Nicos quietly wandered through the Naru camp, alone with his thoughts. The day had come and gone, night was falling as the Twins dipped beneath the horizon. The camp was settling down, after a long day of celebration. The tents were full, the people, exhausted. The camp was clear, or clearing. What few Naru that Nicos encountered nodded gratefully in his direction, or gave him looks of respectful admiration.

All day, the boy had been dealing with these looks. He felt their gratitude flowing into his Memory, their perception of his strength slowly becoming a reality. He had saved the tribe, the elders said. Had faced dozens of enemies, with but four hunters at his side. He had led them to victory.

It felt like a lie.

The world didn't care. The truth was what people believed it to be, and they believed Nicos to be their savior. When word spread to the other desert tribes, the Memory would become even more entrenched. Was this how heroes were made, in truth? Great deeds, made greater through gossip. Slowly spread across a society, until the truth had been so muddied by perception that the facts were no longer relevant. What stories had he heard about his ancestors that were exactly that?

Just stories?

This was the world that he lived in, Nicos had just never taken notice of it.

Nicos resolved, then and there, to never let his achievements go to his head. He had already lost a friend, due to his own arrogance. He would learn from that mistake, as Durz had demanded. Let others see his deeds how they liked, the boy would keep his own perspective.

He clenched his fist, feeling the new strength flowing through his limb. This was his first real achievement, bittersweet though it might be; the first step on his journey. It was his only accomplishment of note, that hadn't been handed to him at birth. It was a Memory entirely separated from his father, from his family, from the legacy he sought to uphold.

He wasn't sure how he felt about that.

Nicos had once imagined himself in this moment, in the aftermath of his first real victory. He had thought that he'd be standing upon an empty battlefield, beside his father, after slaughtering the enemies of the All-King. Yet here he stood, far from home, surrounded by near-strangers that he had killed to protect.

There was a lesson there, Nicos supposed. Life never went the way one expected.

Nicos turned to survey the Naru, one last time. He took in the sights, the sounds, the smells. Rawhide tents, stretched over carved bone. Children laughing in the distance, and their parents, ushering them onward. The earthy fragrance of leather oil, and the smokey remains of a feast. All of these things, out here, in some of the most inhospitable land the boy had ever encountered.

It wasn't home—that was still a meadow upon a hill, filled with flowers—but Nicos was glad that he had fought for this place, for this people. The Naru carried peace with them, wherever they went. A little patch of serenity, transplanted from oasis to oasis. It was an odd thought, he realized. At what point had Nicos started to value peace?

A pair of children sprinted across the road between tents, still filled with energy long after the adults had retired. He recognized them: Shala and Toru, the twin children who shared his class with Nemuba. They laughed and played with carefree joy, entirely unaware of how close their brief lives had come to changing, or ending. The girl, Shala, spotted Nicos in the distance. She smiled, and waved her arm energetically. Nicos waved back, and the girl's smile widened at the recognition. Moments later, she was off again, like an arrow fired from a bow. Her brother followed in her trail, both giggling in excitement.

Nicos watched them until they disappeared behind another tent. Something in his chest loosened, afterwards. He nodded to himself, then turned away from the Naru camp. They would be fine, and his place was elsewhere.

Nicos left, and did not look back.

Bastion. At long last. All told, it had taken two full turns of Selene, countless miles, endless backtracking, and literally millions of steps, but Nicos had finally arrived.

It was not worth the trip.

The city was nowhere near as impressive as Farathun. Its walls were neither tall, nor wide. It had no great market, nor merchant caravan, set up outside its gates. There were no warriors barring the entrance, no guards of any kind. The gate on this side was a simple portcullis. Nicos could have cut through it, even before his master had found him. For a city named Bastion, its defenses were intolerably poor. They feared no incursion from the desert. They assumed they were safe.

It was, Nicos was forced to admit, a reasonable assumption. It grinded at him, how easily a force could enter the city from this direction, but he knew it would never occur. If there was one thing that Bastion was not lacking in, it was size. The city stretched across the landscape, like a false horizon, or a titan, sleeping on its side. No force could ever circle the city without warning, and the desert tribes would never attack of their own accord. The city's lack of caution would likely never be punished.

