An onslaught of new color washed the village from what he could see, the bubbling of extra traffic on this hour was an untoward difference, the sun to his shoulder reigned on the midday, each step a further climb in his anxiety. Not the sort of anticipation of a warm welcome, or a grasping hug to the chest from people he liked, and those he felt lukewarm, but in a way that he, was returning to a thread of normalcy in his life. Although you could despise the name you were born with or curse the blood shared, no one could ever deny that part of themselves, an intrinsic of their soul. Avoiding them forever wouldn’t work. A heart demon would worm itself in at any point with that.

His boot struggled to keep itself afloat; the mud was thickest here. A sudden shower had plummeted on his head and the village sooner than he passed through the main gate, and with his hood up, he’ll avoid any more “encounters” like the one earlier, his patience was ice-thin at the moment, for every leg that moved an ache appeared somewhere else, as if it finally felt the courage to voice a complaint. A wagon train passed him. Ahead at the intersection the odd palanquin that used to come now and again in the Lower District was less so; he could count one every minute, and did. Flapping banners that topped even the tallest buildings in the area beheld a rising sun, kept and held like a toy ball by a hand riddled with veins that pulsed with life, with power—their insignia, his. Yet, there isn’t a need to flash it, but someone took it upon themselves, or had the order to and displayed it proudly in an area where the banner itself flew in every one of these villager’s hearts without the need. Who were they trying to impress?

Grisla blinked, and eyed the men who were eyeing him; a stranger who suddenly stopped in the middle of the road, obstructing traffic and ogling everything. Ruefully smiling, the Untalented walked on. Overhead, the clouds grumbled. He could sympathize with that. Olimuth’s shop was not too far from his own place, he’ll stop home, and come back with whatever strength he could manage, and take what he was owed.

While being unreceptive to idle talk and useless distractions, conversation flooded his ear. Snippets, though. But they talked all the same. The peasantry had more on their tongues of gossip, and his slow turns picked them up along the way like gum to the sole. Whatever expression he had; the hood shadowed it.

“…Gold everywhere, man! I’ve never seen so much…”

“…They’re especially tall, and strange clothes…”

The rumors abound made him a little curious, if that. Well, maybe he’ll see about it soon. Sloping roads that only haven’t collapsed on themselves by way of the supports along the sides were at dire risk from weather like earlier, and, for the life of him he couldn’t scratch out the reason any funds weren’t allocated to the upkeep or, even better, the rebuilding of these disasters-in-wait. A pessimistic shard of him thought the reason of their delay was merely because of what house, what family sat on a particular one. He didn’t notice his brief medallion rub. His senses tingled, and he stopped again.

Grisla’s forehead creased. How did I not notice this? Here, the elevation of the road allowed him a survey all the way out to the Leimuth docks. Observations from before also applied there. Moored vessels swaying in place had ants streaming all over them and close; the sizes of these things dwarfed the average freighter going to the capital, and trivialized the humblest fishing boat so long as they sat close. It must’ve been the exhaustion dulling him, sapping his attention. In a casual sweep of his Spiritual Sense, it startled him to the point of sweeping again, doubting himself, thinking it a misfire.

Candles of juva burned with prudence in Leimuth; as is the case with any location that is a holding for cultivators of any kind, he could point to anywhere and scoop out a handful, or more. Yet—he stilled his breath, these new auras amongst the clan weren’t of their own. Whilst the average cultivator had nothing too distinctive about them, these people were walking fingerprints of wherever they came. His skin sizzled if he focused on one, like a man touched a lantern on him. Hot… intense… focused, he thought, these guests aren’t the usual caliber. And he left it at that. With one last, inquisitive look at where these candles were the most concentrated: the harbor, and, the tower, Grisla kept on. Home was close.

Home was what came first.

The view beyond the window of The Pillmaker’s Foundry on the second floor was obstructed, shamelessly by the wild plants whose care made them flourish sooner than expected. Stealing all light for themselves, and because, coming up to this room meant you’d be walking in half darkness, with a chance of a trip on something. For that reason it wasn’t wise to come in past the afternoon. The midday light which trickled in as charity put a slanted shadow on a wrinkled forehead. Herbs with the privilege to be outside were celebrating, once. Now, after that immediate downpour his precious stock was rain-sodden, could those plants inside with him still be jealous? The man couldn’t tell.

