The first shipment of lightning stones had arrived from the Island of Owynis one week after Heron's marriage. After inspecting the stones under the scarce dawnlight as if studying their quality, Lomeon retrieved a long-sleeved black vest of rubber from his saddle load. Its sleeves finished into gloves from where departed one thin line of silver, stretching to the shoulders.

Lomeon's eyes seemed to glint with satisfaction. According to the Wisemen, the stones were already being extracted by thousands on the island. "You married their heir; it is fair you are the first one to use this flingervest." He nudged Heron's shoulders and pulled him towards him in a casual, brief embrace. "You are a pioneer."

Heron nodded and quickly freed himself from his father, overplaying his interest in what Lomeon had to say next. He didn't loathe the embrace. On the contrary. It was almost mid-Sprout season and the air was starting to chill to give place to the dry cold of Drought. Granted, the sheer presence of his father was tolerable now. Still, the strangeness of such proximity...He scanned the flingervest.

What started as feigned interest became real one. On close inspection, he realized the fingertips of the gloves attached to the flingervest were covered by a metallic layer, too. Straight wires stretched from each fingertip to the palms, curving to form the radiuses of a circle where Lomeon was already trapping the mineral. A violaceous rough gem. On the center of the metallic circle of the other hand, Lomeon inserted a colorless opaque mineral with the vague polish of glass.

"Raya," Lomeon said, pointing to the violet stone. Heron knew the other one was Oru. "From the highest mountains of tropical southern Owynis. Raya accumulates small quantities of lightning when it strikes." Heron had come to expect the smile that was now on Lomeon's face whenever the subject was minerals. "By cracking it, you release the residual lightning." He raised the other glove. "Oru has an affinity for lightning, but it is unstable. When it receives it, it creates some of its own, and ends up being destroyed." He handed Heron the vest. "Wear it."

Heron did. For a fighting device, the flingervest rubber felt quite soft against the skin.

As if noticing Heron didn't fully grasp the mechanics of its use, Lomeon continued, "You'll crack Raya with your weakest hand. It travels across the wire." Lomeon ran a finger along the metallic line from his palm to his shoulder then to the other hand and squeezed it. "The residual lighting is then amplified by Oru. This is your hand of attack. A touch is enough to knock someone unconscious. Suffices to strengthen your grip on Raya for unconscious to become dead."

Lomeon stepped away from Heron. "When you're ready."

Heron hesitated. That was all? He wondered what did Lomeon expect from him.

"I understand your fear. But I need you to act now. Sometimes all you need to do is pretend you believe in yourself. Until hopefully someday, you do. Think about why you are doing this. Servyna?"

Heron nodded. He cased Raya in the center of his palm, flexing his hands tentatively so that the metal fingertips brushed the surface of the rough mineral. From his flingerbelt, he retrieved Oru. A small amount to start.

"Slowly," his father mumbled.

Forcing himself to show the confidence his father asked from him, Heron pressed his fingers around Raya. The cracks he produced came to his ears like splinters in wood. In an instant, a trail of heat ran along the wires to reach the center of his other palm where Oru was cased. Lightning sparks crackled at his fingertips, stirring his arm with an increasing buzz. The sparks that sizzled within his fingers soon grew and crackled around his hand.

"Stop cracking Raya," his father warned.

Heron flushed. He had been so absorbed with the lightning agitating his hands that he had forgotten about his cracking hand. "Sorry." He found himself smiling because the sensation of lightning running across his body was revivifying. Like the internal buzz after a well-measured cup of liquor. Even with his grip released from his charging hand, his shooting hand still stirred. The idea that just by touching someone, he could kill them sounded ludicrous. Aside from the occasional sparks, there was no blade to be grasped. It all felt supernatural to him.

"You're smiling," Lomeon said, smiling, too.

"Sorry."

His father didn't dwell on any of it. "You're not a swordsman by nature. And I noticed your defenses are better than your attacks. We'll work with that and make it as offensive as possible." Lomeon was pensive for a moment. "To properly combine all of this: you'll aim for long-range attacks that may or may not work. If your opponent closes the distance, you'll defend but offensively."

Because Heron frowned in incomprehension, Lomeon did a demonstration, stepping back and adopting a defensive stance. He performed a block with a forward pounce. Then a parry with momentum enough to throw one's opponent off balance.

Heron scratched his head. The mechanics of it were clearer but he was unsure he was able to reproduce it.

"If you can ward off efficiently, you can then use lightning to neutralize at close range. Don't hesitate. I'd rather have you kill someone than be injured because you second-guess yourself." He waited until Heron nodded before he continued. "Practice all of this alone. Don't mind making mistakes, tonight after dinner, I'll correct them if need be. I should leave now for the courtroom. Don't forget why you are doing this."

As soon as Lomeon was out of sight, Heron scanned his hands, still indecisive about where to discharge his attacking hand. His father wasn't daft, he knew what he was doing. He expected Heron to deal with it alone. The contradiction was faithful to his fashion: on one hand, Lomeon claimed to value his life, on the other, he left Heron alone with deadly devices.

Heron crouched. As he touched the ground, his arm shook as the ground beneath him crackled with sparks. The sensation still oddly relaxing.

He did think of why he was doing this. And for the entirety of the next solar arc, Heron spent himself to exhaustion. He repeated the torturous training Lomeon had been inflicting on him: running up and down slanting paths— his leg wound still hurting. He practiced blocks, parries, and attacks more times than he could count.

While running, he came across Elana, and the fright of it earned him an ungraceful stagger, a bumped into a three head-first. When he sank to his knees warm blood trickled down his forehead. He grunted.

"I'm awfully sorry," Elana rushed to him. Unceremoniously, Elana ripped the light fabric of the sleeve of her dress and crumpled it to press against the wound Heron. After a moment, she said, "On the other hand, it's enough training, don't you think ?"

