Not many people in Henrikia had ever seen a marker run out of ascension. It was one of the curiosities that drove some gamers to try out Dominus in the first place. En Gesa, the promoter of the game, claimed the developers had made realism their number one priority — every detail for every fighter was said to be as accurate as their real-life counterpart.

  Firios had laughed himself to tears when Hamis showed him the game. He’d said, “There is nothing realistic about this, Hamis. It’s just like any other of your cartoons. Nothing more.” Firios never understood that video games weren’t cartoons. He had been right about Dominus being unrealistic, though. Recovering from lost ascension in the game took only a few seconds. Fighters never had to lie in bed for days, feeling the pressure of invisible boulders on their chests. They never needed their mothers to shoulder them to the toilet because their knees and feet had swollen. Characters in video games didn’t grow nauseous and vomit up every morsel they managed to swallow.

  Heavy. Gravity had been switched back on for Hamis for a long time now, and it was giving him hell. He lay flat on his back, eyes to the ceiling, straining to breathe, wondering if the night would be his last. It had become a habit of his to check the backs of his arms, just to see whether the circles and triangles swirling on his skin were fading.

  “Your debt to the goddess is much larger than I thought,” Eden had said. “We’ll wait a few more days for you to recover. If nothing changes, I’ll have to give you some astaphite.”

  A few days passed, and he could finally sit upright on the bed by himself. When he tried to walk, however, he tumbled and crashed to the floor. His appetite hadn’t returned, but he forced himself to eat. He still relied on his mother’s support to move around the house. His powers hadn’t returned yet — gravity was still against him, but for the first time in a while, he believed he would live.

  His aunties came to visit after a week had passed without any significant progress. Himisse, Eden and Massu came into his bedroom and stood before him with their arms folded, each wearing a faint frown. He sat on the edge of his bed, eyes on the floor and breath held. It had been a long time coming — the lecture of the century.

  “You have a visitor,” said Eden.

  He steadied himself, using the wall for balance. Pushing the door open, he entered the living room. An old man in white sat on the couch, his staff resting between his legs. Demettle looked up at once, and the tension at the corners of his eyes softened. Hamis stumbled towards the sofa, bumped against the centre table, and fell into his grandfather’s arms.

  “There, there,” Demettle said, patting him on the back.

  “When did you get here?” Hamis asked.

  “Last night. It took a great deal of convincing before Eden allowed me to step foot in this house. But now that I see you’re well, I can stop stepping on your mother’s toes.”

  “You can stay,” Eden said, stunning both Hamis and Demettle, “for Isse’s rites. After that, you must leave for Ossen Grem.”

  Demettle responded with a curt nod. That was right — Isse’s body was on the island now. His grandfather had done as Eden had asked. Hamis had wanted to be in much better shape when the time came to burn his sister’s body, but he wasn’t going to miss it. Never.

  He picked himself up, anchoring himself to the ground despite the vertigo. He took his first step towards the door and wobbled. Massu caught him by the shoulder, but Hamis shrugged her off and pushed on. He opened the door and was slapped in the face by the golden rays of morning sunshine.

  Green fields below and blue skies above. A roaring ocean in the distance and a host of voices belonging to men and women in grey tunics. Families moved like ants through the reeds, carrying bodies on wooden rafts. They were making their way into the valley for the burning.

  “Where is Isse?” he asked.

  “On the ship that brought me here,” said Demettle.

  Massu and Himisse diverted towards the valley, where they would prepare the pyre for Isse. Eden and Hamis followed Demettle on a long walk to the docks. Drifting across the still sea were hundreds of white-sailed fishing boats, and in the middle of it all was a behemoth of a ship — a metallic husk of raw power, with massive marker hexes painted across its sides.

  What Hamis had failed to notice were the neat rows of Yellows standing at attention before the waterfront. They could easily have numbered a thousand men. It was insane to think there were this many of them on the island. At the head of the army stood two soldiers with caps. One of them was easily recognisable, even from this distance — the skinny one with black gloves, yawning into his palms. Commissioner Grieves. He stood beside a larger, more muscular soldier wearing a black cap.

  “Captain Gunner,” Hamis guessed.

  “Mariel executed him about three weeks ago,” Demettle said. “That is Strong. He’s in charge of the First Alangre now.”

  Eden’s grunt came out unintentionally. “What’s a green guard doing in the Gold Corp?” she asked. “Let alone leading it?”

  “Mariel’s vision differs from mine. It’s why I am here and she is not. She has plans to lead Henrikia in a different direction. We can only hope she knows what she’s doing.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” said Hamis. “What’s she planning to do with all these soldiers?”

  Demettle chuckled. “Taking them home to rest. I learned on my way here that she’s ordered the troops home. After ten years of occupation, the Grem is now an independent state.”

  Hamis wasn’t sure he was hearing right. Was Henrikia actually doing a good thing? “That’s…”

  “Amazing,” Eden finished.

