“Again!” Father demanded. Twelve-year-old Anya heard the click; the wooden contraption over her head would start dropping coppers in slightly over two seconds, gradually accelerating, and dropping fourteen total coins in just under one second. Anya didn’t fully understand how the device arranged for the coins to take different paths each time; the innards of the contraption were hidden in a sealed box that she didn’t dare try and mess with. She suspected there was a rotating mechanism, but had never found a pattern.

Anya didn’t bother hating the device; there were others. Nor did she hate Father. One couldn’t hate rain for falling or winter for bringing bitter cold; he was what he was, and couldn’t be anything different. All three could be highly unpleasant; all three must be endured. At least for now.

Anya attempted to speed her awareness. Father had an endless array of useless sayings like “break what others consider a single moment into many” and, still worse, “be faster than fast.” The idea, however, was a simple one, already proven true to Anya’s satisfaction. If you could perform one action in a single heartbeat, you could learn to fit two, and in time, two could become three, then four, until a single heartbeat stretched for an eternity.

Father didn’t speak, not the way regular people did. He commanded. He announced. Anya was expected to treat his every utterance as the word of a god and the equivalent to “the sun rises in the east.” Mastering each of the devices before taking her class would, Father announced, provide her a huge permanent advantage “partially compensating for her deficient stature.” If Father understood why mastering the devices before obtaining a class was helpful, he never said, and Anya learned not to ask questions long ago. What she “needed” to know was conveyed.

Anya heard the telltale noise before she saw the first coin and moved. A normal observer might see flickering hands and the clink of coins scattering on the ground without truly comprehending the impossibility of what they witnessed. Eleven. Again. That she would be punished soon was not in question. Punishment would change nothing; could change nothing, but was as inevitable as ice in winter.

Anya wondered about the other children. Somewhere, the Guild had an official training program; “apprenticeships” were now “disfavored,” but as long as she passed the Guild’s tests that wouldn’t matter. Anya wondered about her Father; how many damn coins did he catch before he took a class?

Anya staggered under the blow before she saw it. She caught her footing, suppressed a whimper and looked Father in the eye. Anything less would simply delay the next stage. What would it be today? Taunt the guards and lead them on a chase? Beat a grown man senseless? Steal something? Sometimes she succeeded, and sometimes she failed. Father wouldn’t let her be raped or crippled, but anything short of that was a “learning experience.”

Father began what Anya called “the Ritual.” “You have to be faster! When my enemies come, they won’t leave you alive. I’ve told you this. But you still don’t give your all!” Anya ignored the Ritual; she couldn’t understand what Father thought repeating the same words achieved. It was the words that came after that she needed. She resigned to listen, and to endure whatever came after. She had no choice. Not today.

* * *

Whether it was her increasing age, or the nature of the jobs and targets Father selected, she did not know, but few treated her as a child anymore. If she was caught, she would either be beaten severely, or, more often lately, they would rip at her clothes and Father would kill them, and be furious with her for the need.

Today had been different. She had been severely beaten and the man had tried to rape her. Things had progressed uncomfortably far; father had not intervened. Pinned, her daggers tossed aside, she had no choice. She used the Nightshade powder, and watched the man writhe and die. A beating most likely; Father would blame her botching the job, for failing to use one of the coated needles and a dozen other things. That the powder was expensive – and worse, left obvious traces – would fuel his rage. There simply wasn’t anything else that could be used as a powder that did the job so quickly. Not that would leave her functional at her current level of poison resistance.

She didn’t waste time questioning her abandonment. Just another test. Nor did she dwell on the man. Father never chose saints, and sure enough the man had chosen to beat and try to rape a child. Besides, it wasn’t her hand that flung the poison – not truly. Whether he intended the death or not, she was simply a dagger flung by Father. She decided long ago that she bore no guilt for such things. When she was able, she would put an end to the killing. Hadn’t she put things in motion? She could do no more. If she watched from Beyond, mother would understand.

