Micah felt like he had started feeling nervous a few weeks ago and never stopped. The first two tests were over and he knew he should be taking a break, especially after yesterday, but instead, his heart was racing in his chest once more and he had troubles lifting his hand to grip the door handle. His other hand that clutched the envelope was clammy.

But for once, he wasn’t panicking and thinking to himself that he was being stupid. Of course, he was being stupid. It was just a special kind of stupid. One that was no fault of his.

It was Sunday afternoon. He would be too busy to do it next week and Ryan was too busy to hang out with him today. Both his parents were home right now. It had to be now.

It has to, he told himself.

Micah stood in the hallway between the kitchen and the back door and finally gripped its handle. He had made a decision.

“Mom?” he opened the door and called into the garden. “Can you come inside for a moment?”

When she came closer, he walked over to his dad’s study and peeked inside. “Dad? Can I speak with you in the sitting room, please?”

The man sat at his desk with the grim look he recognized as his work expression. Usually, that expression eased up a bit when he looked up at him. This time, it didn’t. And instead of something like, “Does it have to be now?,” “Not now, Micah,” or “Go talk to your mother”—even though his mother was usually even busier than him—his dad simply asked, “Why?”

Micah gulped. “I want to tell you something.”

He hadn’t known it was even possible, but his father’s expression darkened a little more. Suddenly, he understood why others might believe the man was frightening.

But he just sighed and got up. And as he walked out of the room, his demeanor seemed to say, Let’s get this over with, as if he already knew what Micah wanted to talk about and did not like it. But of course, he didn’t know. How could he?

It still did nothing to boost Micah’s confidence as he sat down opposite them in the sitting room.

I planned ahead, he reminded himself as he tried to calm down. He had prepared what he wanted to say. He could do this.

“What’s this about, Micah?” his mom asked, looking intrigued. She kept on glancing at her husband though, looking a little disapproving of his face herself. She even slapped his shoulder once and he huffed a little.

Micah leaned over and handed her the envelope. Ryan had gotten it in the mail two weeks ago, though Micah had filled it with a few more papers since, including a copy of his Proof Of paper.

Make the most of what we have.

Before he knew it, the words had slipped out, “I don’t want to go to a school in Westhill in the Fall.”

Surprisingly, his parents were not surprised by that statement. His mom smiled a little while she fiddled with opening the envelope and his dad actually rolled his eyes.

“Where do you want to instead?” she asked.

“Let me guess,” his father said. “You want to go to the same school as that Ryan, right?”

Micah gulped. “In a way …”

All around him, Micah was surrounded by people who … didn’t see eye-to-eye with him. Linda, Ryan, Prisha, all the people he grew up with in Westhill, like Finn, and Lang … well, not Lang. Micah was pretty sure Lang and he were long-lost twins, aside from looking nothing alike and being about two years apart. They both only caused mischief when they were around one another.

But Westhill was known as one of the districts vocally against the Tower’s influence, and still, those people all knew about his plans to become a climber and they all supported him, more or less. They could only do that because they knew.

His parents didn’t.

Micah didn’t want them to support him. Well, he did, but he didn’t need them to if they wouldn’t. He understood that his father had hated the Tower long before he or any of his siblings had been born. He grew up under the church after all. Plus, some of the points Westhill, and Riverbend, and all the other districts made were valid. If the Tower ever shut its portals someday, the fields outside the walls wouldn’t be nearly enough to feed the city. The trade routes flowing out from Westhill would flow in. Emergency storages would be opened. Prices would increase, jobs be lost, Classes become so much harder to level. It would throw everything into chaos.

But even if they didn’t support him, Micah still wanted his parents to know who he was, what he wanted to do, and then … that they would hopefully accept it?

His dad scowled a little and folded his arms in front of his chest, saying, “Out with it, son. You can tell us.”

So Micah told them, “The Climber's Guild is opening a school this Fall and I’ve applied for it.”

The grim expression on his father’s face vanished. The curious smile on his mother’s died. She had barely pulled the papers out of the envelope to straighten them and now she looked petrified.

Clearly, this was not what they had been expecting him to say.

For an eternal moment that might have just been a second or two, they both stared at him. His mother gulped and looked like she had forgotten how to speak. His father did it first in a barely audible, “...what?”

Micah couldn’t wait until he got rejected by the school—and by now, he was convinced he was going to be—because even if he didn’t make it in, he would still make potions with Tower ingredients. And he would still go into the Tower with Ryan as often as they could. Even if the other guy went to another school. And it didn’t even have to be trips into the Tower, Micah just wanted to hang out with him and the others. Even Lisa.

He was just so tired of doing everything behind his parents’ backs. They had a right to know. And Micah had a right to tell the truth.

And so he said as much to them and added, “I’ve been making more potions ever since I got back. With Tower ingredients, I mean. They have so many possibilities, many more than regular ones. I can make all sorts of things, things that can help people.” He smiled. “Healing potions. Breeze potions. Teas that help against headaches. Stat potions. And I’ve leveled up, too. I’m level eight. Uhm, my Proof Of paper is in there, mom.”

