His muscles were pulled taught, straining to keep their position. By now, Keter was covered in a sheen of sweat, spilling the odd drop onto the wooden floorboards with a dull tap, tap, tap. His arms were trembling, yet he kept on going; this was nothing new. He had trained his body many times over, every time after he had recovered from a serious injury, which were all but uncommon in his previous life. This was simply one of many.

His shoulder had recovered nicely. Splendidly, in fact. Keter was surprised by the effectiveness of Virrah's and Silva's combined efforts and treatments. But, then again, his rapidly healing wounds might be a side effect of his new-found magical abilities, of which he had yet to explore their limits. This ignorance was something he wished to change. Life, he knew, rarely hands you any benefits, any tools, any help. But, when it does, you better make the most of it.

Today, Keter would seek to erase this shortcoming. The Hawk would aid him, of this he was sure.

Keter heard the door creak open, and then saw Virrah look down upon his half-naked, sweat-covered, head flushed for the strain of his exercise, and jumped slightly.

"My apologies, Master Maker." She turned around. "I did not think you were..."

She did not know the word, of course. What was he doing, indeed? To her, someone from a time where simply living was a challenge on its own, would not readily understand why someone wished to make their life even harder, willingly.

"No, it's quite alright, Virrah." Keter said, rolling onto his back. "I was just about finished anyway." He pulled his knees up to his chest, palms to the floor, and sprang up like an uncoiling viper, stretching every muscle to its fullest, arms high above. His past injuries had all but disappeared. The only ache he still felt was the gash in his shoulder. But soon even the stitches there could be pulled out.

It seemed like Virrah wasn’t going to question his odd behaviour, but then, before she left, her curiosity won out.

"Sorry, Master Maker. Could I ask you the purpose of... that, just now?" She asked, fidgeting a little. Nervous.

"I was testing the limitations of my body." He answered. "It could potentially prove fatal if I underestimated my body's condition."

Virrah nodded slowly. "Yes," She said, "I see. That is indeed very wise. As expected of the Master Maker."

Keter waved her off, following the girl downstairs. She went to the communal room, where they generally ate, while Keter left the Hospit to fetch the bucket of cool water that waited outside for him. Last night he had fetched it from the well, down-hill. Some of the girls had seen him carrying it, and offer to help, but he had pointedly turned them away. This, too, had been training. Everything was.

The blast of icy water, cooled by the frosty night, shook him from his pondering. The water, although cold, was very refreshing. Keter could live with filth but preferred to be clean none the less. If one thing was sure to mess you up in the field, it was a lack of proper hygiene.

Virrah stood inside, holding a wooden bowl with wild bird eggs - boiled and peeled - and a generous helping of dark bread. All of which Keter ate before the crackling fire, slowly turning wet into steam.

"You will be heading to the Elder Shaman's Tabernacle, today." Not so much a question, she said it more like a statement. Perhaps still coming to terms that she couldn't keep him cooped up in their Hospit forever. A testament to her innocence.

Keter did not see any reason as to why he would react to that. So, he wiped another chunk of bread in the spilled yoke and shoved it down.

"Can you trust him?" She then asked, daringly. Brave. Some people would call that blasphemy.

"That is a bold question, Virrah," Keter pointed out, "do you distrust the Shaman so?"

She flushed, then looked down and away, fumbling with her fingers. But after, she shot a mischievous glance his way, as if calling him out on his jab.

"Rohm, the Lowest, rewards boldness." She said.

Keter frowned.

"Who's Rohm?" He asked curiously, to which Virrah raised an eyebrow. As if surprised he didn't know.

"The lower, larger, blue moon. He is Sihn's older sibling and is told to support her as she makes her way across the night sky. He is proud of his younger sister, who dares brave the higher reaches of heaven, and is told to reward such boldness in men also."

Keter thought on that for a spell. It should come to no suprise that these people had their own legends and beliefs, especially concerning things such as moons and suns and stars.

"then, what does Sihn reward?"

Virrah looked up again, smiling slightly - as if trying to keep it from showing.