His steepled fingers, for decades had an intimate relationship with the soil under heaven, the whispers of the land, the bounty of nature. It’s been too long, long enough at a point where his fading memories placed him in a position of never being able to recall when those things weren’t stained with dirt; and fingernails absent of a crust. How had he managed, so far? The world was changing. His clan, his people—in front of his very eyes. Vineheart, a tempestuous plant, had been harvested today; its seeds work well as a stabilizer, the final step would fail without it and three months of work would vanish in a dramatic pop. He wouldn’t be pleased if it did. While outside on the still, it’ll die with that much water. And he’s never had a plant die on him since the time he’s taken up the title after his predecessor.

But today, he couldn’t find the heart to care. So he watched.

Olimuth Banrei, and Pillmaker of the Grittus clan had his shoulder-length hair fall where it wanted, as he felt freedom necessary for everything in life to flourish. The last bastion of black that fought against the tide of grey had held out for a good twenty years, but, in his estimation, it’ll lose ground in about five. And then—then he’ll have to think about a successor. Unenthusiasm was all he could feel.

A whine of hinges, the three steps and a tumbling fall sounded out behind him. He would sigh but, he tires of it.

“M–Master Olimuth,” An assistant that could trace relation to a tree branch, crawled herself out of a pile of books older than her father’s father, and with a hacking cough caused by dust and particles, said, “we’ll need your signature to release the shipment due for the Upper District.”

The girl was one of those so called “successors” if she learned how to keep her two feet together. It was believed that he could only choose one, as his teacher did, and his teacher, and so on; making sure the quality of every future Pillmaker was up to standard was a rigorous process, but he was sure that some of that was embellished to save a lazy man from trying. One student, one teacher; that was how it’s supposed to be. Yet—

Olimuth had four. Three could serve as minor Pillmakers someday, and maybe, possibly, only one could mature to his level. And that was a far-stretched maybe; she’ll need a century till then. Some would say he’s devaluing the title by appointing those undeserving when the time came. But, in his years of travelling before settling down as a member of the Grittus clan, the less that could claim the title, the weaker the sect. Scraping pennies together to cobble up someone that tries to be one, is how he sees it.

He didn’t look back. “Go ahead and sign it.” She was halfway through dusting herself off before she looked up, as if she misheard. Ranla Grittus’ head worked in double-checking everything and anything, to be assured of a step before the last could follow. It almost surprised him that she managed a fall in here.

“Master,” she bit her lip. “I don’t see how we could do it—”

“Do you need me to say?” Olimuth couldn’t hear how icy his voice sounded, “Just do it. Use my fancy quills if you want, just do it. It matters little. They get their pills, and my shop gets paid. Simple. Go now.” But the sound of her footsteps didn’t come. He had half a mind to look back.

“Why…?” Renla muttered. Normally, that’d pass under his hearing. Unluckily for her, the rain halted a time ago. His ears weren’t shot just yet. “Master, that pill you just made for Lord Patriarch, it took you ages to do, and it was given away without so much as a ‘thank you’ from him?”

Olimuth’s mirthless smile was unseen by the disciple. “As expected. He hasn’t been in the best mood as of late. What with these guests and their demands, paid in advance, yet their thirst has hasn’t been sated. I fear his father may’ve struck a bargain with whom he barely understands.” He’d forgotten he spoke of her relative, her honor as a member of their household would demand she have a rebuttal about it but—as if she would dare. And he had not a whit of care for her feeling about it either.

At the time, if it weren’t for the barrier sealing off any would-be eavesdroppers, the whole street would be within earshot of the Patriarch’s raging. The man was already in a sour mood stepping inside; barely acknowledging the respect due to sole Pillmaker of his people. Hell, had Olimuth been a minute slower bringing him his request, the man might’ve done something he’d only live to regret later. He shivered thinking about it. Although he was an outsider, and had not much interest nor right into the Upper District’s troubles, it didn’t necessarily mean he never heard anything, and whatever he could say it mattered not when he was invariably pulled into their schemes.