She made no move to look for it.

“I, uhm, got some awesome Skills that will help me out someday, like [Personalized Alchemy]. Lisa, a, uh, a friend of mine, told me that people who have Skills like that can charge extra when fulfilling custom orders?”

His father still looked like he was asking “what” though he did not speak. His mom seemed to be listening, at least.

By her expression, Micah could see her working the words over in her mind and she asked, “So you … you just want to use Tower ingredients?” Her hand was shaking a little as she held the papers. By her voice, it sounded like she was giving him a chance. But when she down, an expression of vivid disgust flashed across her face.

Micah wanted to say “yes” and remind her of his Proof Of paper in the envelope, but that look on her face made him pause.

His father spoke first, “No.” He shook his head. “No. I forbid it.”

“Forbid…?” Micah echoed. His father sounded like he thought it was the simple matter of saying that and then the topic would be done with.

It wasn’t. Not to Micah.

He thought back to what he had prepared. Tell them. Explain. Give pro and con. Proof Of paper. Go through the pamphlets. Was he at pro and con already? No, he still needed to explain. But they had already shut him down, right? But what if he— No. He shook his head. Micah could explain later. He had to placate them first.

“I know you don’t like the Tower,” he said. “And I know it isn’t … wise for our city to rely on it. I’ve seen that first-hand with the collapse of the Salamander’s Den. Fire potion prices have gotten so much higher everywhere else in the city, you know? But still—”

“You’re not going to that school and that’s final!” his father shouted.

Micah shrunk back in his chair. The school, he reminded himself. The school. Right.

‘What were you thinking,’ he remembered them say years ago, ‘wasting our tuition frolicking through the city all morning?’

“You don’t have to pay my tuition for me,” Micah said, trying his best. It was almost a plea. “If I even make it in, I mean. But then I can pay for myself. Mom, if you’ll just—”

She looked up at him like she didn’t recognize him anymore.

He shouldn’t have given her the papers. Or he would be able to show him the page with the details on scholarships himself. He reached over a little to get them and said, “Mom, please, on page six—”

“You heard your father,” she said and moved back, away from him. She glanced at the envelope again and clenched her fist, crumpling it. “You’re not going to that school, Micah. You’re not going into the Tower again. You’ll never so much as look at that cursed structure, do you hear me?”

Micah froze. This wasn’t going at all as he’d hoped. He— But what had he planned on saying? He’d wanted to explain it to them. All of it. If they just understood why he wanted to go.

“How did this happen?” his mother asked, but she wasn’t speaking to him anymore. It didn’t sound like she was speaking to anyone.

“I’m a [Fighter]!” Micah blurted out. “I got the Class a few months ago. I’m level two. I’ll be safe. I can protect myself, and I’ll have friends—”

“Shut your mouth, son!” she snapped at him and Micah did. His mother— she’d never lashed out like that at him before. Ignoring him, she turned to her husband and said, “I told you this would happen. We can send him to my family. A year or two growing up away from that thing—”

His father was shaking his head. “‘Friends,’ he said. Didn’t you hear? This is all because of that Ryan boy. I knew he was a bad influence. I told you. I did. But you said that he was good for Micah, that he was cute. If we just separate them—”

Micah’s hand was still stretched out to grab the envelope, but his blood ran cold when they started speaking about Ryan like that. No. This had nothing to do with him. This was about what Micah wanted.

“As long as he sees that thing every day, it will poison him,” his mother spoke. ”A few years with my family will give him clarity.”

“With your family?” his father asked. “And do what?”

“Become a [Worker] or a [Helper].”

“He’s been working at his sister’s for almost half a year now. If he hasn’t gotten the Class from that already—”

They were just talking over him. About his future, like it was theirs to command. Like Micah had no autonomy. He took a deep breath and shouted, “This is my decision!”

They turned on him.

“I’m an [Alchemist]!” Micah pressed on through their anger, standing up. “Of course, I want to make the most of the resources I have! You wanted me to spend a year doing nothing. Of course, I wasn’t going to do that!”

He stared at them and hoped they would listen, but they just seemed to get angrier and angrier with every word he spat, so he pleaded instead, “I just want to level, mom. Dad. I want to learn.”

“Oh?” his father asked, looking unimpressed. His voice was cold and low now, and Micah thought he could see the air around him become more distant and faded, the opposite of heat essence. But cold didn’t look like that, he knew. And this distance seemed to loom over him, though his father sat.

It grew higher and painted his features in dark strokes as he spoke.

“So that’s why you went to Mr. Faraday every day to ask him to teach you? Or Mr. Barrington? How about Mrs. Ross?”

Micah froze. Those were the three alchemists in Westhill. Barrington had even given Micah his equipment guide back then. And yes, Micah had only gone to Mr. Faraday once. But— But the man was busy!

“No.” His father shook his head again. “You let yourself be misled by that Ryan. Why? Because of childish dreams of grandeur, like all the rest of those starry-eyed idiots.”