"Sihn, The Highest, rewards cunning and wit. She tricked Rohm into carrying her, so she could cross the stars above him. She is told to appreciate the same intelligence in mortals." Keter finished the last of his breakfast. His body, mostly dried.

"Then," he said, raising himself from his seat and throwing his cloak on, "Are you like Rohm, or Sihn?"

She did not answer.

The grassy path down Silva's hill had been trudged to mud long ago by all those passing over the many years since the Hospit had been erected. Even the large rocks, imbedded into the soil in an pointless attempt to offer some foothold, had almost completely disappeared by all the muck. After a time, people had started walking next to the trail, where the grass still grew to keep the earth solid. But, now, even this was starting to waste away. Virrah wondered how many more years it would take for the entire hill to be walked and ploughed and hacked to sludge. The green, fertile mount - ruined to waste.

It was the first time since the Master Maker's coming that he left the Hospit's hill, and certainly was reason for a lot of head-turning, then frantic mumbling, hurried shuffling. Before Virrah knew it, they both had a gathering of villagers following them through Hollow's Maw.

The Master Maker acted as if he were indifferent to the crowd’s crushing presence. He walked - paraded rather - with his head held high, chest out, and straight stare. But in the past weeks Virrah had gotten more familiar with the Maker's behaviour. She had started noticing things. Small things, even. Like how there was never really a bounce to his gate, always walking steadily as if stalking a nervous prey; ready to leap or dash at a moment's notice.

His hands, too. Always by his sides, hanging yet not dangling. Some tension always remained, rooted between his shoulders, branching down his arms and to his hands; They reminded Virrah of vines in the bellowing wind, ready to lash out like whips in an instant.

But his eyes, like black pits of tar they were without bottom. They moved over everything with a steady movement, scanning, observing, judging. There had been a time, not long ago, where Virrah would wither under a gaze like that. Baring their scrutiny was like braving the raging storms come blowing from across the great mountains. It left you feeling hollow like, like...

Virrah did not know. Perhaps, she thought, that was what death feels like.

--

Even by the time Keter arrived at the Shaman's great tabernacle, the mob remained; staring at him eyes round and wide, full of reverence, respect, wonder. He was an oddity, true, but he was theirs. Or so they believed. He was a deity to these simple people, and they had a fair idea how to treat one of those. Prayers, wishes and hopes were muttered in his presence. Keter did not doubt that soon enough they would start expecting things from him.

He stared at the huge gathering of what must have been close to four dozen men and woman, packed together between the wooden huts and hide tents. It was not hard to imagine what these people could do to him if unhappy. For all his skill and magic, he was still but one among many.

He clenched his jaws tight and walked up to a boy who stood posted outside the tabernacle, staring expectantly at his god.

He rushed over, the boy did - pelts flapping as he tottered across the damp earth. He was small, young. Perhaps no older than Keter's own body. But he was smaller. For whatever reason everyone looked smaller compared to what Keter expected from the average man.

“Master Maker,” he piped, voice high and squeaky, “The Elder Shaman is prepared to re-re-re…” He stuttered, eyes darting to find the word.

“Receive.” Virrah offered helpfully. The boy shot her an embarrassed, disdained glare.

“To receive you, Master Maker.” He finished, finally.

“Yes,” Keter said, flatly, “Could you let me in, then?” He already started walking to the entrance, paying no heed to the boy who followed in haste.

“Master Maker, Sir, ehm, Lord!” Keter paused and turned.

“What is it, child?”

The boy looked nervous, then peeked at Virrah. “Master Maker, ehm, the sacrifice, ehm Slickleaf is not allowed entrance to God’s Abode, Lord.”

Keter turned fully, then, to regard the boy squarely. “Says who?” He demanded coldly.

The boy stammered, fumbled, and the Tabernacle opened. Keter heard Hawk shuffling out, his troubled gate easily recognized.

“My deepest apologies, mighty Master Maker.” He said. “Alas, a girl, once she’s become ‘Virrah’ is no longer considered one of man’s own, one of God’s own. Thus, she is no longer allowed entry.”