"You're not meant to be here."

"No. Mainor, your brother, showed me where you were."

"He's here?" Heron scanned the space around them.

"I am alone," Elana said. "Not sure you'd be keen on seeing him... according to him." Her last words came as a mutter.

Heron preferred not to bring Elana into his failed relationship with his half-brother. "Still, you shouldn't be here."

"Of course, it should be easier to go about annihilating yourself if none is around to witness it."

"You would never understand."

"Not if you don't tell me. But we have been sleeping together for half a week and you've talked in your sleep twice, calling for rebels, your mother. Amyra?" At the name of the nurse, Elana looked away from Heron. It took her a deep breath before she could continue. "She was your lover." Her fingers pressed against Heron's wound, causing him to grunt.

"I'll take it from here." Heron snatched the blood-infused fabric out of Elana's hand.

"The ruling council forbade you from seeing her because of your marriage? And not seeing her is so terrible you spend all your time away from me, torturing yourself in these training fields?"

She sounded like a mind doctor spewing such nonsense.

Heron shook his head. Grunted from the pain. He shouldn't have shaken his head.

"No."

Of course, Elana was already unhappy. His resolution at every start of the solar arc was that night would be the night they would finally see each other naked. He failed every time.

"I will soon be on an expedition in the city." Faced with Elana's indifference to his words, he felt obligated to add more. Out of respect and understanding. She probably had as much leverage on the marriage as he had. "I lost my mother to the rebellions two years ago. I'll be in the city on a mission to sort things out. And to see a friend."

Looking just as skeptical, Elana said, "Lung disease has taken the side of the rebellion? If even things not sentient take the side of the people, perhaps the Monarchy has been doing things wrong."

"You have read her biographies?"

"It was the minimum required for my preparation to come here."

"The biographies lie. Purposefully." Elana frowned. But this time Heron seemed to have cracked through her all-knowing resolve. "To protect the Monarchy," he continued. "Imagine the subjects know their leaders can be taken out so easily. It's proof of a weak ruling." He realized he was now saying things his father would.

"It makes sense," Elana said softly. "I am sorry." She had completely softened.

Heron forced a smile. Her reaction encouraged him to be honest with her. "As for Amyra. Nothing ever happened. I cannot love her. Or you, Elana. Even if I wanted, my heart lays somewhere else." As soon as the words had fallen off his tongue, Heron realized he'd made a mistake. Elana's expression turned from calm to constricted.

She regarded him with a seemingly frozen face. "You need to get to the sickhouses right now."

"No. Please. Not the sickhouses. I—" he trailed off. "Would you help me stand?"

She scoffed. Arms across her chest. "Eastern nations are vying for control of my country, discussing how to share our provinces, when my parents still sit on the throne. Our economy needs reform. Our military is weak and we lack a substantial workforce. I have been prepared for this marriage for years. Traveled across the Bacias Sea for weeks. I vomited something worth my weight on that forsaken boat. I am standing here and you tell me you'd rather sleep with my brother and expect me to help you?"

Heron summoned all his might to stand, grunting. Perhaps he'd overdone in his training...and with his words. "We will make this work one way?" He tried to reach for Elana's face but she moved out of his grasp.

"Have you read the marital decree?"

No. "Yes, of course, I have," he said. "You think I'm that incompetent."

"Then you should know that I am not considered an official part of the Ceri ruling council until I can produce offspring."

"Oh." Heron blinked.

Her eyes widened. "You have not read it!" She gasped.

"We will sort it out. Trust me." He didn't trust his words himself. This time he was able to reach his hands. She was tense. "I am married to you, if your people are in danger, I will intercede for you, of course. I will do it now as I will when you become a part of the ruling council." Heron didn't know half of the implications of his words. But he was being honest.

"I am choosing to trust you," Elana said.

Not knowing how to react, Heron kissed her.

She chuckled. "Ancients, this is awkward."

"It is. I'm sorry."

This time, she was the one to kiss him. His body remained unfazed, still, it was tender. Unlike the kiss, they shared during their marriage. He embraced her.

• • •

As Lomeon had asked, Heron was back in the training fields that night at the end of the solar arc. Sore at places he'd never been conscious of.

With four lanterns forming a square around him. Heron stood in the center, taking swigs of liquor when the fatigue was starting to work its way into his muscles. A swill and not more, he reminded himself each time he reached the liquor skin.

He practiced a combination of attacks and defenses with the vigor it would take to fight rebels.

His father arrived in the training field once the sun was already out. Silent, he paced toward Heron slowly, his sword ready. Heron tried one combination of attacks after the other from all possible angles. Lomeon blocked with ease, unflinching. "Stones now," he ordered, resting his sword by his side.

Heron abandoned his sword, buckled the belt of stones around his waist, and cased the stones in the center of the glove's palms.

"Faster, next time," Lomeon urged, abandoning his sword and already starting towards Heron. Heron punched, kicked, and lunged at him in all possible ways. Lomeon dodged, evaded, and blocked every blow with ease. And when Oru charged in his right hand and Heron lunged for an electric grab, Lomeon pushed him off course, sending him stumbling.

Thinking highly of his strategy, Heron tried to get his father to electrify himself by baiting him at touching the metal welded on his glove. But Lomeon knew to always grab where it was safe and send Heron faltering, unbalanced. In the end, the outcome was the same: the fatigue got the best of Heron and Lomeon had to urge him into the next series of attacks. All the while, Lomeon's forehead remained clean and dry of any sweat.

"Train harder."

Heron complied and remained in the field to train until it was late, taking breaks to drink when his throat was dry. Eventually, Elana came to the fields again. She watched him in silence for a long time. Her sheer presence encouraged Heron to stop.