The words stumped Micah for a second while he tried to work them through, but then Micah asked, “Misled? I wasn’t fucking misled.”

Something about that word struck a chord in him that he hated with a passion.

“Don’t you curse at—”

“I went to Ryan,” Micah tried. “I wanted to work with the magic of the Tower, not bugs, and plants, and foodstuffs that I’d sneak out of the kitchen counter. Not with my own blood. I didn’t want to cut my hand anymore. Me. I—” Micah tried, but his mother spoke over him.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re just a child! You don’t know the first thing about the Tower or that boy.”

He didn’t know? He didn't? His parents were so afraid of the Tower, they probably hadn’t set foot beyond its walls in their lives! At least, he had gone into the Tower. At least, he had fought for his life. At least, he wasn’t a fucking coward!

“And how would you know, you cowards?!”

His mother shot up. “Don’t you speak to us like that! The only thing you need is discipline. A few years of hard work will do that.”

“You heard him,” he father said, waving a hand at him. It sounded sardonic, almost as if he were drunk. “He’s an [Alchemist]! We need to find him an apprenticeship with an [Alchemist]!”

His mother turned on him and they started yelling at each other, ignoring him in his rage, like Micah didn’t even matter. They spoke like he didn’t have the ability to decide for himself, like he was just some thing to be decided over by one person or another. But that— that wasn’t true. Micah was his own person.

Micah was—

Free, he wanted to think, to say, but what came out was a whisper instead, “Burning.”

Something of his was burning.

And all the sudden, his rage had burnt to crisps. He fell back down into the chair and tried not to think, or fold into a ball, or throw up while his parents decided on his future without him.

“If we find him an apprenticeship here, he’ll just sneak off into that Tower again. He’ll get himself killed. We need to send him away.”

“Where to? He already has two Classes. You heard him, he’s level ten! What would you have him do?”

“He could become a [Guard] from [Fighter].”

“Him? Look at him. He’s not his brother.”

“His brother! We can send him—”

“No.” His father’s voice was cold. “We are not sending him to Aaron. All we need to do is get him away from that Ryan boy and find him something to do. We’ll work him so hard, he doesn’t have time to go into the Tower. We’ll go to Mr. Faraday in the morning.”

No. This was all wrong. Micah. Micah had dragged Ryan into this. Because he wanted to further his—

Alchemy. Of course.

Micah got up. His parents didn't seem to notice. He shambled over to the kitchen past them. They seemed to ignore him anyway.

“Faraday?” his mother asked. “The man is level twenty-four! I won’t have my son apprenticed to him. We’ll go to Mrs. Ross.”

If they wouldn’t listen to his words, Micah would just have to make them listen. He grabbed the largest of the knives out of its block and gripped its handle tight as he headed down the hallway for the stairs.

His parents must have seen him with it, because they shot up all the sudden and shouted for him, calling his name and asking what he was doing, but Micah was already rushing up the stairs.

He found his backpack and fished out a tiny bottle filled with glowing red liquid.

When his parents burst into the room, slamming the door into the dresser, he was dragging the knife across the palm of his hand, blood spilling out and dripping onto the floor. It didn’t hurt. He looked at them without flinching while he did it.

His mother lunged for the knife, but Micah just let her have it. He poured his emergency healing potion over the wound.

His father lunged for his hand, shouting if he had gone insane and saying that they needed to treat it. But while he did, the flesh already wove itself back together again. The wound had been deep, but the potion didn’t care. It was deeply uncomfortable, but Micah didn’t care.

He stretched the sleeve of his other arm over his palm, gripping it with his fingers, and used it to wipe the blood away. The skin was a little smeared with red and the scar was still there, but now it was as if the wound had never been.

“I made this,” he told his parents, facing them both as he showed them the few last drops in the small bottle. They were staring at him. Frantic, yes, but finally he had a chance to make them listen.

“I made a potion that can close wounds in seconds. And with what? Some red herbs found in the Gardens, some powders made from meats and nuts, some crystals found on the first floor, and some goop from yellow—”

His father’s hand clenched into a fist while it still held Micah’s, crushing it. Then he backhanded him. The only reason Micah didn’t fall back was that he was holding him in a vice.

Suddenly, everything was spinning.

“—hell were you thinking, cutting yourself like that? Have you gone insane? And putting those monsters into potions, pouring it on your skin … Alchemy? Is that it then? The reason you want to go into the Tower?”

He let go and walked over to Micah’s backpack, rummaged through it, then headed for the chest they had given him for his birthday. He gripped its one handle and dragged it after him down the stairs.

Micah stared in shock while he held his stinging cheek and flinched each time the chest hit the stairs.

His mother breathed for a moment before she shook her head next to him and whispered, “Eight levels. Such a waste.” She walked out after her husband, knife in hand, and glanced back, saying, “Keep up.”

Micah did. Like a ghost.

