaking again.

“No, you don’t know. We are nearly twelve hundred years into the Illuminated Era, dozens of generations. By my reckoning, judging by how stable the population has been over that time, a hundred billion people will have lived and died in the time between every second century.”

“You’ve told me this before,” Chaths interrupted, finding himself growing irritable. Did his mentor think him an idiot?”

“I have!” Ra boomed, the sudden forcefulness of his tone stunning him. He continued, more quietly. “I have also told you that your talent for magic was a rarity, even among the world as a whole. I’d assumed you had… Well, made the obvious connection.”

Chaths felt his face burn at the patronisation, yet said nothing. Ra seemed to be going somewhere with his rambling.

“My boy… Those with exceptional talent can rise to the level of an Immortal, gain eternal life, so long as it isn’t ended by means beyond disease or age.”

A lump of diamond-hard tension began to form in Chaths’ chest as he caught on to what the Demigod was saying. If the exceptionally talented lived nigh-endless lives, then the world would surely be filled with many. The survivors of long-dead generations.

His mouth dry, Chaths had to fight it for each one of the words he formed.

“Are you saying… That when you said I was a world-class mystic…”

“Yes,” Ra answered him solemnly. “Measured against the world’s Immortals, the extreme rarities for whom exceptional talent is required, you are in excess of the norm. To the masses, those not distilled for aptitude by time and war, I’d be surprised if so many as one out of every billion could match your gift.”

“It hasn’t done me much good, has it?” Chaths spat.

How many nights had he gone hungry? How many times had he fallen asleep, certain he’d never awaken? He’d been beaten by older vagrants, chased by packs of wild dogs looking to kill for sport, nearly had his life claimed by lungrot.

It seemed a cruel gift, to him, that went unnoticed through all that. Brains would have helped him, strength, too, would have been better. Anything but the one knack in the world that required luxury and patience to even discover. No, magic had not been a gift for Chaths. His face had. His beauty.

That, at least, had let him eat.

He saw a sudden sadness in his mentor’s eyes, and all thoughts of Jericha left his mind.

“I’m sorry-” Chaths began, only for his mentor to shake his head.

“No, you’re right. Magic was of no aid to you when you most needed it, and yet it’s more than just a tool to help ourselves.”

Chaths stared at the old man, finding himself baffled as years seemed to drop from his sun-beaten face. All the creases and lines that had been aggravated by stress melted away, the roughness and pock-markings were washed over by a new layer of smoother flesh.

His green eyes glittered, like emeralds held before the sun, and his mouth was split by one of the most awe-inspiring smiles Chaths had ever seen.

“My boy, you’ve grown splendidly. I mean that truly, and from the heart. You became strong where others may have been shattered, and emerged kind from a place that practically demanded cruelty. What I want is to see you grab the power in front of you.”

He paused, voice cracking slightly, then licked his lips and resumed.

“If I should live to see such might in the hands of such kindliness, I will be at peace.”

Dumb, Chaths stared at the old man before him. There seemed a glow about Ra, similar to the luminescence so many Immortals chose to wreath themselves with, yet so very different. It was not light born from magic, nor even of a physical kind at all. It was the radiance of true, genuine faith. And he was its focus.

He felt as though his bones would shatter under the weight of such expectation.