Trouble began when the merchant stopped, sniffing the coins with a frown. The purchase was paused. Handing him back the coins, the merchant slipped into the tent, disappearing behind patterned fabric. Hanging there, stained blue, the fabric shone with pinpricks of light where sunlight fell upon it. Behind that veil of stars, shuffling could be heard.

Cyrus huffed. He knew how this exchange would play out.

Several minutes passed. Cyrus spent the time surveying his surroundings and dodging drunks. Crowds brushed against him, pushing through the streets of the open-air bazaar. Shoppers bounced from stall to stall, adding to the haze of sound and smell and color. Tents were adorned with the finest of materials, some local, some foreign, and offered an assortment of merch. The air was spiked with herbs and spices. Cyrus nodded. Loosening his stance, he watched while excitement surged. His hand rested against the pommel of his sword.

Three days until the Sacrifice. And the festival—which was fun, but boring when compared to the Sacrifice. He huffed again. Shame I won’t be around.

Fabric wavered, parting upon the merchant’s return. He carried an object gilded with copper.

Setting down the device, the merchant watched and waited until it stabilized. It swayed. It stilled. Twin platforms hung balanced across a pivot point, perfect for measuring the relative. The scales didn’t concern themselves with the absolute.

Cyrus drummed his fingers. Despite their utility, scales seemed unsuited for the bazaar. The device, in his mind, was always imagined as belonging to the courts, an exclusive symbol of their justice. Reducing justice into utility…unsettled him.

The merchant beckoned for a coin. Cyrus complied. Snatching it, the seller dropped it onto a platform, tilting the scale over. Next, he withdrew something from his robes: a thin wafer of metal, nearly identical in color with the coins. Gold. Probably. The merchant placed it upon the other platform. The scales wobbled.

And tilted in favor of the wafer.

The merchant cleared his throat. “Your coins are rotten,” he said, waving over the scales.

“Rotten?” Cyrus replied. Scratching his chin, he feigned disbelief. “Oh, I see! You’re accusing me of fraud. Or doubting my coins. Or…perhaps you doubt the authority of those who issued them?”

Might as well make a spectacle.

“Funny,” the merchant countered, “but I accuse nothing of no one. I sell by weight. Your coins are old, very old. Old enough to rot. Their innards have shrunk. Add more to pile. Otherwise, shop elsewhere.”

And there was the problem. Recently, merchants here—and elsewhere—had discovered quite the clever quirk. Coins issued across the continent looked strikingly like gold. Commoners often assumed that the coins were gold proper. And they were wrong. Gold was resilient; the coins, too, were resilient, just not as resilient as the true metal. The coins weren’t even metallic. Their outer shell mimicked the appearance of gold while protecting the thinnest sliver of fruit. Over decades, that fruit would decay. Merchants took note. An arbitrary rule was established. Weight, rather than price, was becoming their new standard. The excuse was thinner than the wafers used in measuring the difference. Just another pretense to fleece their customers.

Most merchants couldn’t enforce the rule. Buyers would simply shop elsewhere. Cyrus lacked that option. This merchant was the sole seller of a particular rarity.

Cyrus glanced at the sun.

“You sell by weight?” he asked, hand resting against his sword. “How strange. I wasn’t aware the Church intended their coins to be used that way.”

“They intended them to be used. And I’m using them. Don’t like it, shop elsewhere. Or cry to a priest. See how much they care about your concerns.”

Cyrus nodded. “May I have my coin back?”

The merchant shrugged. Picking up the coin, he tossed it over.

Cyrus caught and raised the coin, catching a beam of sunlight. He tapped one side. “Notice the design?” Light brought the coin’s surface into stark relief, illuminating the insignia stamped there. It revealed a stylized compass circled with words and numbers.

The merchant frowned. “Emblem of the Arch Church. What about it?”

Cyrus felt his face twitch. He forced his expression into neutrality. Still holding the coin, he began rolling up his sleeve. Slowly. Carefully. The merchant watched with unease until realization hit. Cyrus stopped.

“Recognize this?” Cyrus asked, tapping his upper arm.

“Ah. So that’s how it is,” the man grumbled. The scale was pushed aside.