They walked all the way out into the garden where his father threw the chest into the grass. It spilled open. He hadn’t fastened it closed and the bottles rolled out. He headed back inside for a moment, grumbling while he stormed past, “That Tower already took two of my children from me. I’m not letting it take my last son.”

“What?” Micah asked, but they both ignored him and he had no idea what was going on anyway.

His father came back out with an axe and walked up to the chest he himself had bought for Micah’s birthday. To support him.

Micah watched in horror as he raised it up.

“You’ll never”—he brought the axe back down and Micah forgot all about his siblings—”make”—chips flew—”a potion”—next to him, his mother ripped the envelope to shreds—”again!”

She let go, and it blew away like ashes.

His father smashed the glass bottles next. He emptied Micah’s backpack and broke everything in there as well.

Micah snatched the bag away before he could destroy that, too—even though the man glared at him like he might hit him again—and ran inside the house, up the stairs, into his room.

He slammed his door shut, took two deep breaths, and screamed.

He wanted to hit something. Anything. His walls. His bed. The door. He wanted to break things, too, and scream his lungs out. All the had in his hands was an empty backpack he had salvaged, that Garen had picked out for him, and he thought of tearing it apart. He knew he couldn’t, that he wasn’t strong enough, and the thought just angered him even more.

He hated everything.

And then what? a voice inside him asked. You’ll be angry. They’ll be angry. Break, break, beak. And then what?

Micah breathed and looked around his messy room. He saw the blood on his floor. He didn’t know what to do.

And then what? And then what? the voice inside him asked over and over again.

Micah didn’t know! He didn’t know what to do. He flung his bag away, opened his door and slammed it shut. And again. Again. He leaned his head against the wood and screamed some more.

What was he supposed to do?

Not make potions? Never. Micah was an [Alchemist]. It was in his soul.

He mumbled that to the wood as he turned around, let himself slip down to the floor. He hugged his knees and wished Ryan was at the end of the alleyway to ask him if everything was alright, that he could lie about some stupid test.

He was an alchemist. What would an alchemist do in this situation? He looked around the room, but he had nothing to work with. Just his own body, maybe some cloth and fillings from his bed, whatever lay underneath it, a bit of glass, not even water … Maybe if he snuck into the bathroom?

I’m a [Fighter], too.

“What would a [Fighter] do?” he asked himself.

Punch your father. You know you can take him. Or at least get a few good hits in. Wounds will heal, but his pride won’t. You’ll heal. Make him pay—

Micah hit the back of his head against the door a few times to make the thought go away. He didn’t want to hit his dad.

“...What would a warrior do?” Micah whispered. It was his third option, and Micah hadn’t even meditated on the Path in months.

Now, his eyes wandered over to the blood on the floor. He felt the rest of it soaking his sleeve. He just stared at the drops for a second. For a minute. Two. Then he crawled over, stopped, and got up.

He straightened his back. A warrior doesn’t crawl.

Then he slouched a little. But he does have bad days. And this— Micah was half convinced he was having yet another nightmare.

He looked around his room, but he didn’t really have much to clean with. Even less than what he had to work with for alchemy. So he went back to the door and opened it an inch. His father was … in the garden? In the hallway? His mother—- They were both downstairs, arguing with one another about whose fault this was, about what they should do with him.

That was enough.

Avoiding the floorboards that creaked, Micah snuck into the bathroom. He grabbed a bucket, filled it, and got some supplies, then headed back for his room and shut the door. Softly this time. Silently.

He rested his first against the wood to restrain himself.

Then he got to cleaning up the blood. He had a little bit of detergent and used it to scrub the floor. Halfway through, he considered the bucket next to him and stirred the water a little with his hand, casting Infusion.

The detergent essence in the water would barely do anything at all, but every little bit helped. Then he scrubbed the rest of his bedroom floor. And while he did, he cast Infusion over and over until he felt light-headed.

Hints of the wood essence and the preservation aspects of the detergent would cling to the floorboards after the water dried. Again, it wouldn’t really do much. But even a few more minutes of preservation, in the long run, would be worth the few seconds of effort it took Micah to do it now.

When he was finished, he looked around his room and decided to dust.

Then he opened his drawers and found his clothes, took them all out onto his bed, sorted them out, eased creases, folded, put them back inside. This time, they were organized by season and similarity.

While he worked, he slowly formed an idea in the back of his head. Here and there, he took some of the shirts and put them in his backpack instead. Only the ones he personally felt connected to … and liked; those he took. Those were his. Some of them were from Prisha, from his birthday. Everything else belonged to his father and his mother.

He went to his closet and did much the same with everything in there. Dust, clean, fold, organize.

Then he plastered himself to the floor to see under his bed. Cleaning underneath there would be harder. Still, he got out the objects one by one and did the same, brushing them off and finding new homes for them in other places in his room.

The surfaces he all left bare, of course. That would make them easier to maintain. Especially against dust. But boxes that could be properly sealed? Those wouldn’t. Those would keep his old toys safe.

Some things he put in his backpack—his bug catching set, the box his bug collection had been in, some old pencils and colors that would still work, a cutting board he had used more often than his mother and that was so weathered by cuts, ingredients, and blood, it was his.