How appalling.

Nicos entered the city through open gates. They were carved out of wood, a rare sight for the boy, and were nearly ten feet tall. The walls, he noted with some disappointment, were not much taller. The gate was not watched. Though Nicos could see a bustling hive of activity beyond the gates, not a single soul glanced his way as he entered the city.

Almost immediately, he was struck by a sense of profound wrongness. Farathun was large, and populated, and hectic. Merchants hocked their goods, and warriors sparred, and people shouted loudly at each other while arguing over prices. But it was all done with a sense of decorum, of decency. Of order.

Bastion was the seat of lawlessness. The boy hadn't walked ten steps before he'd witnessed a fight breaking out, one man viciously stabbing another with a knife the length of Nicos' forearm. No one batted an eye, no alarm was raised, no guards came running. People simply skirted the boundaries of the bloody brawl, keeping clear of the splash zone as the ground was tinted red. Others gathered 'round, hooting and jeering and placing bets.

Nicos clutched his sword tighter, and moved on. The dying man's screams were quickly drowned out by the crowd.

The main road from the entrance led to a marketplace, or, an approximation of one. Goods were on display, weapons and armor and even food, peeking out from behind iron bars. The merchants were set up beside massive, armored wagons that safeguarded the majority of their stock. They used carts, small and portable, like large wheelbarrows, to advertise showpieces.

Nicos watched as a merchant opened a set of heavy locks on his wagon, with an armored bodyguard standing beside him. His customer nervously drummed his fingers on the crudely shaped hilt of a sword. The locks clicked open, and the customer immediately tackled the guard. More men ran out of the crowd, dashing for the merchant, who immediately attempted to hide inside his wagon. They pulled him away, as that section of the market descended into chaos.

The Memory of a man pulsed outwards, slamming into the crowd, and the boy's brow furrowed. He brushed it away, even as several men fell like their strings were cut. More pulses, differing in feeling, as dozens of people cast pressure at each other. Their attempts were weak, unfocused, but the sheer volume seemed to render some people catatonic.

Bodies fell to the ground, as the merchant's bodyguard staggered to his feet, pressure shedding from him like a light. He drew a dagger, and buried it in the back of the nearest thief. The bodyguard heaved, throwing the man into a neighboring cart, and shattering the wooden display. Weapons and armor were sent skipping across the paved ground, and more men from the crowd dove for the items.

The process started all over again.

Nicos shook his head in disbelief. There was crime in Farathun, but nothing like this. Criminals were stupid. It was just a fact. Reading the Memory of things made catching them a simplistic process. Though Nicos suspected that it was possible to fake or mislead a reading, at least temporarily, what would be the point? There were too many options, too many traces left behind. It would be almost impossible to cover them all.

Crimes of passion were understandable, at least. Someone loses themselves to emotion, and acts the fool. Nicos could sympathize with that, he'd certainly experienced more than his share of it. But the people of Bastion seemed no better than rabid kobolds. They fought, constantly. There was no safety, no respect, no acknowledgement of property or personal value. No honor to speak of. The only question they seemed to ask was whether or not they could get away with—

Someone just tried to pickpocket him. Nicos scowled, and spun on the spot. His pockets held nothing but sand. The only thing of value he carried, was the sword in his hand. Regardless, the act enraged him. He caught a glance of his target, small and fast, as they ducked into a nearby alley. A child, dressed in rags.

The scowl lessened, though only a fraction. The urge to stab the pickpocket lessened into one of confusion. Why was there a child, out here on the streets? What parent, what guardian, would allow such a thing?

Then, understanding. An orphan. In Farathun, they would have been taken as a ward by a civilian of good standing. No servant of the All-King was allowed to be wasted. But here, in this lawless abyss, a child was a castaway. Left to wander, and fend for their own. The real question was how the young thing had ever come to this place. What fool would bring a child, here?

Before he could ponder that puzzle, a familiar hand clapped down on his shoulder. He turned once more, catching a glimpse of dark skin and a fanged smile.

Eurya looked upon the boy, with approval in her eyes.

"Nicos," she greeted warmly. "You've grown."