The boy looked smugly at Virrah, who remained impassive – her face serene and devoid of emotion. Keter sighed inwardly. It wasn’t as if he wanted her to enter but…

“I am the Master Maker, correct?” He asked the Shaman. His wrinkled brow furrowed, then sprang up quickly.

“Of course! There is no doubt! Not a one in this village, in the whole of Hollow’s Maw questions this, fierce Master Maker!” Keter pursed his lips, cocking his head to the side.

“Then is it not I who decides whom may enter God’s Abode, Elder Shaman?” A drop of sweat, a panicked twitch – a decision, quickly made.

“Yes, naturally, Master. It is you after all!” The man winced, a glimmer of rotting teeth.

“Good.” Keter said. “Then let’s enter and continue where we left off last time. Virrah, you can return to the Hospit. I will send to you when needed.” She looked confused for a moment. Only a moment, a testament to her wit.

“As you wish, Master.” She bowed, hairs falling down and brushing her delicate face, then left, ploughing her way through the parting crowd. The Shaman’s confusion lasted longer though.

“Let us go.” Keter said, passing the Shaman and entering through the pastel cloth.

“Yes,” The Shaman muttered, incredulous and lost. “Of course.”

-

Karja’s blessing was the Fargrasp, and she revelled in demonstrating this to anyone who cared for her company. Considering she was of high nobility, and her family disgustingly wealthy, meant this was a considerable amount of people.

Her finger circled lazily, almost carelessly in the air. Before her, a thin spoon gently stirred her drink, mixing sweet syrup with cooled water. Her brilliant gems glittered readily in the faux-light, glowing above in a prism of lights. The spell’s time ran out, and her spoon dropped to the glass’ edge with a tender tinkle.

She frowned slightly, not enough to crease her skin, but Rin posed that if she did it more often she’d get wrinkles none the less. Karja was fond of frowning. She watched the silverware, moved her hand, her left hand fitted with a bright gemstone, and spoke some words. The spoon lifted again and continued its circles, coiling the drink round and around.

“As I was saying,” she said airily, “the Svirun garden is looking most poorly.” Svima, the first daughter of the Svirun house and hostess of this party, shrunk in her iron-spun chair. Rin thought the garden beautiful. It brimmed with exotic flowers and almost otherworldly fruits.

“Yes.” Hrind said, always ready to follow Karja like a bitch in heat does trail the hound. She said something, then - a spell. The words sounded familiar yet strange as always when someone casts their blessing. Like a language you know enough to recognize, yet not enough to really understand. Every time someone casts, the words sound different only to bystanders.

“The snake’s paw looks wilted, dying through poor soil.” She said. Her blessing was the Longeye. Rin, nor the others, could see the plant. Most likely, it was somewhere out of sight. But Hrind could use her blessing to look far across a field, through a wall, on the other side of town. There’s only, if you paid close attention, be a faint, cold foggy outline, but dry like smoke or incense. Then you knew she was watching you.

“I’m sorry.” Svima whined softly. “I’ll tell father to invest more in the garden’s upkeep.” Rin doubted they’d do it though. The Svirun family was down on coin, the care for a garden like this was exponentially draining their resources. Of course, outwards appearance was most important to nobles. Like this drink party, which didn’t exactly help the family’s treasury either. But the bird hides its hurt to the flock, for it would be abandoned otherwise. Or worse. Rin had seen it.

“Anyway,” Karja continued, already ignoring Svima, “there have been talks about the ‘Tower Murder’ again.” She said it offhandedly, but the others, Rin included, perked up. Karja waited patiently, idly stirring her drink with her Fargrasp. She obviously wanted someone to ask her to explain more. Rin would have, but it was not her place to speak up. She ranked far, far lower.

“Really?” Venja asked. “Do you know more?”

Karja snorted in an un-ladylike way. “Obviously.” She said, then leaned closer as if she was broaching some great secret. The others came closer, too. “I’ve heard tell that Inquisitor Vindict found a scratch in the tower’s parapet.” They were silent, waiting for her to speak further.