Cyrus’s exposed skin was a mess of scars. Intricate. Intentional. The raised skin wove a design, mimicking the insignia stamped onto the coins. It wasn’t identical: different words and numbers circled the image. Those markings revealed the identity of the man who had caused them.

Cyrus was branded. His seared flesh revealed who he was currently haggling for.

And he haggled. His brand was threatening enough to discipline the merchant but, beyond that, wouldn’t exactly earn him any discounts. The pair bounced between price after price. Time passed. From the distance, a certain commotion began its approach. Cyrus shrugged. He surrendered, handing over a small fortune. Too much. The final price should have been lower but, given the circumstances, Cyrus conceded. Could be worse, right? The purchase was low enough to be mistaken as a bargain.

Cyrus swapped his coins for a cylindrical package. Small, it weighed little and nearly fit within his palm. He placed it within his pocket.

Turning, he began walking away until the merchant called out.

“Azaz! Give Azaz my regards!”

Cyrus waved before continuing ahead.

The bazaar increased in activity. Organizers were herding people to the sides, slowly forming a central path. Walking through, Cyrus shook his head.

Was Azaz going senile? A mountain of coins was exchanged for…this? A single pen? Cyrus could only shrug. Glancing overhead, he nodded before quickening his pace. The procession was nearly there. He knew better than to miss it.

***

The City of Sakrain was in flux. Crowds abounded. People hurried from place to place, completing their final preparations. Three days until the summer solstice. And the festival. And the Sacrifice. Already, people celebrated the occasion, indulging in food and drink. Early observance was part and parcel within the city. Cyrus remembered the revelries from his earliest memories. Thirteen years here…and perhaps four elsewhere? Seventeen in total. Cyrus approximated his own age.

Well, his estimate was technically premature. Seventeen…two days remained until he crossed that threshold.

Around him, the crowd swelled with restlessness. The spectacle was approaching.

The parade.

Every year, Sakrain began this procession. Three days. Three nights. The parade would march, circling the city, navigating the maze of streets and stone. Beginning from the arena by the outer wall, the line of carts and people would walk, round and round, circling the city dozens of times until the solstice arrived. Music was played nonstop; individual musicians were swapped every few hours, making sure the music was never silenced. Those musicians would rest. Those musicians would return, swapping back in, acting like interchangeable parts. Eventually, on the last day, the procession would reach their destination: the pyramid—or ziggurat—that was housed within the city’s center. It was Sakrain’s tallest structure. Even here, Cyrus could see it.

He wondered whether other cities held similar celebrations. Across Parzath, perhaps, but what of other countries? Did the people there also offer sacrifice in service of their Qlips?

Cyrus knew the parade was close when the music garnered enough force to sting. Trumpets. Flutes. Drums. The instruments and cheers were intoxicating—any other year, he would have happily joined in, celebrating with everyone else.

Right. Any other.

He scanned the crowd and rested his hand against the pommel of his sword, still sheathed at his side. He noticed a nearby fountain. Right. I’m overdue for a quick look-over. Cyrus moved near the water and checked his reflection: overgrown red hair, worn clothes, several pieces of plain armor. The equipment covered his chest and left arm, leaving his right exposed. His sleeve remained rolled up. Good. He wanted to showcase his brand.

It was about that time. Cyrus moved into position.

The leads were marching proudly with their trumpets. Most wore uniforms, but some wore costumes. Most were human, but some were Beasts. Cyrus spotted one near the front, walking lockstep, appearing nearly human. The only signs of corruption were the horns on his head, curling like those of a ram.

Behind them, others followed, a mess of carts and people. Peculiarities were mixed in. Statues. Plants. Qlips. Among the oddities was a central attraction: a cage—not the only cage, but a cage much grander than the others present. It was large and adorned with gemstones. Cyrus kept his vision locked. He flexed his hand. Fortunately, the cage’s lone occupant was already awake.

Behind the iron crouched a Chimera. The creature eyed the crowds, voice rolling with the hint of a thunderous growl. Face like a lion. Size like a lion. Half-lion, that much was obvious. The differences began behind its mane, as the monster’s back and limbs were swarmed with a multitude of feathers, clinging on like a coat. They were bright, an assorted collection of blues and reds and greens. People claimed the feathers were inherited from a parrot. Cyrus believed them. The Chimera was famous for inheriting more than the feathers.