  “Look,” Hamis said, pointing to a section of the crowd where a group of tall, broad-shouldered men approached, slicing through the army.

  “Is that the chief of the Grem?” Demettle asked Eden.

  “His brother, Raika,” she said. “The chief died a few days ago.”

  “Hmm.” Demettle squeezed his cane. “Is he going to be trouble?”

  Eden didn’t answer. They watched his movement. Commissioner Grieves spoke into Captain Strong’s ear, and there seemed to be some understanding between them. Raika and his men stopped a short distance away from the captain of the Alangre.

  There was an exchange between the two parties, though it was impossible to hear from this distance. Commissioner Grieves acted as interpreter. The conversation ended with a handshake, and Raika and his men departed soon after.

  “What was that about?” asked Hamis.

  “The Grem has declared independence,” said Demettle. “Mariel’s way of saying she’s sorry for the mass murder.”

  “Would it work?” Hamis asked. “I really don’t want to see another war.”

  Eden let out a long, heavy breath. Mist spread around her. “That’s not our concern. Demettle?”

  “Follow me,” he said, taking the lead down the hillside.

  Nine hundred and twenty-six had died from Sovisansel.

  “Isse is not one of the thousand,” Hamis said softly, “but she was a victim of the sun all the same. That night, Schemel told me not to blame myself, or anyone else, for what happened. She said to blame her — and nobody else.

  “But I can’t do that. I don’t want to hold on. I don’t want revenge or justice. I want to move on — to be free, to smile again. Isse loved living, and she would want me to live on for her. I promise to find my heart in time. I promise to live.”

  The fox sat in the grass, tongue out, quietly watching. Hamis dried his eyes with the back of his tattooed hand. He bowed his head, taking Isse’s cold hand and squeezing it. Himisse placed a hand on Hamis’ shoulder and passed him a silver coin.

  He stepped back before the burning began. Massu handed the bottle of spirith to Eden. She uncorked it, staring at the body on the pyre. Any moment now, she would spill and set it aflame. Hamis had seen her do it so many times. They waited — and waited — and waited some more. Demettle stepped beside her, and the motion brought her back.

  The silent white fire danced through the valley, burning body after body.

  That night, they made their way to the Dande tree, standing on the sharpest edge in all the Grem. The waves below were still as loud, smashing against the rocks. The statues of unfamiliar gods looked down upon them as they passed.

  “We used to come here a couple of days in the year, growing up,” Demettle said. “Never would I have imagined such a journey would become a daily affair.”

  Raika had guards stationed nearby. They lingered on the shoulders of the statues, free to use their powers once again, watching over the crowd. There had been an incident during one ceremony — someone had jumped off the cliff’s edge after spreading the ashes of their brother.

  Hamis had a similar thought running through his head. His didn’t come from despair, though. The ground seemed so far below. There were no guard rails or safety bars in sight. What if he slipped and cracked his head against the stones beneath?

  What’s wrong with you? You’re a marker, Hamis. Falling is fun.

  His family paid little attention to his nervous hair tugs or the small smacks to his brow. When it was their turn behind the tree, Massu and Himisse stayed furthest back. Demettle stood in front of them, just behind Eden and Hamis.

  Eden gave Hamis the pouch carrying Isse’s ashes and asked him to pour them beneath the tree so the wind could carry them away. Hamis took a step away from his mother and knelt on the cold, wet stone. He tipped the pouch, setting the ashes free. They vanished as they came, joining the masses.

  “You’ll see the whole of the Grem,” he promised quietly. “I’ll make sure of that, Isse.”

  He held the pouch to his front, making sure to leave a little ash remaining in it.

  “It is good to see you doing well, Hamis,” said Demettle on the morning of his journey home. They escorted him to the shore of Hillbrook Grem, where a boat waited to take him all the way to Ossen Grem. “I’m surprised you haven’t paid your grandmother a visit since you arrived. She must be eager to meet you.”

  “Mum won’t let me,” said Hamis.

  “I assumed as much,” said Demettle, smirking at an ever-glaring Eden. “Knowing you, you’ll find a way to me eventually.”

  “You can count on that,” Hamis chuckled, giving a half-salute.

  “Absolutely not,” mumbled Eden.

  He said his goodbyes from the edge of the water, waving until he could no longer see his grandfather’s smile. Once they were gone, he sighed, turning back to his mother.

  “What’s with that face?” he said. “My power’s aren’t back yet but I’m fine.”

  “I’ve gathered some garden eggs and onions from our garden. Take them to Ma Ure’s house.”

  “I don’t know who that is,” he groaned.

  “She’s Olande’s grandmother. Remember him? The boy you almost killed.”

  Olande!

  “Is he okay?” he asked. “I didn’t mean to hurt him, it’s just—”

  His mouth shut by itself.