“Don’t you see?” She gloated. “The foolish man actually thinks the killer came through a balcony some sixty yards up a wall of smooth stone!” She snickered, and the others obliged.

“Foolish.” Hrind agreed.

“Idiotic.” Venja added.

“Dumb.” Svima whispered.

Only Rin did not speak. It was not her place.

Karja’s eyes moved, her hand twitched, she spoke, and a peach floated to her hand. Rin imagined that long ago, her family had used this blessing for their hard labour, moving heavy things to build. Now, her family needn’t work, for they owned.

The fruit snapped from its course and plopped into her waiting hand. She looked at Rin, with eyes green as the first day of spring.

“You are awfully quiet.” She said. “What are your thoughts? You think some man was blessed with flight?” She laughed, the sound clear and resonate in the veranda of collared glass.

“Unlikely, Mistress.” Rin said softly. “Very much so.”

“What do you know?” Hrind sneered. “You do not even have a blessing yourself.”

“Yet she still wears blessed gems.” Venja mocked.

“Dumb.” Svima added quickly, trying to side with the more powerful girls. Rin did not blame her. It was common knowledge Rin was born without a blessing.

“She only wears one, though.” Venja said, nodding at Rin’s gem ring – coiling blue and wrathful on her thin finger.

“No.” Karja said. “There is one more in her broch.” She looked at the gem – pulsing red and hurtful between her curls of gold.

“What need a girl without blessing so many gemstones for?” Venja cackled.

Everyone can absorb power from their surroundings, but only so much, only so quickly. If one wears gemstones, they can store energy in those, saving it for a later time. Rin had no blessing. She could not absorb power. This was common knowledge.

“Maybe she wants to learn a mantra and become a Spellburner.” Hrind joked.

Some were born with a chant from their lineage. Those without a blessing can learn a mantra to call upon the divine. But it could easily take years to learn the basics of just one, so they generally started them young, pumping great sums of coin in the child’s studies. They could still not create their own power and must rely on gems. Thus, giving them the name: Spellburners.

“Please,” Venja said, “As if her father could afford such an education for his daughter.” It was common knowledge her family was not as wealthy, even compared to other low nobles. They dismissed them easily because of this. Rin did not talk back, she only looked down. Young, little Rin, barely old enough for noble social life. Easily overlooked. Easily talked down. Easily crushed.

“Enough about that.” Karja interrupted, already having grown bored with watching her friends bully Rin. “Svima, the reason why I accepted your offer to host this sweets party was because I heard you’ve heard some interesting news.” Svima was caught eating a sugary marble, almost choked, coughed, then regained her wits.

“About the expedition, Mistress?” She asked, dabbing some tears away with her peach-coloured handkerchief.

“Yes, you dimwit. What else?” Karja snapped, pulling a sweet to her with Fargrasp, sapping away at her gems. It did not matter. She wore four of them – deep orange and flashing with vigour, on her hands, round her neck, in her auburn curls.

Svima jumped, wincing. “I’ve heard the Regidana family’s gathered thirty Spellburners, and four platoons of infantry trained for the wild.” Rin had to hide a smile. She was the one who had added those numbers to the original rumour. It had taken two days since she’d heard it first for it to spread to Karja. She might be higher born, true, but Rin still had a firmer grasp on information. Like a steel trap.

“That many?” Karja asked, surprised. Her eyes glazed over, thinking. “This would certainly put a dent in their defences, huh?” She muttered. The others knew better than to respond when she talked to herself. She smiled, suddenly.

“Thank you, Svima, for bringing me this information.” The girl’s eyes went bright with delight.

“I’m glad to be of help, Mistress!” She blushed. Karja ignored her and looked at Rin.

“Why can’t you ever bring me any news? What exactly is your worth here, little girl?” She laughed, and the others joined. They did not know Rin’s worth. Not her first and not her last. But if her father decided it, they would be taught of these. Rin would give them such a lesson that they never needed another. Whether they liked it or not. Whether Rin wanted to or not. To decide this was not her place. She was a tool, only defined by her worth.