Someone tossed a stone. It rattled against the cage.

Jolting onto all fours, the Chimera roared, the monstrous roar of an adult lion—then promptly choked, voice faltering and easing off into a squeak. The crowd roared right back, drowning themselves in laughter.

“Dance! Dance!” The crowd chanted.

“Dance… Dance…” squeaked the Chimera, voice trembling. Glaring, it settled down, still eyeing the crowd. It swished its tail. Despite itself, the monster knew it was trapped.

And Cyrus knew better.

The procession reached a bump—more than a loose stone, the bump was a cutoff point, separating a lower section of Sakrain from a higher. Several trumpeters stumbled, throwing off their tune, but they recovered quickly enough, rhythm mending like the flow of a river. Then, arrived the first cart. Thump. Then, arrived another. Thump. Then, arrived the cage, housing the Chimera, its occupant glaring with spite. Cyrus wondered—it was a longshot, wasn’t it? It was. But maybe…

Thump.

The cage door burst open.

The lull that occurred wasn’t surprising. Cyrus had seen it before—the lull of uncertainty, of disbelief, always occurring at those moments of unanticipated disaster. The lull was common within the arena. The lull was the time taken when everyone questioned their senses, weighing the possibility of mistake or illusion. Reality took time to settle in. Most shocked was the Chimera itself; jumping up, it leapt through the door, roaring and squeaking with rage.

Pandemonium followed.

Order fell apart as some gawked and some screamed and others fled. Cyrus assumed the runners were the clever ones. People trampled over people, clearing the area in attempt to keep their distance from the monstrosity. From Cyrus’s vantage point he spotted several people fall over. No one seemed gravely injured. Yet. Which was good. Meanwhile, the Chimera was prowling an open space—open because everyone was fleeing from it—and swiping at empty air. It roared, roared with the triumph of freedom.

Stepping forth, Cyrus shook away the creep of regret.

Beside him people fled. Cyrus unsheathed his sword, catching sunlight with the flattened iron and bouncing the beam. Reflected light fell forward upon the Chimera’s face. The monstrosity noticed. Roaring again, squeaking again, the Chimera crouched and leapt, landing near him. Feathers ruffled. Eyes shone with determination. Approaching, it surveyed him like prey. It stalked him. Cyrus stalked right back.

The pair circled the open space. Screams began to dampen, replaced with murmurs and hushed whispers. Several watchers shouted words of encouragement. Cyrus laughed; far back, someone was rooting for the lion.

“Dance! Dance!” roared his opponent, teeth bared.

Cyrus shook his sword. “Dance,” he agreed, moving lockstep.

Blood pumped. Muscles grew tense. Cyrus needed this fight. Any fight would have been enough, but, given his limited time, Cyrus wanted something unique. A foe he could pride himself in having bested. This Chimera seemed perfect—maybe. A potential problem vexed him, but maybe…

The Chimera roared but refused to strike. Cyrus paused before attacking first.

In succession, Cyrus launched several strikes and tested his opponent’s strength. And speed. And wit. The Chimera’s response was panic. Cyrus glared; the animal’s movements were pathetic, betraying both a lack of speed and strength. And wit. Fear was plastered onto its face, voice rolling with a tremble. This Chimera was weak. Weaker than an ordinary lion, Cyrus guessed. He sighed.

Cyrus was aware of the possibility. Chimeras occasionally amounted to all bark, no bite. Whatever the reason, these alchemical monstrosities sometimes ended weaker than their constituent parts. Cyrus huffed.

Finally finding its courage, the Chimera initiated an assault and leapt.

A moment later it rolled over, bleeding. Blood poured from its neck.

“Meat…” it whimpered, voice nearly snuffed. The creature fumbled with its death throes.

“We match,” Cyrus responded, smiling with sadness. He patted his exposed brand. On the Chimera’s belly was a similar set of scars. A lingering reminder of burning iron.

Cyrus felt the rising tide of guilt—then found it overshadowed by shock. Promptly, the crowd surged around him and cheered, raising a chant in celebration of his kill.

Raising his sword and voice, Cyrus forced himself into joining their uproar. He thanked his good fortune. This day could have played out very, very differently. Mercifully, none had noticed him this morning, when Cyrus had fiddled with the lock on the cage.