Luya perched on the edge of Kan’s desk, sputtering words like a bubbling hot spring.

“People here say all sorts of bad things about priests at the Shrine: they lack discipline, they lose themselves in the pursuit of strength, they make up lies about the Temples to preach the holiness of their Goddess. Is it like that in the Crescent Valley as well? Did you always hate shamans?”

She didn’t wait for Kan’s answer before continuing. “Though the truth is, we know priests are powerful. No matter how much we pretend to look down upon them, we think of them as our biggest rivals, and we piece together everything we know about them into the golden standard that we hold our own apprentices up to.

“Your name was a nightmare to me and my brother. Our parents never stop comparing us to you. How did you do it? A year and a half from First Stage to almost Fourth? It was unheard of … impossible, really. It would take most of us six or seven years to get to the same level.

“But just as we thought we’d live in your shadow for the rest of our lives … They suddenly stopped talking about you. It was like you vanished into thin air. What happened? We heard a couple of years ago that you’d left the Shrine … and here you are in the North? First Stage?”

She paused, finally noticing Kan’s silence. “Sorry, I don’t mean to pry. I forgot we’ve just met … I grew up with your name around me all day, and it somehow made me feel I knew you already. I’m asking too many questions.”

Kan had to rub his temples for the second time this evening. “It’s fine,” he said, “you just need to stop at some point to let me answer them.”

Luya brightened up. “I’m listening!” she cheered.

Kan glanced over his sword lying on the shelf beside him, his last keepsake from the Shrine. He hadn’t mentioned that part of his life to anyone since he left, and he’d tried to bury those memories and let them rot away. Thinking of them still hurt.

“The Shrine follows a different style of practice,” he explained. “I’ve only recently learned of this myself. In our training, we call on the power of Ichor alone, so it’s easier to control and we progress through stages faster than shamans can. Typically it takes a First Stage apprentice half a year to get to Second Stage, a year to Third, and another year or two to Fourth. I was faster than others, though my speed wasn’t as unimaginable to them as it might’ve been to you.”

Luya caught her breath. “I wish I knew … it takes us about twice as long here. How many years before one of you become a Master then? Only ten, I suppose?”

“More or less. Most of the Masters at the Shrine look their early twenties.”

“I wouldn’t even dream of it in my twenties,” Luya mumbled. “So if you had stayed at the Shrine, you’d most likely reach Master when you are … sixteen? Seventeen?” A sly smile touched her face. “Perhaps it was all for the best that you left. You don’t want people to think you a boy for the rest of your life, do you?”

That thought had never crossed Kan’s mind. He pictured it briefly and found the image less than appealing.

“You’re right,” he said, surprised at the heavy weight on his heart lifting ever so slightly.

Luya watched his expression. A flicker of concern dimmed her eyes. “What happened to you?” she asked. “Why did you leave? And how did you end up here of all places?”

Kan wondered how much his story had been told at the Temples. Meizo seemed to know every detail of it and possibly understood the intricacies better than Kan did himself, while Toku didn’t recognize his name. How many knew? And was this girl merely curious, or did she want to dig up more secrets below the surface?

“It wasn’t by choice,” he said, his gaze drifting to his sword again. “I slipped during the breakthrough to Fourth Stage.”

The room became silent. Luya stared at him, unmoving. “Were you … injured?” she asked softly after a while.

Kan didn’t notice he was clenching his hands tight around each other. “My Ichor drained,” he said.

Luya heard the tightness in his voice. Kan had put it simply, yet she could feel his pain. She had heard stories of priests over-exhausting their power before. Stories told to children in the North to prove the irresponsible nature of Southerners, of course, though true nonetheless, and she knew the ordeal they had to endure. Once a person grew used to the strength of Ichor, the sudden loss of it could deplete their stamina to the extent that even standing up became an excruciating task. Most of them never reacclimated to the cold and had to wear winter robes in the summer, and the emptiness inside them called constantly like an insatiable hunger.

The worst of it, however, was the entirely different life waiting for them. Priests swore their power to the Shrine, and the loss of it was considered a sacrilege, no matter the cause. Whoever fell in their paths had to face the laughter from those who once adored and cherished them.

How much must it hurt for someone like Kan, the most acclaimed prodigy with the brightest future ahead, the model every apprentice looked up to and every master laid their expectations on, to fall into such an abyss?

This is why he left the Shrine, she thought, so he didn’t have to face his friends and masters. The world was a cruel place.

“But you are back to First Stage now,” she offered, wishing she was better at words of consolation. “That means you’ve recovered, right?”

“It is my hope,” Kan looked down at his hands. The pulse of power inside brought him comfort. “I don’t fully understand how it worked, only that the shaman’s way seems to help.”

“You’ll be staying with us then? Instead of returning to the Shrine?”

Kan smiled dryly. “No one returns to the Shrine after they are expelled.”

The anticipation on Luya’s face was replaced by shock. “Expelled?” she repeated. “Expelled? You didn’t leave … they disowned you? When you were hurt and needed their help the most, they turned their back on you?” She shook her head. “And they made it appear to the rest of the world that it was you who abandoned your faith?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Kan said, “my reputation is of no use to anyone.”

“And the betrothal renouncement? They made the decision and passed it off as yours too, didn’t they?”

The betrothal? An alarm rang in Kan’s head. How did she know about the betrothal?

It was one of the easier pieces of his past to bury, because most people didn’t know that the beautiful daughter of Lord Taimo, the most powerful warlord in the South, had once been promised to Kan. Priests and shamans generally kept their distances from warlords, oftentimes to the degree that they ignored each other’s existence—no one on this Continent could sleep at ease if the wielders of divine forces favored one warlord over another—but this was an exception. Lord Taimo’s daughter Emi had the gift of Ichor herself, which made her a rare and invaluable connection between the warlord and the Shrine.

Kan had known Emi since he was a little boy. They were close friends, though too young to be lovers, and the arrangement between them was for political alliances more than anything else. When Kan learned she had accepted a new betrothal mere days after “Kan’s decision to forego the marriage and offer her hands to the better suited”, he didn’t feel betrayed, only disappointed.

But none of these were known to anyone except their families and a handful of Grand Masters at the Shrine.

Kan fixed a suspecting gaze on Luya. “How did you know about the betrothal?”

If Luya heard the danger in his voice, she didn’t show it. “The warlords keep a close watch on each other,” she said, “even across the Red River. Especially across the Red River. They can’t keep Emi’s identity hidden forever, nor her future husband’s.”

For a moment, Kan found a familiar air in the way she held herself. Proud, steady, solemn. An air that always reminded him of Emi.

Was Luya from one of the warlord families as well? It would explain how such guarded information reached her. It would also mean the power balance on this Continent was more fragile than he ever thought.

He tried to shake the heavy thoughts off his mind. “It’s getting late,” he said brusquely. “You might want to get some rest. My apologies for disturbing you.”

Luya’s face caught a shadow from the wavering candlelight. She hopped off her perch. “I didn’t know …” she said in an almost whispering voice, “I didn’t know you had to go through all of this. I shouldn’t have asked.” Then she paused at the threshold. “Sleep well, Kan. I’ll be at the arena tomorrow to watch you win.”

Her smile was mixed with a trace of sadness, but there was not the slightest hint of doubt.