Day 2 Report:

designation:ZLTDB0K9HUV is exceeding growth rate projections [PL+3].

STAT gain: 3

Pentad gain (STA, AGI) of 2.

Doublet gain (THM) of 1.

SKL acquisition derived from breach of stat.eff (EXCLUDED).

SKL isolated and removed from normal function.

SKL acquisition: Cold_Snap[0], [excluded.SKL].

Abnormal STAT growth detected.

Conjecture (81% certainty): Anomalous interaction between designation:ZLTDB0K9HUV, temp.server, and [excluded.SKL] resulted in STAT growth.

Conjecture (89% certainty): In addition to other effects, stat.eff (EXCLUDED) can temporarily increase THM value at the cost of Pentad. Potential response to high-risk situations.

temp.server storage function prohibited long-term STAT decrease.

Interaction between [excluded.SKL] and temp.server resulted in abnormal STAT recovery.

Interaction between [excluded.SKL] and designation:ZLTDB0K9HUV resulted in STAT growth.

designation:ZLTDB0K9HUV meeting requirements for provisional satisfaction of directive.harvest. No method of restraint recommended at this time.

Incursion rate from stat.eff (EXCLUDED) halted, receding.

Analysis of temp.server: 47%.

Resuming special protocol with exclusionary status.

Albek was running from a mob of people in church robes. They laughed as they chased him. They never drew closer or fell back, but kept pace with him, slowly tiring him out. Their footsteps fell like the beats of a drum: a strange, marching unison that shook the earth and threw him off balance. He cradled something to his chest as he ran, but he couldn’t see what it was. He looked down to assure himself that it was still there, but when he held out his hands, they were empty and dripping blood, clutching at nothing. The rhythmic footsteps grew louder.

Albek bolted upright on the couch, his arms reaching out for something. Outside, someone was hammering something.

He found himself in an unfamiliar room in an unfamiliar house, filled with wooden furniture that looked handmade. Simple, but sturdy.

His memories of the previous night flooded back, and he dizzily sagged back into the couch. A feeling from his right hand made him look down.

The hand had been wrapped with gauze, and he could see stumps where his ring and pinky fingers used to be. He couldn’t move the hand as the bandages were too tight. As he looked at his injury, he kept expecting something to happen, for the emotional impact to suddenly hit him, but there was nothing there.

The second thing he noticed was an unfamiliar weight on his chest. Craning his neck, he found that he was wearing a black locket. It was small and oval-shaped and attached to a slim black chain around his neck, but otherwise it was completely unadorned. It was unreflective, too, despite its smoothness. Its weight was the most noticeable thing about it, and it made him wonder whether it was filled with lead.

Following the line of sight down, he saw his clothes. Somebody had changed him out of the bloodstained attire he’d been wearing and into clothes that were far too large for him. He lifted the shirt to inspect his body.

At first glance, he was still shockingly thin, ribs forming outlines against his skin—but he wondered if he’d filled out a bit more than before. He wouldn’t be able to tell until he had access to a mirror.

He felt along his frame, at the same time fascinated and repulsed.

The strange pattern he’d seen was gone now, and he couldn’t even find its origin. All that he could see on his stomach was the long white scar he’d earned after his disembowelment the other day.

He ultimately found himself more curious about the strange locket, and he lifted it up by the chain to take a closer look.

“That belonged to your mother.”

Albek jumped. He hadn’t even noticed his father, who was sitting completely motionless by the far window. The curtains had been drawn back, and a ray of sunshine illuminated a portion of his face.

Albek paused while he processed the statement. Hemash had spoken in Kalkian.

His mother.

“This locket?” he asked.

“Yes. She left it behind.”

The chain slipped out of his trembling fingers.

He wanted to take off the locket and throw it far away, to bury it somewhere deep and hide it. To hug it closer.

There was a burning sensation behind his eyes. He rubbed at them with an arm. What was this? He didn’t care about losing some fingers, but his father made him like this with a few words?

She’d left something behind. The day after he’d lost his armlet and this fell into his lap. He wasn’t abandoned.

“I thought she just took off one day with all her things, and you weren’t able to find her,” Albek said. “You told me that.”

“I lied,” his father replied. “Things were more complicated. She vanished, yes, but that remained. Do you recall it? She always kept it on her person.”

Albek remembered now. She hadn’t worn much jewelry, but his mother always had a black chain around her neck. He hadn’t realized that’s what this was.

Hemash continued, “I was afraid I would lose it, too. You… you understand why I chose to keep it hidden?”

His last statement almost sounded imploring, as if he could be absolved by a word from Albek. His father didn’t need his forgiveness, though.

“But why did you give it to me?” he asked.

His father sighed. For a long time, he didn’t answer. Hemash looked out the window. Albek turned to see what it was and saw the figure of Jameson Bray out in the driveway, sawing some lumber. Nearby, Liyne and Chelsea were conspiring together. As he watched, he saw Liyne demonstrate Shimmer by casting it in front of one Jameson’s huge dogs, who jumped after it and tried to catch the spark in its mouth.

Seeing Liyne and everyone else looking happy and healthy was a centering experience for Albek. For a minute, the two of them looked through the window, neither wanting to break the spell of silence.