Of course, all his books.

Some things he put on his desk. Those he would throw away. Sadly, they were beyond repair. And there was no point in hoarding them.

But when he got to his desk, he heard heavy footsteps coming up the stairs and rushed to get the cleaning supplies behind his bed, out of sight, turned off his lamp, then threw himself under the blanket.

The door opened. His damp hands held his pillow and his warm breath pushed back at him under the covers. Micah faced away and feigned sleep.

For a moment, there was the loudness of breathing.

“I know you’re awake,” his father said, sounding … a little dead inside. “In the morning, we will speak. You will clean up the garden and—” A pause. “I see you cleaned up the blood already. Good. Maybe you’ll learn after all. Micah, you will never go into the Tower again. You will never speak to Ryan again. Your mother and I are both agreed on this, so don’t test us.”

He almost shut the door before he added, “Don’t bother coming down for dinner.”

Micah had to clutch the blankets around him to not run after him and push the man down the stairs. How dare he decide whom Micah was allowed to speak to again? He was his friend! The first he’d had in years.

Warrior, he reminded himself. Put your anger to use. There is no point in needless destruction.

He cleaned up his desk. He cleaned the walls and … as best he could the ceiling by stretching up on his furniture and dusting away thin spiderwebs. He opened the windows and watched the wind move through his room, watched the temperature shift and the currents move by following its essence.

He slammed his door a few more times.

He stripped his bed and his pillows. They were filthy, so he folded them into a neat pile next to his door. While farthest from the cold there, they would also be open to any pests that might invade the room. But they were filthy, so he couldn’t put them with his other things in his closet. Especially not after he had just cleaned. His mother would only have to open the door to grab them.

He put the cleaning supplies next to it.

Then Micah watched the wind some more, the cold some more, and shifted his furniture around by tiny fractions. In some places, he gave the walls more room to breathe. If he didn’t, they would develop mold. In some place, he scrubbed the walls simply for the sake of using Infusion on them with detergent, as he feared for their longevity.

He went through all the drawers and put more things into his backpack before he shut everything as tightly as he could.

He breathed.

When he was done, he sat with his legs folded beneath him in front of his window and looked upon his work. It was as good as he could make it. He had prepared the room to last as long as he could … while he was gone … which would be forever.

It wouldn’t last that long, he knew. The room would quickly decay. In a few decades or so. And soon after, it would rot. It was an empty gesture, but it helped with the anger. If only for a few minutes.

His breath shook but he did not cry.

[Of the Warrior Path explored!]

[Skill - Winter Cleaning obtained!]

Micah nodded. Then he took his backpack and left.

The evening’s cold wind hit him like a bucket of water and shook him awake. Or not awake … but aware. Micah hung from the wall outside his room, one hand fumbling to close the window from the outside, and thought, What the hell am I doing?

You’re leaving your home.

Yeah, but— Did he want that? Micah had spent this day hoping for his parents' acceptance. Now, he literally hung over the wreckage of their support in the garden below. He didn’t want any of this. He should go back. Bow. Bow deeply. Apologize. Plead them to reconsider. He’d butchered his explanation so much, all the points he had prepared. If he had just written them down in a letter instead and gotten a chance to explain it to them or something, but—

Would they even have listened?

Micah didn’t know. Probably not. Maybe? Hopefully?

No, his mind told him. His mother had torn that envelope to shreds. He had tried to get her to just look at it and she hadn’t even done that.

Micah climbed down the house slowly, glancing at the kitchen window to make sure his parents wouldn’t come out at any moment. If they did, what would he do? Run? Run away from his parents? For how long? And where to?

And then what?

Micah hit the ground as softly as he could and, forcing himself to ignore the wreckage in the garden, shambled around the side of the building with inch-far steps. He watched his feet as he did. The grass poked him through his socks when he reached the lawn and he considered taking them off. If he didn’t, they would get dirty. If he walked around on rough stones with them, they would tear and break.

Micah didn’t take them off.

He opened the gate and shambled out. He heard someone scrambled to stand up. He glanced right. He turned left, looked down the street, and came face to face with Ryan, who looked horrified.

Micah froze.

Ryan didn’t just look surprised to see him. He looked wretched, like someone had ripped his heart out and stomped on it.

After a heartbeat, Micah asked, “How much did you hear?”

“I came to—” he mumbled. He looked like he was in an even worse state than Micah was. His eyes were wide and his shoulders hunched. He looked bewildered. “Check on you? If you were sick? There was shouting when I got here. I think … everyone could hear it. Not just me, Micah.”

Micah frowned. What did that matter? Screw the neighbors.

“I didn’t— I didn’t know if I should— I wanted to climb up, but what if I just made things worse?”

His voice broke, and a part of Micah wanted to say something. Anything. Maybe console him? The rest of him was just a storm of emotions that kept on pumping anger into his veins. Micah barrelled past Ryan while he was still confused.

