"Is she showing progress?" Anya asked Lucion.

Fanou had promised Una had great potential, having been born from the massacre of the historical owners of agricultural lands in west Anuteh ten years ago. But she had shown little to no progress in her presumed abilities since her arrival in the academy. So much, Anya now doubted Fanou's assessment.

Lucion was tense. She was aware he had been avoiding her lately, and even tried to argue against coming to her office. Anya had had her troubles taming the wildest of these children, but it had never been a student of Lucion's caliber.

He adjusted his position on his seat, acting as if he was sitting on sharp nails. "Yes," Lucion said, not managing to look Anya in the eyes. She deduced he was lying and failing at training the child. "It would help greatly if she could speak. That is the biggest obstacle."

Ultimately, Anya cared little about his excuses. They had a major attack to plan and they needed to mobilize all the resources they had. Lucion had never given her excuses, and she would not take them now. She much preferred the efficient and confident Lucion she had come to make from the scrawny Tholosian boy whose house she had burned down.

Anya scanned him for a moment. The dark circles around his eyes, his tense posture. All of it said as much. Lucion would never confess it to her but it was clear he had been working night and day on Una. He'd always liked to make things effortless, which Anya appreciated, provided he showed her results. She knew he was also instructing less talented healers than him, as they needed to get better until the end of the season. The pressure could be getting to him. Regardless, when he was failing, he was useless. No matter whichever way he tried to embellish it or the excuses he could come up with.

"What is she capable of doing?"

He was thoughtful for a moment. "Nothing practical. But she's able to recognize skin tissue. In one week, I believe she'll be able to grasp flesh."

"So, no progress at all," she sneered. Her impatience towards this boy was reaching a point of no return. "I can see you are tired. From now on, I'll have someone else gather the body parts for healing classes in the sickhouses and mortuaries. Farai will replace you. He's taking his tasks much more efficiently. You could learn one or two things from him."

He simply nodded. Petulant child.

"You have a week to make Una show any tangible results, otherwise Farai takes her instruction, too. And I Believe you'll need to retake your classes as you don't seem ready to teach. Means you don't know things so well after all. Get out now.

He did, silent, still not looking at her. Whatever had gotten into him? The last time Mirela had checked his mind, she hadn't found anything wrong with him. It seemed it was time Mirela did it again. After she accomplished the mission Anya had for her tonight in the seventh borough of the city. Anya stood and left her office.

Her new main informant, Bjon, had tracked the Gulgra soldier that had shown up in the royal domain at the beginning of the season. Davir was his name. He had a chamber in the seventh borough of the city now. Anya didn't know exactly why the Father hadn't mentioned him to her or why he wasn't integrated into their ranks in the academy. One thing was certain, everything the Father knew, she needed to know as well. After all, the Relic of Zykarn was still out there, somewhere in the royal domain, three hundred years after Rena Dalyr's was slayed. She needed that Relic if she wanted to assure her peace of mind.

To get to the seventh borough, Anya gathered her patrol, on the Avenue of the First Monarch. About a hundred houses away from the alleys that led to the academy. The carriage meant to take them to the poorer side of the city was already stalled there when she arrived. To drive it, the most competent airhandler of the academy, Gopan, took charge of the reins. He lowered his head when Anya entered the carriage, then turned to the road with his stoic demeanor.

Next came Farai. Under normal circumstances, it would have been Lucion at his place, but the boy had lost his appeal to Anya.

Mirela, her most useful mindhandler, was the last to arrive. They didn't speak throughout the ride and stalled quite far from Davir's address to first find a suitable bait to attract the soldier.

Gopan halted the carriage far enough from the torches lighting the roads. While Farai took Gopan's place to keep an eye on the carriage, the other two followed behind Anya, into the alleys of the seventh borough. Where they traversed, every torch went out with a blow. Gopan's make.

Anya knew they had found their first objective when a guttural shout of pain resounded in the darkness. Murmurs followed and Anya turned around to locate the source of the stir, down a thin path cornered by rocky walls, a firelight flickered feebly.