The minute he read of his request for a White Miracle Pill he’d suspected, with the time of the Rosewater Exchange on the horizon that things won’t be as simple as they did for the last. Or well, rather, if what had happened then was simple, what will come now? He let that languish in his head long enough that it threatened to spoil the rest of his mood; and it did, over months of festering.

Olimuth huffed. “He’s been afraid that, despite how much he’s kneeled and smiled for them, the possible aid might not be as he wished; or in ways he wouldn’t suspect,” he said, unaware that it can be heard, “deals with men who have nonexistent loyalty is a fool’s errand. Yet, it matters not. The die has been cast. His father’s schemes must go fulfilled, to wherever it leads. I can only pray for those who’ve been sacrificed in these childish ambitions.” It felt like bile in his throat. His whingeing did nothing for the dead; the man could almost think of himself as an accomplice in whatever that man intended.

At the fogged window, where friendless droplets fell between leaves that missed a catch, Renla slid one open and reached out; she’s trained enough to distinguish a plant’s health at a glance, if not, a touch—that benchmark isn’t too hard to reach, though. She mumbled on her lips while petting a Magigrass. “It’ll need a bit more water, least if nobody else wants to come up here for a time. Be right back,” she did two steps then halted at his hand.

“Leave it,” he said. An ache came about, an old wound from old times, when he had been even more lost than ever. “You needn’t do anything. Can’t you feel it?” Chewing on his cheek, he eyed her.

She looked around, for whatever reason. Scatterbrained girl, she was about to give him an answer he clearly hoped not to hear, but did expect. “No…? What feeling?” Renla took the time to use a juva infused finger to flick thorns off the neighboring Maiden’s Kiss. She’ll need to repot it later, if she doesn’t forget.

“It’s coming again. The rain, I mean.”

“Eh? You sure? That downpour earlier looked to squeeze out most, Master.”

“As sure as my name is Olimuth, child. A downpour like this comes in stages; presently, we are far from clear. I fear that the storm to come has yet to unveil itself and came as a forewarning.” Renla nodded, and when she reached the door, she turned back.

“Master? You’ve forgot these.”

“Those? Oh. Leave them, I’ve yet to plant them.”

“Did someone pass in your family, Master? And two of them?”

“No, not mine. I would say acquaintances saddled with unfortunate circumstances. Gone now. But I’ve talked long enough, go get that signature done.”

Halted, Grisla stared at the barricade before him. Lip raised with a leaning mind to break it and march over the pieces. Past it, shirtless men carried stacks of material over the shoulder—mostly stone, and they sweated in respect to its weight, they moved in lines and columns with purpose. Shovels and yells, carts and horses—and not a hint as to where he was. But this was on the road to home, and, it should be here. Did he take a wrong turn? Impossible, I know where I live. Construction? Here? Who ordered this…? He couldn’t see Gihren permitting construction on Orlith land; and with what funds, for what purpose?

“TRESPASSING PERMITTED, WORK IN PROGRESS” The barrier wrote, yet it was behind him now. And a handful stared at him for whatever foolishness they think he was to bring. Grisla’s steps paused; a group of workers looked askance at him with cold fury for getting in their way. Before long, a man dressed to supervise came close.

A film of sweat coated his forehead. “Kid, the sign?” The foreman’s shirt was as stained as any other man around, and with a little bit of extra whether he had to get down to the site to scream at someone’s face or pick up the slack from others. A finger jabbed past Grisla’s ear. “It ain’t safe. And you’re in the way. Clear out.” He nearly turned off, deciding it was enough. However, Grisla hadn’t moved, hadn’t twitched, or moved a muscle since his appearance. His eyes, though, stared somewhere else.

Men tossed debris into a pile filled with pieces of a structure. Long stakes of wood column and, seemingly, used as part of a wall once mingled there. An archway, a shattered door. Pieces so fractured they’d lost what they’re meant to be. No matter how displaced they were, the cracked paint that clung tapped bells in his head. And Grisla’s tongue suddenly went dry. It couldn’t be.