Then, he thought of Dune, and the moment was broken. She wasn’t out there with the others. Was she fine? What had happened after he returned with her?

Hemash finally responded before Albek could after her.

“I tried giving the locket to Liyne yesterday. I thought that someone of Umeith’s own blood… but no. Liyne’s reaction was... not good.”

‘Not good?’

Hemash continued, “It was the same for me. I wanted to wear it with me everywhere the day she left, but when I tried putting it on, I—I became, I felt… something I could not describe. Like the world had grown too big. And that I was lost in its vastness. I might have forgotten to breathe had I not ripped it off. I should have known the locket was meant for you.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

Hemash turned towards him, and suddenly Albek was like a moth pinned to a spreading board before his piercing gaze.

He went on, “I knew, Olvilo, from the circumstances surrounding her disappearance five years ago that supernatural forces were involved. I knew that very day.”

Albek paused to let it all sink in.

“What do you mean, ‘supernatural forces?’”

Hemash sighed deeply. “I should have told you that very day, but I was confused. I still am. All I can say is that, when we boarded that flight, she was with us. Umeith existed. When we landed, she didn’t.”

“What? You mean she—”

“No, she didn’t die. Nothing like that. She simply vanished. The slate was wiped clean. Her existence on this planet was no more. Aside from you, me, and perhaps Liyne, nobody remembered her. I fell asleep in my seat, and when I awoke, her seat was empty. All her luggage, all her things were gone. That locket alone was left behind.”

“I don’t understand.”

Hemash clasped his hands, his knuckles white. “Every person I talked to, even when I called your grandmother, had no idea what I was talking about. They thought—they thought you and Liyne were adopted.”

This was insane.

‘Why didn’t he ever say anything? Wait—no, nobody would have believed him.’

His mother was either magical herself or involved in some way with the supernatural. The worst part of this revelation is that it made sense. It made a terrible amount of sense. He pictured Umeith.

He’d loved her, truly, as any boy loved his mother. He remembered her cool hand on his forehead when he was sick with fever, how she prepared Albek’s food the way he liked it, even when his father complained. He remembered her praise when he performed well at school. Her smiles. Words of comfort. But these actions, all filled with care, were accompanied by the same look in her eyes.

Her eyes.

‘What was with her eyes?’

When he wasn’t thinking actively about them, he had a vague recollection of a motherly gaze, but whenever he tried to picture them, he hit a wall—dead stop. He couldn’t remember what they looked like. He only remembered what they weren’t. They weren’t blue, or brown, or green. They weren’t soft or piercing, resentful or malicious. They weren’t emotionless, but none of the emotions he thought of fit the fuzzy blank in his mind.

‘If I could just remember her eyes… just that…’

Then he would remember everything.

He was beginning to feel untethered: drifting away from reality, like a piece of flotsam that, after finally grounding itself on the shore, was being carried out to sea by the receding tide.

Albek’s memories of her departure were scattered. It was the day of their arrival on Federation soil, immigrants in a strange land. He remembered confusion, blurs of motion and colors, his father yelling at officials and strangers, all as a hole steadily ate its way into his chest.

After a pause, he lifted the locket. It was a strange, weighty thing. It held secrets. It alone remained of all of Umeith’s possessions.

“You can’t wear this?”

“Right,” Hemash said.

“Why did you put it on me? What if I had that same reaction?”

If the locket were having an effect on him, he didn’t notice it, but that didn’t mean he liked being treated like a guinea pig.

“You don’t remember?” Hemash asked, surprised.

“Remember what?”

“You put it on yourself, Olvilo.”

“Huh?”

“Do you remember anything from this morning?”

Albek shook his head.

Hemash explained, “You arrived five hours ago, with Dune. When I tried to talk to you, you mumbled. You looked in corners. You jumped at every motion we made. I had to make everyone else go outside just for you to calm down. Words cannot describe how upset your sister was. Chelsea has spent all day trying to cheer her up.”

“And Dune—” Albek choked the sentence off.

“The dog is fine, just resting.”

Albek must not have appeared convinced, so Hemash pointed towards a corner of the room behind the couch. Albek turned to see the puppy curled up on a pillow, peacefully asleep.

His eyes softened. Liyne was fine. Dune was fine. The only one hurt by this stupid endeavor was him. That’s something he could live with.

“I still don’t remember. Did I do anything else?”

Hemash rubbed his arm. “Yes. Once I tried to steer you to the couch and get you seated, you suddenly grabbed me.”

He pulled up his sleeve, and Albek saw an imprint of a hand on his father’s wrist. It wasn’t a bruise, but where Albek’s hand left its mark, his skin had turned gray. Squinting his eyes, he could just make out traces of the black striations that marked his draining ability.

He stood, despite the sudden dizzy spell that overtook him. Swaying, Albek clutched at the table to steady himself. He had to go. To leave. He was a danger to everyone by staying here.

Hemash hastily pulled his sleeve back into place, hiding the mark, saying, “Sit down, child. I am fine. It is only a superficial injury—sit down.”

Slowly, Albek did as he was told, though mainly because he was too dizzy for anything else. His stomach roiled.

“You let go almost as soon as you had grabbed me. You were confused, tired. Fighting for your life out there,” Hemash gestured at the window, “had awakened your survival instincts, I understand.”

