Freedom tasted like morning air and uncertainty.
Nalla walked down stone steps, feeling the sun warm his dark skin, seeing the world continue its ancient rhythm around him. Screamerbeak called from the eaves, song simple and honest in a way human conversation never seemed to be. Neighbor's guard dogs barked at nothing in particular. Merchant's old Fortress Grazer pulled a cart of preserved meat to market, crystal hooves clopping in a steady rhythm on scale-reinforced earth.
Behind him, the door had closed with a sound like breaking a bone. Allen would be sobbing against Dasa's shoulder by now. Rovi reassuring him he'd made right choice. And whoever had coached his brother would be watching, satisfied their counter-strategy had worked.
The universe is indifferent to human schemes. How considerate of it.
He had objective to accomplish. Resources to gather. Power to develop.
And now, timer counting down. One year before inheritance claim came due. One year before, uncle and aunt had to choose between honoring the law or finding a more permanent solution to the inconvenient nephew.
Samara waited by gate, belongings packed in simple cloth bundle. Her face was carefully neutral, but calculation flickered in eyes as she studied his expression, clearly trying to read outcome of confrontation. She shifted weight slightly, angling her body so the morning light caught the curve of her neck and emphasized the line of her throat.
"Young master," she said carefully, voice dropping half-octave into something softer. "Are we truly leaving?"
"This is no longer my home," Nalla replied simply, adjusting strap of his own travel pack. Words carried no bitterness, just calm acceptance of changed circumstances.
He paused, looking back at her. "Go say goodbye to your mother. Tell her you're accompanying me on journey. We leave within hour."
Samara blinked, momentarily caught off guard by consideration. Calculation paused for half-second, genuine surprise breaking through mask. Then she caught herself, ducked head in show of gratitude that made her eyelashes cast shadows on cheeks.
"My mother... yes, young master. Thank you." She touched his arm briefly as she passed, unnecessary contact, fingers light as whisper. "You're very kind."
Kind. Right. That's what I'm known for.
She hurried toward servants' quarters where older woman who tended to Allen waited, probably already aware that changes were coming. Samara's walk was different now, less glide, more urgency. But even hurrying, she managed to make it look graceful.
Nalla used time alone to study house one final time. Morning light caught the horn reinforcements around the windows, a careful maintenance that spoke of prosperity and pride. Scale shingles on roof overlapped like armor, edges worn smooth from years of rain but still solid. Prime Grade materials from father's best hunts. The garden where he and Allen had played as children stretched along the eastern wall, already showing the first hints of spring growth pushing through bone-enriched soil.
The carved horn gutters channeled morning dew down to collection barrels, same system their grandfather had installed when clan first settled here. Every detail spoke of generations building something meant to last. Now Allen would inherit it all, the scale-lined walls that kept winter cold at bay, the bone framework that could withstand Convergence storms, the reinforced doors with their blessed threshold scales.
Memories. Just memories now. Nostalgic bastard. Get moving.
When Samara returned, eyes slightly red but expression composed, they walked toward village together. She positioned herself slightly behind and to his left, proper servant placement, but close enough that her sleeve occasionally brushed his arm as they moved.
Footsteps creating a steady rhythm on a packed-earth road. Morning sun warmed their backs, and Nalla found himself noticing details he'd overlooked for years: the way light filtered through leaves, intricate patterns frost had left on puddles, the proud way a merchant's horse held its head as it pulled a cart to market.
Life is beautiful. Even in aftermath of severed bonds, universe keeps offering small gifts.
"Young master," Samara said after they'd walked in silence for several minutes. "If I may ask... what happened? With your brother?"
There it was. She probably already knew from servants' gossip, but wanted his version.
"Allen made his choice. I made mine."
"I see." She looked away, kicked a stone. "Must have been difficult. Leaving family."
The sympathy sounded real enough. Then again, most things did when said in the right tone.
"Everything has cost," Nalla replied. "Question is whether you're willing to pay it."
She nodded slowly, chewing her lip. "Yes. Everything has cost."
For moment, something flickered across her face. Gone before he could read it. Then she straightened, brushed dust from her skirt. "I'm glad you allowed me to accompany you, young master."
Behind them, in house, voices would continue their usual pattern. Allen sobbing, asking why his brother couldn't just accept love when it was offered. He would remember Nalla's warning, feel bitter sting of being proven right, but choose to believe this time was different.
Inn that awaited them was far cry from comfortable rooms they'd left behind. Crooked Nail squatted between blacksmith's shop and fabric merchant like tired dog settling into dust. Wooden sign hung askew, paint faded and cracked.
Samara stopped. Stared at the sagging roofline, grimy windows. "Shit," she muttered, then caught herself. "I mean..."
"It's shit," Nalla agreed.
Innkeeper, woman with a grease-stained apron and mean eyes, quoted five chaos spheres for the month's lodging. Highway robbery for what amounted to closet with pretensions, but Nalla paid without complaint.
Money spent on shelter is money invested in survival. Fifteen spheres to start with, five gone to innkeeper's greed, ten remaining. Mathematics of independence were proving expensive.
Inside, common room reeked of old beer and older smoke. Floors groaned with every step. Voices carried through walls thin as prayer, creating constant murmur of other people's business bleeding into every corner.