The foreman stepped forward. “Are you a lackwit? Go!” Exhausted of patience, the man muttered something as he started with an arm, towards Grisla’s—

“How dare you…” Grisla said. It was a branch to him, the wrist in his hand; but if any non-cultivator described a man’s corded and muscled arm chiseled out of years of hard, back-snapping labor like so they’d surely get laughed out of a tavern. The foreman’s shriek and feeble strikes at his chest, at his face—there was a good touch at his lips, but—he hadn’t noticed whatsoever. Home, what happened to it?

Our fences, gone. The home… gone. Where’s the fountain? Father said—said he would repair it come next spring! These people…

In lack of awareness Grisla’s captured wrist was like putty to him, squeezed as if it’s entire purpose at this very moment was to relieve—try at most—his panicking mind. Water to the griddle. He was tired, wanted sleep and yet—he saw nowhere below his feet or ahead of him to lay his head for the night. The family gate was gone. His home reduced to a pile of scrap at the edge of a dirt road. Whereupon men gave him strange looks and threw more of his home on top, before thinking of approaching.

“C–Call the guards,” the foreman yelled. “P–Please! Let go! It hurts!”

Dark eyes without a bottom penetrated him. “This is Orlith property! Orlith land! Who dares, thinks”—he couldn’t begin to guess what sort of stupidity affected those who approved this project without checking— “they could just do this without consequence! Do you not know whose land you’re on?” They stared at him as if he were mad. And the foreman, doubly so.

Men who had a glimmer of bravery made themselves too obvious, one out of every six were gripping their shovels a notch too hard, or dragged their feet an inch further, could it be they assumed a cultivator couldn’t see that, when if any of their kind focused hard enough, seeing granules of sand was just a chore to them? The foreman blinked, forgot his captured hand bringing agonizing pain, and really looked at him.

“You’re…! No, it doesn’t matter. This isn’t your land, not anymore.”

“What?” Grisla yanked his wrist so hard he’d thought it might tear free. Even without keeping him hostage, a man stared at with eyes like those, as though they could be flayed alive with merely a glare, had done more to loose the foreman’s tongue than anything else; unbeknownst to him.

“It’s been decreed months ago, the Orlith’s have been stripped of all rights to land in Leimuth. We’re here on approval!” He smiled a smirk so quickly at that if Grisla had less restraint he’d kill the man for his smugness. “You’re supposed to be dead, anyway! Well, not that it matters. The Orlith’s are finished.”

He was frozen. It was impossible, it couldn’t be true. From what he knew of clan law, only the Patriarch himself had the right to revoke or diminish land, but even then, that was just insanity. Exercising that power was the fastest road to fracturing the clan, and, to open rebellion. The clan wouldn’t be the clan, if such a thing were used. In fact, in the secret histories only the great Grittus families are privy to know, the revocation of titles and land were only used once—in the Ancient Era, a few years before their clan became a subject of the Kingdom.

He didn’t know when, but he was already shoving men out of the way, tossing those that wouldn’t to pathetically roll aside. The pile was only a portion of the full compound—the Orlith home was in decline, but its size was enough to distinguish. Not even a support stood in the cleared field. Knees hitting the ground, he let a hand touch wood. Unsure what this piece used to be, or what it was part of.

“Why…?” Grisla said, to no one in particular.

“Because, why not?” A voice said.

Grisla’s head whipped around. Furious eyes met the amused. The man’s swept hair, unassuming posture gave the impression of a man who could easily fit behind another’s shadow. When the need requires. A kind of man who made Grisla’s skin tighten at the sight of him.

“Fang Lai…!” He snarled.

Fang Lai’s smile hung alone. He deflected Grisla’s attention, “It seems you are unnoticed again, Chosen Four.” His companion huffed a reply.

Grisla frowned. So, he’s here too.

If Fang Lai was the shadow, or a serpent clinging to the ankle—Hangyin Yulin was a bulwark of a man. Shoulders that could break bridges over, and ears not too shy of functioning like wings trademarked him. That, and his sword on his back that’d take three men to lift and five to actually think about swinging. The former he hated instinctually; Yulin was an enigma. And at the moment Grisla’s mood wasn’t at the readiness required to deal with either.