Albek knew better. Those weren’t “survival instincts.” It was his status effect. The curse of the Voice. What had it said to him yesterday?

I grant you my aegis.

‘This draining ability is the aegis it was talking about? An aegis is a shield, right? It doesn’t seem like much of a shield if it makes me go insane and try to kill myself.’

Albek put a hand on his stomach, but that hollow, hungering feeling from last night was long gone. Whatever the aegis was, it seemed to originate from his stomach. The branching tendrils that sprouted from his navel had vanished after he passed out on the floor at the Robinsons, and he was too afraid to try and call on it again. Being manipulated like that, unable to control his own actions, was an experience he didn’t want to live through again.

He looked again over to his father’s arm, the bruise that he’d hidden. He remembered the unnatural white-hot rage that filled him the day before and drove him from his home. Then, last night, when he almost went after Dune—Albek shivered.

He really fucking hated it.

Hemash continued telling him about the morning. “I started talking to you to get you to calm down. I told you what Liyne and I did after you left. We offered you food, water, but you wouldn’t take anything. We thought you were starving, but the strength you could put into your grip told us that somehow you were still healthy. Then I showed you the locket, and placed it on the table there. You surprised me by putting it on, and I watched to see if you would react as Liyne or I did, but all that happened was that you grew suddenly very relaxed and drowsy. You fell asleep, and Chelsea was kind enough to bandage you. And here we are.”

Albek let out a slow breath. It was a lot to take in. Still, listening to his father’s voice helped him to settle back down again.

“What’s inside it?” Albek asked, flipping the locket over in his hands.

Hemash shook his head. “I’ve never been able to open it, nor have I had the heart to take a tool to it. I… I thought that it might open for you.”

Hemash paused. it was rare for his father to stutter. Normally he spoke slowly but with certainty: always assured of his intentions. But now he looked uneasy. The unspoken request settled on Albek’s shoulders like a hippo might on a lily pad.

He lifted the locket up once more, observing it for any sign of a seam or latch. There was nothing: just a smooth and featureless disc. Its peculiar matte surface that absorbed all light made it look almost two-dimensional when compared to his surroundings. The only break in its continuity was a tiny half-ring of the same black metal that jutted out from the top of the disc, through which the chain was threaded.

Hemash’s chair creaked as he leaned forward.

Albek tried gripping the ring and pulling it open. He pushed at the sides. He dug in with his fingernails to find a seam, but there wasn’t any purchase. He pried and pulled at the object for a full minute, but by the end, it seemed that it might not be a locket after all, and was instead a weirdly shaped pendant.

‘But from how heavy it is, it doesn’t feel hollow.’

He looked up and met with Hemash’s dark brows furrowed over his eyes.

“I should give it back,” Albek said, though he didn’t move to return it.

Hemash shook his head.

“No, Olvilo. It’s yours. I think she would have wanted you to have it. It was just my selfishness these years that kept it hidden.”

Albek sighed as a weight lifted from him.

‘Wait, why am I so glad?’

The idea of removing the locket caused a strange sense of agitation to come over him, but as soon as Hemash replied, it stopped. His hand went to the black locket again. Was this a replacement for his lost gift? No. He’d get the armlet back, one way or another. That, he promised himself.

“Enough of this talk. I am forgetting myself,” his father slapped his forehead, and wheeled his way across the room and into the kitchen. “You need to eat. If your mother knew that I didn’t force food down your throat the instant you awoke looking like this, she would flay me alive.”

The conversation had helped Albek forget his condition. Hemash had treated him like he always had, more or less ignoring his gaunt appearance. His father was hardly a normal person, though, and Albek’s arrival this morning must have been quite the shock for everyone else.

One last thing was irking him, though.

“Maata,” Albek called out, “Why aren’t you more upset?”

The sound of rummaging from the kitchen paused for a moment, then resumed.

Hemash called out, “I was, at first. No, that’s not quite right. I was, and still am. Leaving me behind at the house yesterday is one thing, but to leave Liyne, your karda, amidst the wreckage?”

Albek flinched.

“I was furious. You might have known this if you read my messages. Did you even receive them? No, don’t answer. Never mind that. Look—” his father was getting flustered, trying to get his point across, “—I was mad, yes. But I was young not so long ago, and I, too, did foolish things. Back then, if I wasn’t caught and there was no fallout, then I had won, at least in my mind. I was doing right. That’s how I learned. But… there is more to victory than avoiding punishment. I learned that the hard way.”

Hemash sighed, and the sound of a can opener came from the kitchen.

“Sometimes the best thing we can do is nothing. Yesterday, had you kept a head on those shoulders, we could have decided our future course together. But you went out on your own—and your actions were punished, yes? Just look at your body, your hand. You will be more careful against such mistakes in the future, or you will die.”

He chuckled, “That is why I can’t be furious with you, I suppose. At least you have the courage to do stupid things. Not all of us do.”

His last sentence was so quiet that Albek wasn’t sure he even heard it.

“Remember that—we are Shokarovs. We are the vach’adli. It’s better for us to take chances than to hide under our shells like turtles. Even if we must strike a deal with a Djinn.”

His words made Albek lift his head. He hadn’t heard that first title in a long time.