  “You’ve explained yourself to me once already. That doesn’t excuse a proper apology.”

  He carried his basket of vegetables in one arm, fumbling to keep it steady. He needed three hands — two for the basket, one to knock on the door, and another to catch the falling onions.

  That makes four hands, idiot. If only he could suspend the basket behind him.

  With a fist raised to knock, he checked the tattoos first. They had faded beyond recognition. No one would know they were still there unless he pointed them out.

  He knocked.

  A short, crinkled old woman answered the door and immediately bowed.

  “Master Deus,” she said, and remained as such.

  “Please, don’t do that for me,” he said quickly. “My mum asked me to bring you this. Is Olande home?”

  “Olande! I asked him to make us some botto. He’s stuck behind the fire—let me take his place so he can greet you properly—Olande, do not come yet!”

  “Ma, what’s all the shouting for?”

  “I’ll go see him,” Hamis said quickly. “Can you show me where he is?”

  Olande was in their backyard, sitting on a stool behind a huge black cauldron, using a thick staff to stir sticky, white starch. From the sweat on his brow and the strain in his arms with every stir, Hamis doubted it was the right moment to render an apology.

  “What do you want?” Olande asked when it became clear Hamis wasn’t speaking.

  “I wanted to apologise,” said Hamis. “For throwing you into the ocean. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”

  “What if I’d died?” asked Olande. “Would you apologise to my ghost? If that’s all you have to say, please leave.”

  “Olande,” his grandmother snapped. “How dare you speak to Master Deus like that?”

  “Ma, he’s not a master of anyone,” Olande rebutted, charging his tone. “And I meant him no disrespect. I just told him how I feel.”

  “He has taken time out of his busy day to apologise to the likes of you, and this is how you treat him? That’s it—no food for you.”

  “Ma!”

  “No food! You don’t deserve to eat in my house with that filthy mouth of yours.”

  “I cooked this! This is my food!”

  “With whose ingredients?”

  “Mine! It’s all mine. I harvested them yesterday!”

  “On whose land?”

  Olande shut his eyes and let out an extended sigh. “On your land, Ma.”

  “Good. Now accept Master Deus’ apology.”

  “Fine,” said Olande, turning to face Hamis. “I wasn’t going to speak to you again after that night, but it would be unfair to write you off after one bad day.”

  “Thank you,” said Hamis.

  He sat with their family for breakfast.

  “I heard what you did on the stone fields, by the way. You’re good, but not that impressive. There’s a lot you have to learn if you want to be elite.”

  “It’s a good thing that’s not what I’m after.” Hamis shrugged. “I just want to live a quiet life, sit in the sun all day, and not have to worry about tomorrow.”

  “You could be doing that instead of dividing up my peaceful household. What do you want?”

  “To find my heart,” said Hamis. “I need to spread my sister’s ashes beneath the Dande trees on the Grem.”

  “Trees? All of them? But why?”

  “It’s the only way to set the fox free,” said Hamis. “I don’t want it following me around forever.”

  “The fox I tried to destroy,” murmured Olande, “and nearly had my spine ripped out of my body for. You know, had it not been for Ma Eden, I would’ve died.”

  “Sure, sure, that’s all in the past. Since I don’t have my powers back yet, I need you to escort me.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To San Grem,” said Hamis. “That’s my first destination.”

  Olande picked up the bowls from the table and headed to the backyard. His grandmother was dozing off behind the table after finishing her meal.

  “Your mother has no idea what you’re up to,” he said.

  “What? Of course she does. She thinks it’s a great idea.”

  “Mm, not to brag, but I know Ma Eden better than you. She respects our culture more than most of the old elders. There’s no way she’d allow you to play games with our rituals.”

  “It’s not a game to me,” said Hamis. “I need to do this, please.”

  Olande moved about with his legs planted to the ground, his sleeves rolled up, with no awareness of the world above. He had mastered the life of a non-ascender. This was probably what happened when you’d seen people murdered for having abilities they were born with.

  “I’m trying to keep you out of trouble,” Olande said, his tone laced with patience. “Besides, it’s the Festival of the Ram on San Grem. The whole place will be a mess. You don’t want to spread your sister’s ashes in that.”

  Festival of the Ram. What was that about? The only festivals Hamis had ever attended were sacred days—and those weren’t always fun. He spent the next hour pestering Olande with questions about the festival. When did it start? Did they have to wear something?

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “Look, you don’t have to worry about me causing trouble.” He showed off the fading tattoos on his hand. “My powers aren’t back yet. I couldn’t make a scene even if I tried.”

  Olande eventually agreed to take him. They would meet at sundown, when the festival reached its climax. Any other time and they might run into problems with the natives of San Grem. Olande didn’t explain why.

  Hamis got his pouch ready and arrived at Olande’s house just as he was stepping outside. Together, they made their way to the northern side of the island.