"Gopan, Mirela, from now on you will have to withstand the fire."

"Yes, Lady," they said in unison.

Louder than the shout and the muffled pleas for help, sounded a dry bone crack that she felt inside her. Anya smiled, knowing well what waited down the trail. She advanced with caution, avoiding brushing her cloak against the decaying walls. The way finished into a square crowded with a mass of men reeking of wilt.

"Spread," she whispered and Mirela and Gopan were out of sight right away.

The limits of the square were the rear of four buildings, two-floor high, that isolated the area enough to make it ideal for the illegal gathering.

All the gatherings occurred in faultless order. The cluster of bodies was four rows thick in every direction, outlining a blackcircle where horror and violence unfolded. Through the gaps in the mass of bodies in front of her, Anya could see one of the men in the fighting circle was down.

The peacekeepers of the combats stood in each corner of the square. They maintained the order by flaunting lines of Flogos that glinted on their belts, interrupted by long swords. All were dressed in black and wore hoods that hid but their eyes.

The men in the last rows agitated themselves as Anya approached, then, when their visions seemed to pierce past the shadow of the hood falling over her face, infallibly dismissed her as a non-threat. Except for one, a bearded old man, stinking of Bora. He scanned her with disdain and what appeared like a promise of malice until he dared to speak, "You're lost, you?"

Anya had her eyes turned to the blackcircle now, where the contestants still fought. She didn't turn to the old man, opting for evasion. "No," she said.

"This is not the place for noble women," he retorted. Anya sensed the man nearing her and her hand traveled down her waist, where a dagger was sheathed. But before the old man could utter another alcohol-etched spew, one peacekeeper stepped in. Her fingers loosened around the pommel of the dagger.

"Donar," the hooded man said, half-sighing, stepping forward and tapping his hand on his waistband to draw attention to the long blade hanging by his side. "Second time I ask you to remain silent. The third time, I'll assure myself you never speak again."

The old man's expression darkened. But he said nothing. He turned around and left the gathering. The hooded peacekeeper scoffed. "Bet for the right one next time." Then he turned to Anya, his hand shooting out to seize the hilt of the dagger at her waistband. He pushed her three steps backward, plucking her against the wall, glaring straight into her eyes. "Weapons are not allowed here, lady. Where's your betting proof?"

Anya was trembling. It had been a long time since she had last been touched by anyone other than Fanou. The surprise of it made her dizzy. It was as if his grip left scorch marks on her arms. Inside her, something was turning, threatening to come out from her mouth as nausea made her sick.

Anya saw her father and felt her callused hands grabbing her leg, dragging her from the refuge she had found under the table. It always started with his rough palm scratching her cheeks. If she refused, that hand would slap her. A dress already torn would become undressable now. "I'll buy you another," he said. All the while, her mother turned to the window, knitting.

"Pardon me," Anya managed, breathing erratically. The man's cold hands were still on her. Sickening. She fought to keep her composure. "I haven't bet for any of the fighters. Honestly, I found the combat by chance. I'd like to stay," she said.

The peacekeepers turned to his companions, who stared back at him from all the corners of the square. Her vessel was already spilling energy. The fear did it.

Frantically balling her fist, Anya saw the Father, Fanou following behind her. Walking past the mass of bodies in her family tavern. All broken, with bones protruding through ripped skin. The trail of tears had dried on her face, her eyes were set on her mother's body.

She wanted to break it further, make it so her face wouldn't be recognizable anymore. But the bones didn't obey her this time. Her skull didn't crush no matter how many times she balled her fist. "From now on you're one of us," Fanou said. Just his presence was soothing. "Your name is Anya Dalyr's now, my child," the Father added. "As long as you are strong, no one will ever treat you unfairly again, the father had promised. You will be strong."