“Vach’adli? You told me we abandoned that title when we came here.”

Hemash wheeled back into the room with a bowl of soup in his lap, smiling sadly. “I told you a lot of things, it seems. And who will stop us using it? What clan is left? What enemies, even? Memories and dust, that’s all.”

“Why bring it up now? I haven’t heard you use it in years.”

Albek didn’t say what he really meant.

‘We’ve been running from it all this time.’

His father set the bowl down on the table.

“The first generation of our family started with nothing. Ghwaze, though later called The Djinn Himself, was an outsider: an immigrant to Kalk.”

“Yes, Maata, I know the story—”

“Listen. I’m telling you these things for a reason. I want you to hear not my words, but my meaning. Yes?”

Albek nodded, uncertain.

“As I was saying, Ghwaze was an immigrant. Civil war drove him from his home country to the north, and he traveled to Kalk, hoping to find a new life for himself. But he soon discovered that things were no better there. Kalk had just seen the end of a war itself and was acclimating to new leadership under the sultan from House Günotkheshi, the line that ruled thereafter, up until… was it sixty years ago now?”

Hemash was getting into the telling of the story, finding his rhythm, and Albek sagged into the couch. This was going to be the full thing.

‘Lord, a history lesson.’

“Life was turbulent and unstable. Ghwaze had just spent the last of his coin and managed to find work with a rich farmer in return for food and a bed of hay—and with that he was already considered luckier than most. For many months he worked as a farmhand, taking jobs on the side where he could to save up money for land of his own—which would have taken years, if not decades of work for even a small parcel. That was when he caught the eye of the farmer’s daughter. She was a young, adventurous woman. They would often meet when the sun set, and Ghwaze would tell her stories from his homeland and the history of his people. The woman worked as a bookkeeper for her father, and in return for stories, she taught Ghwaze how to read and write. This continued until the farmer found out about their arrangement. In a fit of jealous rage, he paid two men to kill Ghwaze one night, in the very barn where he slept. Ghwaze was awoken by the bleating of goats when the two men snuck inside, and he fought with his assassins, killing one and barely escaping from the second. He ran to the farmhouse, maybe for safety, maybe to warn the farmer and his daughter, but he was denied entry. He barely escaped when the assassin pursued him, returning the next day when he was sure it was safe. In the morning, however, he discovered that the farmer had framed him as a murderer, and that he was now a wanted man. Even without his criminal reputation, Ghwaze knew it would be difficult to find more work. Even if he could, he no longer wished to. So he became exactly what others thought him to be.”

Hemash paused. Albek knew why. This was the part of the story that no one in the family was certain about. The Founder, Ghwaze, was their source for this tale, but he’d been tight-lipped to his descendants—who were the ones who actually wrote everything down—about what happened next.

“Though he was largely successful in his own right as a thief and bandit, Ghwaze still met with his share of failure. During one of his darkest moments, it happened. He found the Djinn, and he was given a choice. He could become great at a cost, or he could decline, staying a common criminal, but neither would he accrue a debt with the Djinn. He accepted and formed the debt. With the power of the Djinn, Ghwaze capitalized immediately, seizing power by storm and forming an organization that eventually rivaled the noble houses of the capital. Everything he tried his hand at met with success. But he was marked. His children were marked. The Djinn would return one day to reap what was owed, but for nearly a thousand years, our ancestors maintained their iron grip on the underbelly of Kalk.”

He paused, the unsaid words not passing through his lips.

‘Until my generation.’

“All because Ghwaze was brave was this possible. It’s not that he wasn’t afraid, but he didn’t let fear stop him,” Hemash continued.

“You know, I never believed the old fairy tales like the rest of the family seemed to. I never thought the Djinn was real. I still don’t. In my eyes, the Founder succeeded by finding opportunities and exploiting them. By taking leaps, but knowing when to hold back, too. You remember, don’t you, the tale of the fourth night? I’m sure your uncle would have told it to you. It was one of his favorites.”

Albek remembered it. He must have heard it once a week back home.

“The bounty had been placed on the Founder’s head by the traitorous farmer, and he was being hunted by half the men in the village. He knew that the farmer slept soundly on the fourth night of each week, since that was the day he drank heavily. The farmer was not aware that Ghwaze had been given a key to the house by his daughter some months ago. She had yet to tell him out of fear of her father’s reprisal. Ghwaze snuck inside during the darkest hours of the night, locking the door behind him. He did not come to kill the farmer or meet with the daughter. No—he was smarter than that. The bounty on him would only grow if he took his revenge. Ghwaze had prepared a message, scrawled on parchment with sheep’s blood. Taking a dagger, he pinned it to the wall above the farmer’s own bed, to be seen when he awoke in the morning. It read—”

Albek joined in, speaking together with Hemash, their voices mixing:

“Water of my wells. Salt of my labors. Iron of my making. This is what you took of me, and I shall reclaim it: water of your blood, salt of your blood, iron of your blood.”

It dawned on Albek what his father was doing. The old man was drawing parallels between him and Ghwaze. This story, as old as their family, was relevant to his situation now. If Albek had to choose a target of revenge, instead of an old farmer it would have to be the Nulites. Finlay. But he didn’t think he had it in him. What they’d done to the Shokarovs was awful, but all Albek wanted was his armlet back. That was all.