  “I don’t like walking with you,” Olande said, glancing over his shoulder. “You draw too much attention to yourself.”

  A military vehicle rumbled to a halt nearby. The soldiers inside waved. Their rucksacks were piled high on top of the car. “Deus! Where are you off to?” one of them called. Before Hamis could answer, they were speaking again.

  “We heard what those boys did to you,” one said. “We’d have taught that boy a lesson if we weren’t leaving. We always knew the chief’s son was trouble. We just didn’t think he had the nerve to try it on one of our own.”

  “It’s fine, really,” said Hamis. “I’m fine.”

  They smiled at him and wished him luck. “Don’t let the savages get the better of you. Henrikia!” They saluted before driving off.

  “Henrikia,” Hamis mumbled, embarrassed.

  Olande didn’t seem to notice or care. He was just relieved to see them driving away.

  Lots of fishing boats crossed between the islands. If you needed to get from one side to the other, you could hitch a ride on any of them for free. It didn’t matter what time of day it was either, since there were fishermen who came exclusively at night.

  In the water, there were spots of red, orange, green, and violet light moving about. Olande explained that some fish had swallowed astaphite and glowed.

  On the shallow end of the water, boys held baskets while their partners waded through, snatching the fish with what looked like some kind of spear. One of these boys happened to be Kade. He was holding up a basket for his brothers.

  “Hey, Kade!” Hamis waved, approaching. “How big is your catch?”

  “Not very big,” said Kade sadly. Hamis and Olande peered into his dark basket.

  “We have to go deeper and deeper to find any good ones,” one of Kade’s brothers said.

  “Don’t you like the ones with stones in their bellies?” asked Hamis.

  “I already told you, we don’t eat those,” snapped Olande.

  “It was always one odd fish at a time. This is the first time we’re seeing something like this,” Kade’s other brother said. “One more thing we can blame on the yammekas.”

  Yammekas was a local term combining yamme (mangoes) with kekas (devils).

  “We’re on our way to San Grem—can Kade come with us?” asked Hamis.

  The brothers stopped fishing for a moment to face him. “Are you entering this year’s contest?” one asked. “I’d bet good money to see you win. Save Ma Eden, I doubt anyone on the five islands can do what you did with those stones.”

  “What? I don’t think they were that big of a deal. I’ve got a long way to go, apparently.”

  Wait—what was that about a contest?

  The brothers laughed, mocking Hamis’ humility. “What you did was incredible. I’ve never heard of anyone lifting every stone out of the hole—certainly not Dasu.”

  “But…” Hamis turned to Olande, who looked away.

  “Passing the rite means you lift one stone,” said Kade, eyes gleaming with awe. “That’s why you’re my best friend, Hamis.”

  Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump went the drums on San Grem. The rhythm rippled through the waters, rocking the boat in which Hamis and his friends had boarded. Flames shot up into the air, exploding in fireworks. Shirtless men in skirts made of reeds spun about, spitting white flame. They bounced off rooftops and shot back up into the sky.

  San Grem looked nothing like Hillbrook. The houses were packed together in tight clusters, with dusty roads winding between them. Cables were strung across the streets, lined with lightbulbs. Hamis’ nose pressed against the sweaty back of a thickset man in front of him. He was finally freed at an intersection.

  Ahead, the crowd stood in awe as a man in a large wooden mask with ram-like horns attempted to cross a bed of hot coals barefoot. A large group of burly men chanted past, carrying gallons of spirith. They stacked them at a drinking spot and began pouring into cups. They drank, burped out smoke, laughed, and did it all again.

  A stampede arose. From nowhere, children screamed, running past him from behind — shrieking and tittering. Hamis had no time to react before three masked men charged at him, grabbing him by the arms and hurling him into the air. They shook him like a tree until the coins in his pocket clattered to the ground. Then they snatched the coins and dumped him in the dirt.

  The children gathered at a distance, laughing their heads off. When they saw the masked men coming again, they screamed and fled once more.

  The vibrations tickled Hamis’s belly as he lay on the ground. He checked for his pouch — luckily, it was still fastened to his belt. Picking himself up, he followed the sound of the intense drumming. It came from behind a large group of men and women clapping along to the beat.

  Pairs of dancers were at the centre, men and women moving in ways far too indecent for his liking. His face flushed; he turned away and bumped straight into Olande, who promptly grabbed him by the mouth and stuffed a doughnut into it.

  It was sweet, soft, and warm.

  “Are you hungry?” Olande asked.

  “Mmhmm.”

  The food stalls were stacked with all kinds of sweets and desserts. Honey dripped onto pancakes. There were so many types of candy to choose from.

  They found Kade holding up a plastic bag and asking a woman to empty all the jars from her stall into it. The woman was happy to comply, dumping in cakes, pies, and grilled meat. Kade pulled out a coin and placed it on the counter — then another, and another, and another. Far more coins than could ever fit in one pocket.