Anya exhaled. She would be strong. She was closer to the Relic than ever. As soon as she had it, No one would ever treat her unfairly again. She tamed her nerves and pushed the peacekeeper four steps behind. But he was able to pull at her waistband and rip it, sending her dagger to the ground. Surprised and red-faced, he looked over his shoulders. He crouched and retrieved the blade. "I'll keep this," he said.

She wanted to break his skull. Instead, she said, "I understand."

"Let the lady through," he ordered. The line of men in the audience in front of her budged to allow her the sight of the horrors of a whitecircle.

Anya smiled at the peacekeeper with fabricated warmth. His hands were finally off her body. "The Ancients pay you," she said and moved to the front lines of the gathering, earning the full view of the slaughter unfolding above dark cobbles.

To avoid attracting the green men, the illegal combats were held in complete silence, in the most hidden places of the poor boroughs. Only one light flickered in the thirty-pace radius square. The audience could comply with the silence rule, but for the losing man in the whitecircle, it was a different story. His neck trampled under his opponent's knee, and he fought for his life like an animal, kicking aimlessly, scratching the ground with broken nails already bloody. In his face, tears, sweat, and drool mixed, diluting the blood oozing from gums where broken teeth still clang.

When his death was imminent, a dozen hooded swordsmen rushed into the whitecircle and formed a perimeter around the winner, blades drawn towards the audience. "Winners remain. The rest leave immediately. Come to the markets in the eighth to know about the next combats. For winning betters, proof of your betting where we can see them," one of the swordsmen said.

Anya kept her eyes on the man that had touched her. She could still feel his hands on her, dry, cold, and completely evasive. Although he had a solid stout, his youth was apparent. Every other peacekeeper was a head taller than him and he lacked in bulk as well. He carried a sword only, no Flogos.

Once the square had been cleaned up, leaving only winning betters to claim their earnings, Anya aimed for him. More than a suitable bait.

"You don't bet, you're simply here for the pleasure of seeing men die then?" the peacekeeper asked.

"One could say so," Anya said, approaching the man with lazy steps, she pulled the fabric of her cloak closer to her body. "Although I believe you have noticed my interest lies somewhere else as well."

"I beg your pardon?" he said.

"If you force me to be clearer, I am certain I will change my mind about it."

Only the winner of the combat and hooded peacekeepers remained on the square. Two of them carried the dead man's body away, while others paid the winning fighter with a substantial sack of coins, readying to escort him away. And one of the peacekeepers watched Anya from afar intently, a hand brushing the pommel of his sword.

The hood of the man in front of Anya came off, he was joyous. From the shape and sheen of his teeth, he was twenty-three years old at most.

"How much is the winner taking?" Anya asked.

"A full sixty sack," he said, throwing glances at the man watching them. "Lucky fellow. We have to evade the city guard and keep the combats running and it takes about a whole season for us to earn as much Ceric."

"Well, the fighters enter the whitecircle knowing they could never come back from it," Anya said. "I would think it's fair that they earn more."

"No one in their right mind would enter a whitecircle. I have been doing this for a long time. All the fighters care little whether they die or not. Many only need to assure a few days' worth of Lyliac roots powder to get wasted. And if they die, they don't need to pay all the debts they have. And the dead don't ache for the powder," he said, "don't think we're brutes for doing this. And yes, we deserve a raise."

"Far from me to consider you brutes," Anya said. "As for your pay, well, I believe you run the show here. You have the power to decide."

"Killian, come here," called the man who had been watching them.

"If you allow me."

"Of course."

The conversation between the peacekeepers stretched for longer than Anya liked. And although the distance didn't allow her to listen to the watcher's words, Anya knew the other peacekeeper was a threat to her. Killian returned only when the square had been completely deserted.

"I know a tavern in the center of the seventh borough," Anya offered. Killian didn't respond. He appeared shaken now. Anya turned around before he could say anything. "Would you follow me?" She led the way, out of the dark alleyway, down a wider path littered with firelights. He followed.