The tale didn’t end there.

Hemash said, “Under the dire warning, Ghwaze wrote three words: ’Redact your bounty.’ He left the farmer, going to the daughter’s room. He silently returned the key to her while she slept. He left through a window, latching the shutters behind him with a wire so the farmer would never know how he entered. In the morning, with the key back in her possession, the daughter was no longer obligated to tell her father of Ghwaze. Then, fearing the threat, the farmer withdrew his bounty. Of course, he would have had to anyway, seeing as much of his wealth vanished mysteriously during the night.”

His father gave a wry smile.

“Do you see?” he asked. “Despite all I’ve said, you should still take risks. You must. But you need to watch and wait, to strike when the time is right.”

Albek thought about it. He’d grown up hearing of the Founder’s exploits, but one thing struck Albek as a great coincidence, perhaps even more than his father meant for it to.

The Djinn was said to have marked Ghwaze, but wasn’t he marked as well? Albek had made an agreement with the Voice, and he now possessed an unearthly power, like the Founder. Though in Ghwaze’s case, his “power” seemed to be simply a mixture of competence and luck, rather than true magic.

And a price would be paid. Albek only hoped it wasn’t of his blood.

‘This crazy instability after the Apocalypse is like ancient Kalk in a lot of ways. But to refer to us as the vach’adli again, after all this time… does Dad really mean for us to look at this as an opportunity? For us to rebuild? Even though we just lost everything, how can he be so determined?’

“I… think I understand, Maata.”

“Olvilo. So long as we live, there is opportunity. Avoid ravines that are too deep for you, but when you find one that you can cross, remember this: it is better to leap and miss than to never risk the jump in the first place. Now then, eat. And afterwards, tell me what happened last night.”

- - -

Albek ate, though the cold soup was hardly appetizing. After finishing two-thirds of it, he felt like he’d spew an alphabet all over the Brays’ carpet if he continued.

Setting down the spoon, he cleared his throat to speak. It was time to tell everyone what was going on with him. It would be the stupidest thing in the world not to warn anyone, and then to have the curse act up. What if he didn’t stop at just a light touch? What if he had kept draining his father?

“I can explain what happened last night, but first I think we should call Liyne inside,” he said. “And Chelsea and Mr. Bray, too, if we’re planning on living here from now on.”

Hemash called them, and everyone filed inside. Liyne ran over to Albek, and the siblings embraced.

“Hey, Sarge,” he said.

Albek looked her over. She seemed all right physically, but her uneasy features made him think that she wasn’t doing as well on the inside. His sense of guilt resurfaced at seeing her like this. He’d left her behind with his crippled father. Some brother he was. Again, he had to thank whatever deity was looking over them for letting them get to the Brays safely.

“I’m sorry for yesterday,” he murmured. “I won’t ever do that again.”

Liyne approached for a hug, which he reciprocated.

Suddenly, she darted back, staring at him with wide eyes. No—not at him. At the locket around his neck. Albek hurriedly tucked it underneath his shirt.

‘What effect did this locket have on her that’s got her so scared? Dad mentioned it, but I guess I didn’t really believe it.’

Albek was glad the locket didn’t bother him, but the fact that it had such a profound effect on his other two family members worried him.

After assuring everyone that he’d eaten and felt fine despite his appearance, he began his story.

He kept to the things he felt were important, editing out the most harrowing parts of his ordeal at the Robinsons—which ended up being most of it. He didn’t bring up their children. When Albek explained that he thought the Robinsons had turned into monsters, a heated discussion sprung up that lasted for twenty minutes. The Brays didn’t seem as surprised as Albek thought they would be, but they still weren’t happy. Nobody liked learning that their neighbors were out to eat them.

When Albek was free to continue, he told them about the curse. He left out any mention of the Voice, but he explained how he had a status effect that seemed to control him if he wasn’t being careful.

“So, well, yeah. If you see a bunch of weird black lines on my skin, just—well, be careful. Maybe try locking me up, or something?”

His voice trailed off into silence. His father was contemplating quietly. Liyne twiddled her thumbs. Jameson frowned, his arms folded. Chelsea… well, Chelsea was picking her ear.

“Hey, brat, you listening?” Albek asked her.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Look, if you go all vampire on me, I’ll just beat you up or something, so don’t worry on my account.”

Albek’s temple pulsed. “Oi. You wanna take this outside?”

Chelsea rolled her eyes, but Hemash interjected with a suggestion that surprised everyone.

“Yes, do that. Go outside. You said your stats were back to normal, yes?”

“Yes?” Albek said, unsure what his father meant.

“Then sparring should be fine. We should test you. If your appearance does not represent your health, that would be good.”

- - -

Albek was out on the lawn, rolling his shoulders and feeling surprisingly okay. The sun beat down on him, warming him considerably. He hadn’t noticed while inside, but the loosening of his body now told him that he must have been cold.

A voice behind him said, “Yeesh, you really do look terrible in the sun. Are you sure you aren’t going to catch fire? Last zombie I saw outside didn’t do too well.”

He snorted.

‘I’m gonna put the fear of God in this girl.’

Albek wouldn’t be able to use Cold Snap for obvious reasons, but there was still no way a nuisance like Chelsea was going to beat him, even without his magic.