  Hamis scratched his head. “The more I think about how Kade’s power works, the more it confuses me. He’s playing a trick on that woman, right?”

  “As long as she gets her money, who cares?” said Olande, shrugging.

  It took Hamis a moment longer to understand what was really happening — and when he did, it unsettled him. Firios, his uncle and the most gifted marker he’d ever seen, had once said that moving a marked space more than six hours back in time was impossible. Yet Kade wasn’t just shifting the space in his pocket back by hours—he was reaching days, even weeks, into the past, pulling coins from moments when he’d once had them. He was drawing those coins into the present and spending them—all without effort.

  The men propelling themselves into the air were climbing higher and higher before dropping into free fall, catching themselves mid-descent with marked fields. The heat from the fires disrupted some of the fields, sending a few crashing through rooftops.

  Wait, I saw that.

  For the first time in days, Hamis could see marker fields and timelines. His debt seemed nearly done with.

  Olande and Hamis relaxed on an empty bench, laughing at two drunkards in a fistfight.

  “Hamis, I brought you some snacks,” said Kade, perching between them. “Do you see anything you like?”

  “Thanks,” said Hamis, digging through Kade’s bag. He pulled out some hard candy and popped it into his mouth. It tasted of coconut and syrup.

  “This is the biggest the festival’s ever been,” said Olande. “I guess the ban on marking is truly over.”

  “The people here seem far more pleased about the lifted ban than those on Hillbrook,” Hamis point out.

  “San Grem prided itself on having the toughest warriors among all five islands. No one could imagine how much more powerful Master Arson and Ma Eden were in comparison. The loss was so humiliating that their chief killed himself and his family after Henrikia defeated them.”

  “So, who’s in charge of this place?”

  “No one,” said Olande.

  “Bole’s in charge,” said Kade.

  “No, he isn’t,” Olande shot back. “Don’t listen to him.”

  “Who’s Bole?” asked Hamis.

  “No one.”

  “Only the biggest and meanest warrior in San Grem,” said Kade. “He can crush skulls with his bare hands.”

  “And he has no honour,” said Olande. “You already met him at Asmalu’s feast — the man with the scar on his scalp.”

  “The princess smacked him in the face with a bone,” Hamis recalled. “He’s in charge?”

  “Yes,” said Kade.

  Hamis squeezed the pouch on his belt. “I have to talk to him.”

  He stood up, forcing Olande to follow at once.

  “You don’t need to spread your sister’s ashes here,” said Olande. “San Grem’s Dande tree is rotting.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Hamis. “Eden says I need permission from the chiefs. Bole’s a kind of chief. I’ll just tell him what I’m doing — no problem.”

  “You don’t get it,” said Olande. “They won’t just give you permission. They’ll want to know if you’re worthy of their land. And, Hamis — trust me — it’s not worth it.”

  “It is to me.”

  “You don’t even have your powers back,” said Olande. “What are you going to do when he asks you to lift another stone?”

  Hamis stopped.

  “Let’s wait until tomorrow, when Bole’s less drunk and more reasonable.”

  “Nah.”

  They heard Bole’s voice before they saw him — a bellowing laugh that rolled across the crowd. A mass of men had gathered on the palace grounds, pumping their fists and roaring. The drums beat on and on. Torches flared on tall poles, lighting what looked like a stage — or a ring. Hamis hoped it wasn’t another dance.

  He peered through the crowd to see what the commotion was about.

  The men in ram masks stood at the four corners, holding up spears. In the middle of the ring were two shirtless men with their hands tied behind their backs, panting, sweating, their faces streaked with blood. They took a few steps backwards as the crowd roared in anticipation.

  Both men charged at once.

  “BAM!” the crowd shouted as they collided. The shockwave rippled through the spectators, pushing on their chests. One man fell, dazed; the other stood tall, raising his fist in victory.

  Bole lost his head with laughter after that one. His booming guffaw cut through the noise, and Hamis finally spotted him — sitting cross-legged on animal hide, his massive hands resting on his thick thighs. The firelight bounced off his bald head and into Hamis’s eyes.

  “Next!” he bellowed.

  “This is the contest Kade’s brothers were talking about,” said Hamis.

  “The Contest of the Rams,” Olande said reluctantly.

  A few men were joining the queue for their turn in the ring, some so eager they shoved others aside. The winner, Hamis discovered, was whoever remained standing last. “What could possibly make anyone want to do this?” he asked, forgetting he was not speaking only to his own ears.

  Kade and Olande rattled off the usual reasons: reputation, honour, and other nonsense. Then Kade mentioned something that caught Hamis’s attention. Before the ban on ascension, Asmalu had bet Bole that he would beat anyone San Grem threw at him. If he won, Asmalu would take Bole’s sister as his second wife. Bole had challenged Asmalu — and lost.