"The administration of the seventh borough does nothing about the markets migrating to the higher lands. In no time people here will have nowhere to buy. Life will be harder, as it's been since the last floods of the Eeryys. Yet it's the combat holders our guard chooses to target." Anya narrowed her eyes as the lights along the way, feeling their sting. "And despite the negligence, it seems money abounds enough for the poorest roads of the borough to be littered by firelights."

Killian chuckled. "If anything, the lights allow us to better see each other," he said.

"I do mind them."

"Ethyan, my friend is worried you're working undercover. He thought he might have been sent by the green guard."

"I would be worried as well if I was him," Anya said. "I bet it requires a lot of stealth to keep holding these combats after the green men have decided to make them impossible."

They walked in silence for a moment. "We're lost?" Killian asked. His hand slid along Anya's waist. "Intentionally, I believe."

Anya sprang away from him, but her steps faltered. The touch felt like a blade slicing through her gut. Bile raised to her mouth.

She felt small, frail, and defenseless again. She felt dry hands on her rubbing and pressing on her skin, awfully daunting tavern music, and ravenous mouths full of yellow teeth pressing onto ruddy tongues smelling of liquor and cigar.

She caught the nearest wall behind her not to fall.

In the corners of her eyes, her veins thickened, blackened, spreading in her face. A breeze lifted the tips of her hair. She was leaking energy inadvertently.

"You're well?" Killian asked.

She knew she was well. Fanou and The Father had made her strong enough. She would make herself stronger even. "I am well," she said. "I am." Her souls, her strength, was pressing against her skin to flow out. She let herself leak, gasping as the thread of life escaped her body, a gust of wind rushed outside of her and beat against Killian's face, pushing him four steps back.

From black, bottomless eyes, Anya inspected Killian's confused face.

She extended the threads of her vessel, conquering the air around them until they pressed onto something they could latch onto: bones, cold, smooth, and strong. She could feel it all with her hands. From fingertip to shoulder, nails to spine, neck to the skull. Anya could touch all of it: joints, hardness, and wet marrow. Do as she pleased.

Mirela and Gopan would soon be there. She acted fast, first wiring the man's jaw shut, his teeth clanging together to split his tongue. She ground his legs, shattering the whole length of bones from feet to thigh with a series of cracks. He fell, agonizing on the ground. He couldn't escape. And that impotence, Anya knew, was worse than the prospect of death. But he wouldn't die yet. He couldn't, not until she was sure Davir would come.

She approached him and crouched. Footfalls sounded. They had arrived. "Gopan." He came forward. "You have the map?" Gopan quickly produced it. "Good. I am going to purge him."

"Lady, are you sure?" It was enough for Anya to look at him for him to understand his impertinence. "Pardon me, Lady."

Anya didn't need a child warning her of the dangers of claiming a man's soul. She knew that once done, she would want it again and again. But she would soon have the Relic of Zykarn. Through Davir or the heir. The Relic was her end and these were her means. None of it would matter in the end. "When his body is empty, you will send the smell to the edifice I marked on the map."

"Yes, Lady.

Anya grabbed Killian's hair and then locked his gaze. His soul burned.

She pulled it towards her to fill her vessel. It tried to fight back. It was useless. Anya carried the strength of two hundred souls inside her. All trapped in a stage between the worst memories of their lives and the agonies of their Purification. They were eager to dilute their misery to another soul.

Anya let their hunger take over her. She found she couldn't stop herself from chuckling at the ripping sound of the soul detaching from the flesh. She was buzzing all over, suddenly weightless. But it wasn't until she had siphoned the last bit of Killian's soul that the rush hit her. She gasped; eyes wide. Suddenly she was aware of the skeletons of all people in a radius of five buildings, each tiny movement they made. All of it at hands-reach. But she felt no need to reach. The weight of her early days in Tholos, the buried guilt of having killed her family, all of it was gone. She had found the void, in all its bliss.

"Lady, you're well?"

Anya smiled. She had never been better. Never. She realized she was gripping Gopan's coat. She let go. The tingles running up and down her body subsided. Suddenly she was aware of her knees pressing on the ground. She blinked, and the void in her head shrank.