However, by the time he’d turned around, he didn’t see Chelsea because the hulking figure of one Mr. Bray stood before him. His daughter poked her head out from behind the man’s giant frame. She flashed him a lazy grin and waved a hand.

“Good luck, zombie boy.”

The big man cracked his neck, “You didn’t think you’d be duking it out with Chel, didja?”

A chill ran up Albek’s spine.

Jameson continued, “By the way, I recollect somethin’ about telling you to hit the gym earlier, but you can’t just do cardio ‘n call it a day. C’mon, I’ll give you some tips.”

“You know, on second thought,” said Albek, “I am feeling pretty sick. Why don’t we just call it here—”

As physically intimidating as he was, Jameson held back in his spar with Albek. With the cushion of overgrown grass, getting tossed to the ground wasn’t even painful, and he could almost consider it fun. Almost. During the spar, they discovered that Albek actually maintained a similar level of strength to what he had before, though he couldn’t use his right hand much due to the makeshift cast, making him a very ineffective combatant. Even if he was uninjured, it wouldn’t have been much of a contest against Jameson. Apparently, his number for strength on Embryo was nineteen.

The main difference between his past and present conditions was that Albek was now far lighter than he used to be, which made wrestling a bad idea—and with his lack of “padding,” he was frailer to blows. He felt a little quicker on his feet, though, and he tired less easily than before thanks to having less weight to carry around.

The question was whether that was because his stats went up in Embryo or purely because of his physical condition.

“You’ll want to avoid hits now more than ever, kid. Keep on your toes and keep your eyes out. A broken bone can be a nightmare now that we don’t got hospitals.”

This advice and more, Jameson would bring up while flipping him around.

“Right. Let’s pack it in for now,” he after he was finished tossing Albek down like a ragdoll for the thirtieth time. “I’m going out with the dogs in a few. Ya’ll stay here and hold down the fort.”

“I’ll go too,” Albek blurted out. “I can help.”

Jameson raised an eyebrow, scrutinizing the boy who was sprawled out on the grass and panting.

“I think you oughta rest here for today,” he replied. “We’re pretty well-stocked with food right now, but tomorrow I may take you up on that offer.”

Albek conceded. He wanted to help the Brays somehow, though—if only because he felt indebted after they took the Shokarovs in. Jameson noticed Albek’s disappointed look, and called out over his shoulder as he left.

“Try training that magic of yours some while I’m gone! Give Chel a hand if you can.”

Jameson’s three dogs bounded after him, wagging stubby tails. He let out a low whistle, and two of them stopped, dropping their ears and returning to the house to take up positions around the yard, while the third continued after him.

‘Impressive. I wonder when Dune can start learning stuff like that?’

For the next hour after Jameson left, Albek joined in on the girls’ magic session while Hemash, as usual, kept watch from the porch. Chelsea worked on meditating and sensing the mana for Shimmer, while Liyne and Albek studied on their own, occasionally recounting their own experiences with the spell for the benefit of Chelsea.

Albek learned something new while doing this. Apparently, other people didn’t have access to the same information that he and his sister did. Chelsea appeared to be lacking quite a few bits of knowledge that Albek and Liyne were privy to regarding magic. They discovered this when Chelsea asked if Embryo had shown them any other spells after they learned Shimmer. The siblings said that they’d been given a list of Level 0 spells to choose from at the very beginning, and settled on Shimmer since Embryo said it was the simplest.

Chelsea had no such choice. The only spell Embryo let her see was Shimmer. The trio spent the next half-hour going through every bit of information they had on magic, learning that Chelsea lacked some other details, mainly trivia important to future progression as a mage including something called a “Soul Spire”—but nothing too important for neophytes like them.

This had to be a result of favoritism. The only reason different people would have access to different information was if they fulfilled some sort of requirement. Albek decided this had to do with his “talent” score, or perhaps his thauma.

“So, what’s your talent?” Albek asked Chelsea.

“…ty-five…” she said.

“What was that?”

“Eighty-five. What about it?”

Albek widened his eyes, looking genuinely taken aback. “What’s wrong with that? Eighty-five. Respectable number. Huh. Pretty high, in fact.”

Chelsea eyed him suspiciously. He didn’t praise often.

He paced back and forth, stroking his chin, “Eighty-five, eighty-five… not bad, not bad. Of course, it’s pretty sorry when you compare it to—”

“Go shove it!”

An hour later, Chelsea managed to get a spark out of the spell, but was unable to replicate it. The girl found it too difficult to sense the mana for the spell, which was, arguably, the most difficult part of the two-step process. She was currently taking a break between attempts. Albek caught on that Chelsea’s breaks tended to be more frequent than his or Liyne’s.

Liyne, avoiding speaking aloud as always but still wanting to join in on the conversation, relied on the party chat function. Albek was able to send messages and join parties so long as he was within one mile of the people he was interacting with, so this setup worked for him. Nobody was able to view his status, though, and still saw “lost connection” when they pulled it up, even though they could send him messages without a problem.

Albek explained what he thought was happening.

“Yeah, after I tried sending a message to my dad yesterday, I got a notification from Embryo saying that something called my ‘Uplink’ has been restricted and the message wouldn’t go through.”