He almost got a few steps away before Ryan grabbed his arm and asked, “Where are you going?”

Micah didn’t turn back when he answered, “Away.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

And Micah honestly didn’t. He hadn’t thought about it. Where would he go now? Ryan’s dad had once told him the inn he worked at had a shitty room they hadn't renovated yet and rented for a cheaper price. He knew the climber’s guild had rooms for rent, too. And of course, there were lots of inns around the city. Maybe he could stay in the Tower? Maybe then he would level up again. Oh, but no. He didn’t need to level, did he? He’d just gotten a Skill. Hooray for fucking that.

Even just a freaking gutter would be enough for Micah.

To Ryan, he said, “Away from here.” That was all that mattered.

He tried to pull away but Ryan wouldn’t let go.

“What about Prisha?” he asked. “Couldn’t you stay in the bathhouse?”

Micah imagined that for a moment. Him, asking his sister if he could sleep at her place for a night with all his worldly possession on his back and no shoes on his feet. And guessing by the glimpses of himself Micah had seen in the bathroom mirror and his own dark window, with his emotions clear as day on his face, half of which was still glowing red.

Oh, and of course his sleeve was bloody. Because he fucking had to cut himself with a knife again. In front of his parents. This was him punching Ryan all over again! Maybe he really should apologize—

No. No, he’d just tried to get them to listen. And they hadn’t. He pushed those doubts aside and instead imagined himself on Prisha’s doorstep again. The thought almost made him laugh, but he simply said, “No.” There was no way he could go to his sister.

“You can stay at my place,” Ryan said.

And impose on the perfect family? Bring his shit with him there? Micah shook his head again and tried to pull away. “No.”

“Micah, please, just—“ Ryan flinched.

It made Micah stop trying, because maybe he had hurt Ryan somehow? But Ryan wasn’t visibly hurt at all. He was still holding Micah’s arm, even if his grip relaxed a little. His posture was off though. His head was slanted a little towards Micah’s house. And he looked even worse than before if that was possible.

Micah breathed in realization, “You’re still listening.”

Ryan looked like he wanted to shake his head, but he had been caught. There was no point in denying it now. And if he lied to Micah’s face right now, Micah might just punch him again after all.

“What?” Micah asked. “What did they say? Did they notice I’m gone?”

Now Ryan did shake his head. “No. Not that. They ...”

So they must have said something else that made Ryan flinch then. Which words would make him flinch?

“What did they say?” Micah asked him.

He didn’t even know why he was interested. But if they were still bad mouthing his best friend like they had all evening, those ungrateful pieces of shit that didn’t even thank someone for saving their son’s life, Micah would—

He didn’t know what he would do. There was nothing he could do.

“Tell me!” he hissed instead.

“It was in private,” Ryan said. “They said it private. You wouldn’t have heard.”

Micah’s anger stopped boiling for a second. He wouldn’t have heard? So they had said something about him then, not Ryan?

“I could have just as well been eavesdropping on the stairs,” Micah offered.

“No. No, I—”

His patience snapped. He reversed his grip on Ryan’s arm, placed another on his shoulder, and pushed him the short distance over to the neighbour’s house, then up against the wall with his arm across his neck.

“Tell me.”

Micah knew that Ryan could simply overpower him if he wanted to. But he also knew by his eyes that Ryan had lost.

"It was in a private," Ryan said, but Micah didn't let up so he spoke, “Your dad— He just said that he doesn’t have any sons. That the Tower took them from him. He said he only has Prisha left.”

His heart beat. Micah’s grip went slack and he stumbled back. That … hurt. What did he care now what his father thought of him? But he did. He truly did. Until a few hours ago, they had still been his loving parents. Until a few hours ago, his mother had never told him to shut up before.

“Micah?” Ryan asked him as Micah began shuffling away. “What does that mean? What did your parents mean when they said they lost two children already? Aaron and … and … Maya? Maya, right? Micah, are they—?”

Micah shook his head. “No. I don’t know. Maybe?” He felt that same anger again, because he didn’t even know whether his siblings were alive, because his parents never even told him anything.

… and because he never asked. Would they even have told him if he had?

He walked faster.

“Aren’t you going ask them?” Ryan called.

Micah stopped walking and turned on him. “No,” he said. “I’m burning that bridge, Ryan. I don’t care. At least, not … not tonight.”

If his siblings had died and his parents hadn’t told him, Micah didn’t know what he would do. And he didn’t want to think about that right now. He just wanted—

He suddenly felt so tired. He just wanted to curl up somewhere in an alley, in a corner behind something large, like a trash can so he was hidden, and sleep. Either that or head into the Tower to kill as many Salamanders as he could. They were still there after all. They hadn’t gone away yet. They hadn’t left him behind.

Ryan jogged up to walk by his side. By his presence alone, he silently steered Micah towards him home. Halfway there, he asked, “Should we ask Prisha?”

Micah shook his head.

That made Ryan angry. “Don’t you want to know?!”

“Of course, I do!”