  “It’s a shame we’ll never get a rematch,” Olande said.

  “Maybe not a rematch, but one just as fun,” said Hamis, pushing into the crowd. Olande’s heart pounded so hard Hamis felt the rumble in his own chest; his sweaty grip on Hamis’s wrist was almost a plea.

  “You promised, Hamis. No trouble,” Olande warned. “You don’t even have your magic yet.”

  Olande’s hand froze in his grip. He gasped, trying to wrench himself free. Hamis apologised with a wince and slipped into the ring. The spectators wasted no time yelling for him to get out of the way.

  Ignoring the insults, he cupped his hand and shouted, “Bole, I want to place a bet!” Bole didn’t hear him at first; he rested on his folded hands, bored. Hamis called again until the large man lifted an eyebrow in his direction.

  “Your prank is hilarious,” Bole said. “Move on now.”

  “I’m serious,” Hamis said. “I can take on anyone in this ring — even you!”

  “Someone, get him out of here!”

  The masked men with torches left their posts and closed in on Hamis. He had to think fast. “I didn’t want to say this, but I’m Eden’s son.”

  “Edenson,” Bole sneered, rising to his feet. He gestured for the guards to stop. The drums cut out. The crowd’s noise died away. All eyes turned to the chief of San Grem. “Are you sure you’re not Asmalu’s bastard instead? I never got to pay him back for what he did me. Why shouldn’t I take you as ransom?”

  “We could bet on that.”

  The veins in Bole’s neck throbbed. With a mean chuckle he said, “Your mother has filled your head with foolish stories. Now even you think you’re a match for me. I’ll humour you. State your conditions.”

  “I’ll beat everyone in this ring, including you. If I lose, you get to make one demand of me; the opposite if I win.”

  Bole frowned. “You speak like a foreigner,” he said. “Maybe you are who you say you are, Edenson.” He squared his shoulders and loosened his neck muscles. “I accept your terms. Put on the mask and show me your worth.”

  TUM TUM-TUM! TUM TUM-TUM! TUM TUM-TUM!

  “Come, let’s see! Come, let’s see! Come, let’s see!” — that’s the closest translation you’d understand of the spectators’ chant.

  Ropes were bound around his wrists, tied behind his back. A ram’s mask was set on his face — heavy, hard, and very dark, with three tiny holes: two for sight and one for breathing. It smelt… lovely in there. He let out a deep sigh, which wasn’t a good idea. The syrup candy he’d eaten earlier had made his breath lovely too.

  “Ready!” Bole bellowed.

  “Wait, wait — just a second!” Hamis had to shout so those around him could hear.

  The crowd groaned.

  His opponent was a man old enough to be his father — the same one who had just won a match. He wasn’t built like Bole, nor did Hamis sense any strong presence of ascension from him. The man had likely depleted it all in his last fight.

  “Speak, Edenson!” Bole demanded.

  “My rival is too weak to fight,” Hamis said. “I don’t want to hurt him.”

  The spectators hooted with glee, laughing at Hamis’s opponent. Bole joined in. “Yame!” he called. “Your sons say your ribs are too old for this! Are you going to take that?”

  Yame, as Bole had called him, growled from behind the mask. He spread his legs and dug them firmly into the dirt.

  “Oh, Edenson,” Bole went on. “You’d better be scared. Yame’s wife may have left him because he can’t satisfy her — but what he lacks in his waist, I guarantee he has in that hard head. CLASH!”

  With the force of a thousand bulls, Yame charged at Hamis.

  “Form your stance. Don’t get cocky,” Tenrad grumbled in his ear.

  Hamis straightened his back, feet anchored in the soil, wriggling his bound wrists out of reflex. Yame screamed, swung his head back, and thrust forward, smashing his mask into Hamis’s.

  The drums went silent.

  Hamis remained standing. Yame wobbled, whimpered, and collapsed.

  “Next challenger!”

  The spectators and the drums picked right back up, roaring around him. Through the slits in his mask, Hamis caught a glimpse of his next opponent. He’d have to take this one seriously.

  “CLASH!”

  Hamis dashed and smashed. It was over in seconds. The next challenger screamed and begged the masked guards not to drag him into the ring. The crowd booed him out.

  The fighter after that was a white-haired, skinny boy about Hamis’s size. They clashed masks once, and the dirt beneath them lifted. Drawing back for a second round, Hamis used a tenth of his strength — enough to put the boy to sleep.

  “Next!”

  First-round beatdown.

  “Next!”

  Two rounds, because Hamis had an itch he couldn’t reach.

  “Next!”

  Another first-round victory — this time after Kade had scratched his back for him.

  “Susu!” Clap-clap! “Susu!” Clap-clap!

  The boy—or man—was big-boned and bare-chested, showing off his flabby belly. He went around the ring, calling on fans.