“Weird,” said Chelsea. “You probably broke some rule or something.”

“Like what? Overusing my magic? Killing a monster? Passing out?”

“No, no… it’s got to be something more vague and computery than that.”

“Thanks, very helpful.”

They talked about it for a few more minutes but got nowhere. Since Chelsea still hadn’t recovered, they wandered over to some stumps on the yard, sitting down, and turned the conversation back towards magic.

Right now, Liyne was trying to help the older girl. His sister was more instinctive when it came to magic than Albek, but she did her best to explain the process the way she knew how.

CHAT LOG

Liyne [party]: no, it’s different from the candle. it’s more.. glowy, but less hot. think about fireworks.

“What she’s trying to say,” said Albek in response to the vaguely-worded message, “is that you can’t apply the exact same technique from earlier exercises to every spell. Sensing the candle flame is pretty different from sensing the light mana. They all have their differences.”

“I know, but the light mana is just so quick. I don’t even have time to see it before it’s already gone.”

“You don’t have to be fast. That’s not how mana works. You just have to focus better.”

“Ugh. Who made you the resident magical expert, anyway? I thought Liyne was the one with more talent,” Chelsea said, rolling a twig between her fingers.

“Aha, I’ve been waiting for you to open that mouth of yours,” Albek said, hopping to his feet, “It seems you don’t believe the tales of my expertise. Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

He ran inside and grabbed a cup from the kitchen. He went back out and dunked it into the small fish pond on the neighboring property—the neighbors who owned it had disappeared weeks earlier, according to Jameson—and then brought the dripping cup back over. He adopted his most ostentatious stage magician act as he strolled up.

“Behold! A glass of common pond water. You may test it if you wish. Have a taste.”

Chelsea stepped back, “What are you doing?”

“Just making sure everyone all agrees that this is water. Real, liquid water.”

“Yes, it’s water, you weirdo. What about it?”

Albek narrowed his eyes, reaching with his other senses towards the water in his hand. He felt the temperature of the water, the faint will of its mana, placid and malleable and distant. He focused on that distance, that remote coolness, for that was what he had to encourage to bring about his spell.

Capitalizing on that feeling, Albek took a deep breath. As he inhaled, he sucked in the mana he could sense. The physical action of inhaling didn’t really do anything, but it helped him to visualize the process.

He focused on the water-mana, on how its far-removed nature acted as a deep well, a thing that gathered and destroyed heat. What warmth it possessed was something given to it by the mana of the sun and air around it. He bled away at it, and as he did, he felt the mana turning into something colder inside him.

Once he’d done all he could, he released it back into the world with a word.

Albek felt the drain indicating the completion of his magic, and the cup grew suddenly colder.

He smirked, and was about to turn it upside-down as a demonstration when he realized that the spell hadn’t gone as planned. The water wasn’t frozen. The cup was cold, but it was still liquid. Before anyone noticed his mistake, he coughed, and repeating the process as before, whispered a quiet “tsivuk.” The cup flexed slightly, and he knew he had succeeded this time.

As the liquid reached its new equilibrium, the cost of using the spell a second time hit him. He staggered, realizing in the same breath that sometimes he could be a real idiot.

He held up the completed product, hoping the tremble in his voice wouldn’t give him away.

“See and be amazed, I have made ice!”

He turned the now completely frozen cup upside-down. Liyne ran over, her mouth open in surprise. Chelsea inspected it as well, all the while Albek looked on proudly, desperately hoping they would lose interest.

“Can you make a lot of this? If we had ice, we could keep food longer, you know,” Chelsea said, begrudging respect in her tone.

He thought about it. Definitely not.

CHAT LOG

Liyne [party]: make ice crem!

“Sorry Liyne, but we’d still need cream for that. Maybe one day,” Albek said, even as sweat began to trickle down his back.

Chelsea poked at the ice with a fingernail. It was as hard as a rock. She tried to take the cup from him, but Albek held onto it firmly as he backed away. She eyed him suspiciously.

“Look, I don’t think I can make a whole ton of this yet,” he said as distance was built between him and the girls.

“But maybe one day, you never know, ok I gotta go use the bathroom seeyousoonbye!”

He turned around and rushed past Hemash and to the front door, fumbling the handle with his bandaged hand. Once he was in, he slammed the door behind him and sprinted to the kitchen, weariness forgotten. A tank of water with a spigot was set up over the sink. He turned it on, running the water over his hand that was still clutching the frozen cup, and after a few seconds, the warmer water was enough to free his hand. He hissed, shoving his freezing fingers under his armpit to warm them up, jumping a little at the icy sensation.

He’d made a few basic errors just now.

The first was needing to cast Cold Snap twice. Albek was confident that a spell that allowed him to fight monsters could easily freeze some water, but it still took him two attempts. He reached his limit while trying to accomplish a party trick.

‘I should have gone for something smaller.’

The second mistake was dunking the entire thing into the pond. He’d gotten the outside of the cup wet, as well as his own fingers, and all that water turned to ice after the spell was cast, freezing his hands to the glass.

The final error was obvious: he shouldn’t have been touching the glass in the first place. Even without the second mistake, freezing something he was touching was a dangerous idea. Cold Snap was a ranged spell for a reason—something he would remember after today.