“Then we should—” He glanced at Micah and relented. “I’ll get you home, okay?” All the sudden, his whole demeanor seemed to change. Like he took all of the hurt on his face and stuffed it deep inside, straightening his spine. He didn’t look quite so lost then anymore, and seeing that, neither did Micah.

I can take care of myself, he remembered himself say so many times to different people. What a big fat lie that had been, because now, he was just glad Ryan was walking next to him.

“I’ll do that first,” Ryan said. “And then I’ll to your sister’s and ask her for you. Maybe, they were— are. Maybe they are just climbers and your parents … they don’t accept it?”

Micah felt a weight slip off his shoulders when Ryan suggested that. He had seen how strong Maya looked on that one picture he had of her. Her as a climber? Maybe? He looked at Ryan and bowed a little, saying, “Thank you.”

“Don’t … Don’t do that.” Ryan nudged him back up. “Just get some rest, okay?”

Micah nodded and they kept on walking slowly. A little while later, he mumbled, “Can I climb in through the window?”

Ryan needed a moment before he said, “Sure.”

Ryan settled Micah in on his bed and closed his window while he left, so he wouldn’t get any ideas about climbing out again. Who knew where he would go then? He told him he’d be back with answers soon. Micah wanted to know about his siblings, right? So he wouldn’t leave … right?

Ryan didn’t know.

He considered telling his parents, but he didn’t know how they would react to … this. Any of this. He would tell them when he got back. Hopefully, with answers.

Then he silently marched across Westhill to Neil’s bathhouse and pounded on their door. It was late enough by then that the shop had just closed, but Ed opened up for him—did he live there?—and Ryan asked for Prisha.

She appeared pretty quickly, seeming a little concerned by something Ed must have said to her, and led them to their kitchen. Apparently, Neil was out. That was a first. Ryan told her everything that he’d heard, everything that Micah’s parents had said and done a few hours ago, sitting at the small table next to the wall.

By the end of it, Prisha was … Ryan didn’t know what she was. He had never seen that look on her face before. He’d asked her if she knew anything about her siblings, about what her parents’ words meant, but to the best of her knowledge, they were both alive and well.

“And if they aren’t …” Prisha mumbled.

Ryan got it then. She was angry. Whenever he had seen that before, it had been because she was worried about Micah’s safety. Now, she wasn’t. It was just anger. Pure and simple.

“You.” She got up and pointed at Ryan. “Come with me. Act like I’m Micah and be my backup, will you?”

Ryan nodded, though he didn’t know what she meant.

“Ed, we’re leaving for a bit. If Neil comes back, tell him where we went.”

“Can’t you tell him with your Skill?”

She shook her head. “He’s too drunk. Sober him up.”

“Where are you going?”

“To speak with my parents.”

Ryan felt a cold shiver run down his spine then. He did not want to go anywhere near Micah’s parents. But still, he followed. Prisha had asked him to, so he followed. He liked to think he wasn’t a coward.

“Micah?” a deep voice called when Prisha pounded on the door.

Ryan stood one step back on the doorstep of the Stranyas' home. No. No longer home, he guessed. House. This was just Micah’s parents’ house for now.

“... Prisha?” Micah’s father asked after he flung open the door. His appearance was disheveled and he seemed equal parts angry and surprised, to see Prisha there instead of Micah. So he knew his son had run away already and he had been expecting to see him come crawling back.

Would he? Ryan didn’t know. I have no sons, he remembered the man say to himself. How could he? Even in private?

“Evening, father,” Prisha said coldly. “We need to talk.”

“If this is about your brother—” Mr. Stranya started, but she just waltzed on in past him, brushing the towering man aside as if he were nothing.

Ryan wouldn’t have been surprised if he had something like [Intimidation] or [Greater Poise], despite his disheveled appearance, and yet Prisha did that. She really was angry. Ryan would be, too, if he saw his family falling apart like this.

How happy Ryan was that his parents were there for him, that he could tell them everything. Well, almost everything.

He followed her inside before Micah’s father could close the gap and joined her in the guest room where Micah's mother sat. She had a handkerchief in her hand. Had she been crying? Now, she spoke, “Prisha.”

“This is about my brother,” Prisha told them. “But it isn’t about Micah.” She made no move to sit down, folded her arms and stared at both her parents. “I’m here about my other brother, mom. Aaron. Remember him? And about Maya. Micah told me what happened, about your little spat. He told me what you said.”

Ryan tried not to frown at her. He had done no such thing.

“Apparently, you ‘lost two children to the Tower’ already? Tell me, mom, dad. Honestly. Are Aaron and Maya dead?”

Her voice croaked during the last line and Ryan shuffled a little closer. He was her back-up. He had to act like it.

“What?!” Mrs. Stranya cried, standing up. “No! How could you think such a thing?”

“Well, what else am I supposed to think when you say that?”

“What is he doing here?” Mr. Stranya interrupted them. He’d moved to stand beside his wife and gestured dismissively at Ryan.

“I’m here on Micah’s behalf,” he said.