  “Edenson, meet my champion!” Bole bellowed. “Three nights in a row.”

  “Nice,” said Hamis. “Do I win after I beat him?”

  Bole scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  There was a hiss for the crowd to quiet down. It was getting hot in here. Sweat welled up on the ridge of Hamis’s nose. Beating the earlier contestants one by one had taken next to nothing out of him, but the effort was piling up. His head throbbed faintly. It was never wise for an ascender to strain himself so soon after recovering from a major deficit. If things went south, he might not be so lucky again.

  But quitting now? Out of the question.

  “Susu, do not bring shame to this island,” Bole warned.

  “Never,” said Susu. “Edenson, come at me. I’ll give you a free hit.”

  “Did you hear what I said, Susu, huh?” asked Bole.

  “Trust me, Sa.”

  Hamis narrowed his eyes, focusing. He would put everything into this one hit and end the match quickly. Anti-climactic? Maybe. But he wasn’t here for a show.

  “Let the last contest begin!” Bole announced.

  “CLASH!”

  Susu opened his arms, inviting Hamis to strike. The fool had no idea what was coming. Hamis leaned back and shut his eyes. It was always difficult casting spells without hands — he’d have to settle for the simplest. He rubbed his thumb over the back of his finger.

  Islan’s Catapult.

  A spell that slowed time to speed it up. The longer Hamis’s body slowed, the faster he would move when the spell broke — like drawing a catapult for a stronger release, hence the name.

  He stepped backwards, slowing the flow of time around him by a few milliseconds. Only an expert marker would notice, and none of them were watching. He went as far back as he could — then shot forward. He launched off the ground, leaned his head back, and—SLAM!

  The impact shattered Susu’s mask. The shock rippled through the crowd, shoving spectators into one another.

  Susu dropped to the ground, clutching his brow. Tears welled in his eyes. His cheeks were soft, lips pink and round. He wasn’t a man at all — but a boy. A very young one, from the look of it. Blood trickled over the hand pressed against his forehead.

  “Are you hurt?” Hamis asked, struggling to shake the bindings off his wrists.

  “Bullying the weak for sick pleasure,” said Bole. “It must run in the family.”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

  “Turn around and face me!”

  The man who had declared himself chief of San Grem stood about twice Hamis’s height. It might have been an exaggeration — but who cared? He was humongous.

  Bole wore a mask as his guards wrapped ropes around his wrists. Hamis had a sick feeling he wasn’t about to enjoy this.

  “Tell me, Edenson,” Bole said, his voice deep and steady. “Why are you doing this? What do you have to prove?”

  “Someone told me the winner gets anything they want from you.”

  Bole grunted. “And if that someone was right, what would you ask of me?”

  “A chance to spread my sister’s ashes under the Dande tree,” Hamis said.

  “That is Raika’s business,” said Bole. “You are not of San Grem.”

  “Maybe beating you might make you think otherwise.”

  Bole fell silent for a while. Then he formed his stance and, like Hamis, cast a spell. The ascension around him erupted in magnitude. The floating castle rocks above spun faster than before.

  “Come at me, Edenson!” Bole roared, bursting forward.

  Hamis’s sweaty fingers slipped over each other. His spell didn’t connect. He’d have to rush in with full force and hope for the best.

  He charged, shaken by the rumbling speed of his opponent. Bole swung his thick neck back. Hamis leapt. With one swift swing, they clashed. The shock cracked the very earth, booming through the island. The masks on both faces shattered into smithereens.

  Thousands rushed to the scene — some out of concern, others out of awe.

  Hamis slapped the ground, forcing the blood back down his throat.

  “Amazing!” Bole yelled. “Come at me again!” He had to shout over the deafening noise.

  Hamis staggered to his feet. “The—the mask,” he said.

  “Forget that!” Bole laughed. “Come at me!”

  Second round. Hamis shook the fear from his spine. He checked his arms — no marks from Geles. He was fine. But he didn’t feel fine. There were two Boles in front of him. Mm. This wasn’t good.

  They charged at each other. Bole’s ascension ruptured once again, throwing Hamis back. The young marker gritted his teeth, digging his heels into the dirt. He had to—

  Bole smashed his brow into Hamis’. Hamis tumbled, eating dust as he hit the ground face-first.

  The earth itself rumbled with chants of Bole’s name. A hero. The titan. The best to ever do it.

  “This must be some kind of joke!” Bole laughed. “Eden this, Eden that — ‘And her son would be even stronger.’ If this is all there is to you, Edenson, it’s no wonder you spread your sister’s ashes while she’s still young. You’re weak.”

  A line can be crossed once — and never again.

  A fraction of the noise died away. The silence belonged to those who wondered whether Hamis was even alive. Surely Bole hadn’t killed Eden’s son by accident? If she found out, the island would pay.