Samara's nose wrinkled. She picked her way across sticky floor, avoiding worst of the stains.
Their room was barely large enough for two narrow beds and single small table. Straw mattresses pricked through threadbare blankets. Mold grew in corners where moisture had taken up permanent residence. Single window looked out onto alley where cats fought over scraps.
Samara stood in doorway, taking it in. Her shoulders sagged. Then she shook her head, dumped her bundle on the cleaner bed. "Well. I've slept in worse." Pause. "Actually, no. This is definitely the worst."
Started organizing anyway. Swept dust, arranged their few possessions, somehow made cramped space feel less like prison cell. She worked with quick, practiced movements, someone who'd cleaned too many rooms to count.
When she bent to reach under bed, dust made her sneeze. Banged her head coming up. "Fuck!" Rubbed the spot, glaring at the offending furniture. Caught him watching and flushed. "Sorry. Language."
"Heard worse."
She went back to cleaning, but differently now. Less careful. When she passed the window, stopped to look out at the alley. Made a face at whatever she saw. Kept working.
Afternoon crawled by. Outside, sounds of village life continued: vendors calling prices, children playing, rhythmic hammering from blacksmith next door that would probably go on all night.
Samara finished organizing. Tucked loose strand of hair behind ear, it kept falling in her face while she worked. Looked at him, then at the door, then back. "What would you like me to do now, young master?"
Question had layers. Surface level, what tasks needed doing. Subtext, what role did he want her to play here. Deeper, what was she worth to him.
He counted out four chaos spheres from rapidly dwindling supply. She stepped forward to take it, movements bringing her closer than strictly necessary, fingers brushing his as she accepted pouch. "Go to market," he said, placing spheres in small cloth pouch. "Buy food for month. And proper blankets, these rags won't survive another night. Take your time. Explore vendors, learn prices. I want to know what resources this village offers."
Samara nodded, and something shifted in her expression. The task had practical value, she could demonstrate competence and prove usefulness beyond obvious assets. "Any particular foods, young master?"
"Whatever keeps longest and costs least. We may be here while." He waved her toward door. "And Samara? Don't mention where we're staying or why we left. Village gossip travels faster than wildfire."
"Of course, young master. I understand discretion."
Sure you do. Question is what you'll expect in return.
After she left, silence settled over room like dust. Nalla lay back on straw mattress, hands behind head, and finally allowed himself to breathe.
No servants listening at doorways. No Allen hovering with questions. No uncle's poison dripping into dinner conversation.
He sat up, studying room with new appreciation. Walls were so thin he could hear merchant next door arguing with his wife about flour prices. Below, innkeeper was haggling with supplier, voices carrying up through floorboards. Further away, blacksmith's hammer rang with steady rhythm, punctuated by occasional curse when metal cooled too quickly.
Privacy, absolute fucking privacy. Luxury he couldn't afford in uncle's house.
He walked to door, checking lock. It was simple but functional. Iron bolt that slid into worn hole in frame. He tested it, feeling mechanism catch. Not perfect, determined person could break through with moderate effort, but good enough to buy warning.
Then he checked the walls, running his hands along the rough wood, feeling for gaps wide enough to see through. Found few cracks near floor where boards had shrunk, but angles were wrong for spying.
The window was a bigger concern. He studied angle, calculating sight lines. From the alley below, you could see into the room if you stood in the right spot. But position would be obvious to anyone glancing out. And window was small enough that standing to side made you invisible to outside observers.
Finally, he tested the floor, walking in a grid pattern and listening for squeaks and creaks. Every board complained, but that was advantage. Nobody could sneak up on him here, floor would announce their approach like town crier with hangover.
Nalla sat on bed, feeling tension drain from shoulders. First real privacy in days. No uncle watching. No servants reporting. No family cataloging every breath for future leverage.
Just him, moldy walls, and three symbols spinning in his heart that he didn't understand.
He closed eyes, turning attention inward to his heart, the space where his awakened power waited. Three symbols spun within the heart's chamber, carved into the inner walls like ancient script in a language he should understand but somehow didn't.
Why three Intentions when normal awakening gave one? Why these specific three? Why did Caelum feel different from what little he remembered of it? Could he eventually access other Fissures, or was he locked here? And what about these symbols, did they connect somehow, or operate independently?
Questions piled up like bodies after battle.
He pressed his fingers to his temples, where a faint headache was forming.
But that was fine. Good, even. One of better things about life, solving small mysteries. Testing boundaries. Learning what worked and what left you bleeding on floor. First, life was a scramble for survival. Second life had been five centuries of mastery bought with rivers of blood.
Third life? In the third life, he could take his time.
No answers yet. Only tests. And better here than under uncle's watchful eye. Or Samara's careful one, for that matter.
Nalla walked to a small table, its surface scarred by countless previous occupants who had carved initials, crude drawings, and what looked like tally marks into the soft wood. Someone had tried to burn message into corner, but gave up after first two letters.
He pulled out paper and ink from travel pack, laying them out with careful precision. Writing had always been his refuge, even in first life in this world. When strangeness of being transported from Earth had threatened to drive him mad, words had been his anchor.
That was two lifetimes ago, but the habit remained.
Time to document what I'm working with. Time to test these gifts and figure out what they cost. Because everything costs something. That's the one rule universe never breaks.