“Someone has to be,” Prisha added.

“If your brother wanted to be here, he should have shown up himself.”

“My brother? Your son. He deserves to know what happened to his siblings,” Prisha said. “As do I.”

“You just saw Aaron, Prisha, at your wedding! He sent a—” Her voice caught. “He sent a birthday present for Micah. What is supposed to have happened to him? He was just fine, you saw so yourself.”

“But Maya wasn’t there! She didn’t even show up or reply to our invitation. She didn’t send us a letter or anything. Does she even know about Neil? Does she even know I’m married?”

“She’s busy!”

“Doing what? Being where, if not here, for me?”

“We told you. She became an explorer. Who knows where she is by now. Probably all the way across the Illic sea!”

“You don’t know? How could you not know where your own child is?”

Suddenly, Micah’s father stepped forward, veins pulsing against his reddening skin.

“Don’t you yell at your mother like that, young lady! How would you know? How would you know what it’s like to raise a child? We had four! We did our best. We raised you, gave you a roof, fed you, loved you. It’s that damned Tower that led your siblings astray, that makes them lie, and leave and— DOES HE REALLY HAVE TO BE HERE FOR THIS?”

He bellowed, pointing at Ryan.

“I’m here to make sure she hears the truth,” Ryan said, pushing out his trembling chest.

The man must have had some kind of Skill. It was the only explanation for the bone-deep fear Ryan felt. He could face down wolves and he wouldn’t be as afraid as he was now, standing across the table from Micah’s angry father.

“The truth? The truth? How dare you? Are you saying we would lie to our own daughter?!”

“Micah must have gotten it from somewhere.”

The words just slipped out. And Ryan knew, as he stared at Mr. Stranya’s face, this wasn’t going to end well for him. Oh, how Ryan wished he had his shield with him right now. Anything to hide behind besides his own body.

“You come into my house. You mislead my son. And you dare accuse- OUT!” he bellowed. “OUT! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE RIGHT NOW, YOU DAMN NANCY! I DON’T WANT YOU—”

He stormed towards Ryan as he shouted, and Ryan could feel his knees almost buckle under the man’s rage. The only thing that saved him was that Prisha put herself between him and her father. Mr. Stranya kept on shouting either way. Even his wife joined in, though Ryan didn’t hear what she said. He pushed Prisha back one step with each word. She couldn’t keep this up. And Ryan—

Ryan snatched Micah’s shoes as he fled.

He slammed the door behind him and ran down the street, ducked into the Stranya’s garden where they hopefully wouldn’t see him. He heard Micah’s father shout after him from the doorstep, but Ryan was already out of sight. He must not have seen him step into their garden, because he didn’t follow.

Ryan’s heart pounded as he pressed himself against the wall of their house. And he just breathed and heard yelling. And he breathed and tried to ignore everything. He took deep breaths to calm himself down. And then— Then he listened. He strained his ears to listen to what they were saying inside, heard the first words of a conversation.

Micah’s father would never be so mad at his prized daughter, right? She would hear the truth … right?

Just in case, Ryan snuck back around and under the window of their sitting room. He wanted to be close.

“I just want to know what happened to my brother and my sister, mom,” Prisha said. “I want to know that they’re alright. Please, tell me.”

There was a pause. Ryan imagined a sigh, maybe a traded glance between the two parents. He imagined them sitting in the guest room around that low table and talking. While he focussed on listening to just that, he hoped it was true.

Maybe, this could be salvaged one day. Prisha was so lovely. And Neil was great, even if he was apparently drunk right now. Ryan didn’t know the other two siblings yet, but Aaron sounded like a decent guy, and Micah deserved a family like theirs as he saw them live in that bathhouse.

“We should tell her,” Mrs. Stranya said.

Ryan didn’t catch a reply, but a while later, he heard the sound of wood groaning as a door was opened. To a closet maybe, or a wardrobe. Then something shifted and something else cluttered.

“Is that a false bottom?” Prisha asked.

More sounds of wood against wood, but muffled now, as if by cloth. Something was rolled out on a table.

“Is that a sword?”

“We couldn’t keep the weapons anywhere you would find them, could we?” Mr. Stranya asked. “Although, I guess your brother did find your mother’s old knife.”

At that, Ryan remembered the hunting knife he’d gotten from Mrs. Stranya. He felt the sudden urge to throw it in the river.

“Prisha, do you remember?” she spoke. “It was years ago, you were eleven and we had your Nana look after you for a few months? You and Micah always complained that we were never home the few times we got to see you. You kept on crying that your Nana was mean and you didn’t want to learn about her ancestry.”

“You … you said you were both busy with work?”

“Your sister was a climber,” Mr. Stranya grumbled. Just like that, he’d said it. “And when you were eleven years old, she went missing inside the Tower. She didn’t return for six months.”

“What?”

Ryan took in a sharp breath and shut his mouth.

“Three weeks after she first disappeared, your brother went inside the Tower to go looking for her. And he went missing as well. And a few days after that, so did we.”