‘Better to muck it up in training and not during a fight, I guess.’

Once he was sure that his fingers probably didn’t have frostbite, he wandered down the hall to the bathroom. Inside, an extra-large tank of water sat on top of the normal toilet tank. A label on it read: Toilet water, not for drinking!

It was nice to see that at least one household still had flushing capabilities. After finishing his business, he felt like a prince as he pulled down the handle and sent a flood of water swirling down the porcelain.

‘It must take multiple trips with a pail of water to fill these tanks. That’s a lot of work, but probably not too hard for someone like Mr. Bray. Every room in this house has had something done to it to adapt to the Apocalypse.’

He’d thought his family had been doing well, but compared to the Brays they’d barely been getting by.

Most of the windows here had a strange hinged contraption mounted on the walls that could be closed to instantly barricade them. This let them bring in sunlight during the day and lock up at night without compromising security or needing to spend an hour each morning removing blockades. At their old home, the Shokarovs had been putting up with a dark house most days.

Everything here was neatly labeled from the medicine cabinet to the food in the pantry. There was even a whiteboard with a checklist of chores by the front door with things like “hauling water,” “preserving,” “washing clothes,” and so on.

Albek hadn’t seen a single family doing this well. The larger groups were usually even more unorganized.

‘Maybe there’s a benefit to fewer numbers.’

He went to the sink, trying the faucet just to see if it worked. It didn’t, but there was a plastic tub of soapy water, a bucket of clean water, some towels, and even hand sanitizer.

As he washed, careful to avoid getting the bandages on his right hand wet, Albek glanced up at the mirror. He jumped upon seeing his reflection. The person he saw looking back was almost unrecognizable.

Gone was the fat and the perpetual flush of his face. It had been replaced by stark cheekbones and a ghastly pallor. Marks from the fight last night remained prominent, having healed over but leaving white scars, mainly on his upper cheeks, where one of the monsters had attempted to gouge his eyes. The marks hadn’t healed over smoothly either, leaving slight indents in his skin. His eyes, set deep in hollow sockets, were bloodshot like he hadn’t slept in months.

‘No wonder Chelsea called me a zombie.’

Just looking in a mirror made him feel sickly.

He took off his shirt, finding a painfully thin figure underneath. But he wasn’t the skeleton that had woken up at the Robinsons last night, wracked with crippling pain. He could see faint lines of muscle along his frame—not because he had a lot of it, but rather because there was barely anything left to hide it under now.

‘Hey guys, nice to meet you. They call me skim milk.’

As soon as Albek left the bathroom, the first thing he did was amble over to the kitchen and eat a candy bar.

- - -

Later that afternoon, Jameson returned with his bags loaded down. He had an assortment of goods, including cans of food and even a number of fresh vegetables. When asked where he got the produce, he winked and told them it was a secret.

After the sun fell, everyone ate as one. They had fried venison strips, along with fried potato slices and fried asparagus. All in all, a lot of frying was going on, but Albek wasn’t complaining. He’d felt full this morning, but since then he’d worked up an appetite.

When asked where he’d gotten the meat, Jameson gave a quick account.

“Bagged this buck a week ago, and it’s been lasting us ever since. Probably got ‘bout sixty pounds of venison off him,” he said, between mouthfuls.

Doing their best to ignore the eerie sounds from outside, everyone spent time after dinner quietly talking about their future plans. Jameson was going to spend the next day here, so Albek wouldn’t be able to join him on that promised foraging trip until the day after. The mages decided that they’d spend the next day training when they weren’t busy with chores.

The kids played some board games before turning in for the night.

Afterwards, Albek stayed awake, sitting up on the couch. He let out a slow breath. Everything had been moving so fast the past few days that it made the previous sixteen years of his life look like a lazy river ride at a water park. None of it felt real to him yet: Embryo, the Voice, even the Apocalypse. His mother had apparently vanished due to supernatural causes. He himself was learning magic. Magic. He’d be having the greatest time of his life if not for—well, everything.

His frequent blackouts only served to add to the disjointed experience. He had to ground himself, somehow, and a part of him hoped living here with the Brays would help with that.

After the conversation with his father, however, he felt something else inside him. A spark of ambition, maybe. He now had the ability to strive for something greater than himself. Whatever the Voice wanted, at least it was limited to him alone. It was a small comfort, but a comfort, nonetheless.

He’d control himself, keep his curse buried, and work to lift up his family.

‘Know when to leap and when not to… something like that?’

He gave a wry smile.

‘One thing at a time. Let’s focus on magic for now.’

After once again browsing through Embryo, he discovered that the section on “mana theory” had been expanded since the last time he checked. There was new information there: things that he probably hadn’t met the requirements to access before.

As he slowly read through it, he developed a training plan for the next day. He would master this magic.

BASIC INFORMATION Name Albek Shokarov Titles N/A Race Human (Low) Age 16 STATISTICS Strength 11 Vitality 11 Stamina 10 Agility 11 Dexterity 13 Thauma 10 Ki 0 DETAILS Skills Shimmer [Lv0], Cold Snap [Lv0], [excluded.SKL] (NEW!) Class Neophyte [Tier 0] Status Effects [EXCLUDED]