  But others — less pessimistic — simply wondered why Hamis would take an insult like that. They wouldn’t have to wonder for long. Hamis escaped gravity, rising to his feet. He landed softly and spread his stance.

  “This will be the last,” said Hamis, ready to grant Bole the respect he reserved for the likes of Jenne. They would see him at his full potential.

  “Hamis, no.”

  The voice was familiar. But this was not the time to check.

  Bole’s grin stretched, gums exposed. “Finally,” he said.

  Both warriors dashed forward like the flash of a camera. Bole’s neck bulged; veins stood out. He swung his head down—and smashed through the air. Hamis spun behind him, driving his blow into the back of Bole’s head. The large man stumbled, spun to face Hamis again — and the moment he found his footing, a second strike slammed him into the earth.

  The impact shattered the ground, forming a crater in which a bloodied Bole lay. Bole pounced right out, eyes blazing with fury. Hamis hammered his head into Bole’s again. The large man slammed back down. In the space of a heart beat he was up once more. Hamis drove his head into Bole’s over and over, deepening the crater each time. Bole tried to rise a final time, but collapsed in the hole.

  No one cheered. The men surrounding him picked up stones. Hamis lifted his hands to surrender. It did not quell the hatred. On cue, they hurled their stones at him. Hamis raised his arms to shield his face; he was too tired, too dizzy to catch the stones in time. He expected at least one to hit him. The longer he waited, the more confused he became — until he opened his eyes to see what was happening.

  Everyone on the ground had frozen in time. The stones rushing towards him had halted midway. A man stood facing him, from whom timelines spun; he wore a white tunic and a large round straw hat and held a long brown staff. The hat shadowed his face. Hamis slumped on the ground and sighed. “Thank you,” he said.

  “Thank your mother,” the man answered in Kirisi, appearing before Hamis.

  “Huh?” Hamis squinted. “Did you just teleport?”

  “Goodnight,” the man said, tapping his staff on Hamis’ head.

  Ruins of castles tumbled in perpetual silence, concealing the moonlight for a moment before colliding into each other and breaking into smaller chunks. Beyond them, the night sky lay thick with stars. Below, Hamis — a young marker so exhausted he did not know where he was sleeping — lay on the grass.

  The grass under his head was soft and inviting, urging him to nap, to forget his problems and find peace. He had far too many unanswered questions to rest. Hamis pried himself from the grass, sat bolt upright and gasped.

  He was at the sea, rimmed by jagged black stones. On the highest of the cliffs, as he’d come to expect, stood a Dande tree. Two people were behind it: one in a large straw hat, the other with sand-coloured hair twisted into a rope. Eden had come — and the man who had knocked him out was there too. The two of them were speaking.

  He realised Bole had been sitting here all this time. The large man’s voice carried a little chuckle as Hamis’s shock registered. Bole now wore a bandage wrapped around his head; his nose was swollen and his left eye swollen shut.

  “What are we doing here?” Hamis asked.

  “Granting your wish,” Bole said. “I insisted Eden spread your sister’s ashes on your behalf. It may not look like it from here, but she’ll kill you before I get the chance.”

  Trouble was inevitable.

  “Edenson, if I may ask you something.”

  “What is it?”

  “I have faced my fair share of Henrikian warriors in battle. You may be the weakest among them, but even so… you are quite tough. Is everyone from your homeland at least as strong as you?”

  “Much stronger,” Hamis said. “I wasn’t good enough to make it as a Gaverian.”

  Bole believed him — which was all that mattered in the end.

  “Our hope of vengeance might be in vain,” the chief of San Grem concluded.

  Eden called Hamis to her side and introduced him to Madasa, her old colleague and friend from their time in Henrikia. He had been exiled to the Grem Islands long ago for fighting on the wrong side during the Great Oppression.

  Olande and Kade were there too, kneeling in the grass with their hands raised, both with heads bowed.

  “Make it quick so that we can leave.”

  Hamis swallowed hard, murmured an apology to his friends, and approached the Dande tree. Unlike the one on Hillbrook, this Dande tree had no ashes beneath it. San Grem was not an island of mourners. They celebrated everything — from life to death. Even from here, he could still hear the ongoing festivities.

  He went to his knees, loosened the pouch at his waist, and poured the ashes beneath the tree. Isse, this is what life is like on San Grem — bullish, chaotic, free, and fun. Experience it yourself, through every laugh, every cheer, in every beat of every drum. Please enjoy your home.

  “Ow, ow, ow,” Hamis seethed as Eden pulled his ear on one side and gripped Olande’s on the other. Kade trailed behind, asking Eden to pull his ear over Hamis’.

  “Thank you for accommodating the uninvited guests, Bole,” she said as she walked past. “We’ll be taking our leave now.”

  “That boy will surpass you someday,” Bole said.

  “But I will always be his mother,” she returned. “And for now, he is banned from leaving the house.”