She slipped into the sewer and wound her way through the tunnels, past the traps, and into their home. Father might be training, but if so, she could clean up and quickly eat something; not actions that would increase her punishment she thought. Inside their home, she walked in on murder. Four masked men dressed in black, her father on the floor bleeding out or … no, already dead. Anya turned to by far the largest. “Andre, I didn’t expect you until next week. I am glad my information was helpful. It looks like none of you are even wounded.”

Andre took off his mask and smiled. He had a swarthy complexion marked by a multitude of scars. She knew nothing about him, other than that he was one of Father’s most-hated enemies; Andre had found her. It had been only fortune that he listened before killing her. “Indeed little snake, indeed. We had to strike early of course. I could hardly trust that you were what you appeared to be, could I now? Bastard would have loved to lead me into a trap. Imagine my surprise that all of your information proved accurate. He wasn’t so smart after all, was he? Pity you need to die as well.”

Anya suppressed a flicker of panic and allowed her mind to race; she knew the plan was a dice roll of course, but after her luck talking Andre out of killing her, rolling the Deadman’s Eyes had been hard to imagine. Still, this was not entirely off script; it could be salvaged. “I understand of course. Business. But a pity. I thought I would share Father’s caches, and in exchange you would allow me to pledge my service to you in front of the Guild.”

Andre snorted. “I knew your father well. We were friends once, before he abandoned such things as weakness. He isn’t a man to trust anyone with anything, absent the need. Certainly not a child. You are just a liability. Kill her.”

There was no fighting, not against men cut from the same cloth as Father. Anya flew towards the door, opened it and slip through in a single almost perfect motion. Almost. The door handle cracked into her ribs. She forced herself on. They would underestimate her speed at first. She had seconds; they would need to serve as minutes.

Anya took a different path through the sewers; there were other traps. Traps that could perhaps save her life, if she was only fast enough. Faster than fast. Anya heard footfalls behind her, but kept on. Leaping here, dodging there, but nothing helped. The traps were designed to kill the unwary, not protect a runner with a pursuer that could see every dodge and every leap.

Anya wracked her brain for an option, a trap hidden just around a corner or . . . yes, the Warren. A claustrophobic ghetto of narrow alleys filled with trash and debris, perfect for her slight form. She didn’t know it well, but she could only throw the dice. Anya kept leaping and dodging even though past the traps. Andre’s men would surely be much faster than her if they ran without fear.

Anya climbed the ladder out of the sewers and slammed against the frozen latch. Nothing. She heard chuckling behind her, but refused to turn. The latch gave on her second try, and she spilled into one of the wider alleys in the Warren. A vendor was selling meat on skewers. He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t protected. Gang territory then. Perhaps I can use that. Gangs or not, Anya took every opportunity to turn into smaller alleyways, until she was running in what she hoped for, narrow corridors filled with refuse between buildings set less than two feet apart.

Water doesn’t dodge the rapids, it flows around them. Anya channeled Father’s words, and tried to flow around the obstacles. She used every trick she knew to speed her perception and reactions, to make every moment two, then four, but she heard at least one of Andre’s goons keeping pace. She ran, swerved and leapt like never before, but her ears told her it wasn’t enough. Dismissing a notification, she entered a particularly narrow alleyway, leapt for all she was worth and began to scale the walls with grace enough to make a monkey weep. When she felt the hand close on her ankle, she knew all was lost, but refused to quit, hand going for one of her daggers. Andre’s goon pulled, and she pinballed down the walls, slammed into the ground, and saw stars. Her assailant lifted off his mask, revealing a surprisingly normal twenty-something face and wild hair. He smiled. “You’re quite the runner. I don’t like to kill children, but if you’re his daughter, you’re not really a child, are you?”

Anya felt panic try to worm its way through her and fought it down yet again. There is always a way. Not the daggers and not needles…if he is full guild, fighting is pointless and his poison resistance will be double digits. Desperate, she pulled the notification back up.

CONGRATULATIONS! By reaching fifteen Speed without taking a class before the age of thirteen, you have met the requirements for the class Time Mage (Legendary)! Would you like to take this class (Yes/No)?

Anya had never heard of a Time Mage, but she knew exactly what it was. Hope. She took the class.