This was the best part of his morning routine. Each day, he’d time himself through the obstacle course he’d fashioned along his route, always trying to push his limits. With every attempt, he iterated, refined, and optimized his handholds and his speed, ever in pursuit of that next morsel of time. In pursuit of safety from those who sought to do him harm.
For Vir, this wasn’t a hobby or something he did out of boredom. It was a survival skill.
He jumped onto a barrel and leaped off, grabbing a horizontal pole that jutted out above the alley. Using his momentum, he swung up onto the roof of a nearby trellis and sprinted over the narrow wooden beams with perfect balance.
From here, he had a few options. He could either hop across the balconies on the second floor of the alley, or he could push even higher to the rooftops. The rooftops were easier, but the balconies were shorter. Of course, he chose the latter.
Each balcony had a small railing that served as his balancing beam. He jumped from one to the other, then across the alley to the other side and back again. With his heart pumping full blast, all thoughts of the morning chill were forgotten.
He leaped for the final rod… and came up short.
The cool nighttime breeze had encouraged him to push just a little harder than usual, but his frail, malnourished body could only give so much. His leg buckled under the strain of his acrobatics, sending him tumbling onto hard clay.
Vir tried to roll to carry his momentum, but his body just wouldn’t listen. He hit the ground hard, landing on his shoulder.
A quick check showed he was thankfully only bruised and not broken. The throbbing pain, while distracting, would soon subside.
So much for breaking my record, he thought angrily, heaving from the exertion. As skilled as he was, the bullies were better fed with numbers on their side. He simply couldn’t afford these mistakes.
Vir squeezed his eyes shut and touched the eight-spoked tattoo on his chest while he caught his breath—an unconscious habit he’d developed at an early age. He’d been born with the white tattoo, never knowing what it signified.
He treasured it, nonetheless. The symbol was beautiful in the way that only geometric iconography could manage—eight spokes, eight white dots perfectly positioned between, and in the center, three overlapping circles, all joined by a triangle. It was one of the few bodily traits he was proud of.
Neel, not finding his master, barked from up ahead before running back. His droopy-eared friend barked at him in frustration.
“Oh, c’mon. Don’t look at me like that, boy!”
Neel sat on his haunches, eyeing his master with expectation. “Nope. No treats for beating me,” he said, narrowing his eyes. The bandy drooped its muzzle and whimpered, but Vir knew better than to give in to Neel’s well-honed begging.
“I know, I know! Can’t be late. Not today.”
With his energy mustered, the young man set out once again. But just as he’d gained some speed, a shadow sprung from the darkness, moving swiftly into the alley.
“Halt!” the black-robed figure said, extending its arms.
Neel barked incessantly, intent on protecting his master.
“Down, boy,” Vir commanded, grabbing the bandy’s collar as he backed away from the stranger. “Who’re you?”
“A name? This one needs no name,” said the mysterious man. He flung back his black hood, revealing a wrinkled, bald scalp, and a scrawny face that just screamed bandit.
Having determined the man was obviously not right in the head, Vir turned tail, but the man’s hand shot forth and clutched his arm in a death grip.
“Be calm, young one. I am not the one you should fear. He is out there,” the man said as his eyes rolled in their sockets.
Creep, Vir thought, eyeing the filthy, emaciated man in black. Gotta get out of here!
Even with Neel biting the man’s patchwork robe, he seemed utterly unfazed.
“What might a young one like you be doing up and about at this hour, hmm? I wonder if you are up to no good?”
“Real rich, coming from someone as suspicious as you.”
To free himself, he’d need an edge. The only way he’d find one was with a cool head on his shoulders.
Deep breaths, Vir, he told himself. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
With his mind working again, he did what he did best—think and analyze. The stranger had a firm grip on his arm. He wasn’t going to break it without a lot of force, and the man was bigger than him, so he’d need to get creative. There were a few options available, but for now, he decided to stall for time. Easy enough, thanks to the cultist’s ramblings.
“Tell me, have you seen him, child?” the stranger asked.
“The heck are you talking about? Who are you? I don’t recognize your face.”
“Oh, be still, child. For I too am a child, like you. A Child of the Ash.”
Vir went very still. Head priest Apramor had warned of these cultists, the Children of Ash, long ago. “You worship the Ashen Realm,” he whispered.
“No!” the cultist yelled, sending spittle flying onto his face. “The Ash merely contains the One.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “The one we worship lurks within its hallowed depths. Consuming. Growing. With each passing moment, it becomes a more perfect god. We dare not speak its name.”
Someone had to have heard Neel’s barking. Just a little longer and somebody would show up, Vir was sure of it. He just had to keep stalling the cultist.
He tried again to pull away… and to his surprise, he succeeded. It was as if the man had forgotten about his existence, which was perfectly fine by him. But just as soon as he’d broken free, the man reestablished his grip on Vir’s arm even more aggressively.
“Have you seen him, child?” Not bothering to wait for his answer, the cultist continued, “Have you come across the Primordial? Answer me!”
“I don’t even know who that is, you grakking chal!”
Vir had hoped that Neel’s incessant barking would’ve woken up the neighborhood, but no help was forthcoming. It was as if they’d shuttered their doors and pretended like nothing was happening. It’d be up to him to get free.
Luckily, he had a few tricks up his sleeve.
“You. Yes! Those red eyes. Yes! You are an odd one!”
You’re one to talk!
The Child of Ash continued rambling. “The Primordial will bring the End of Realms! Find him. Purge him! Burn him to Ash! If you see him, you must let us know!”
The moment the man uttered those words, something changed within Vir.
His chest tattoo throbbed with power, and while he couldn’t place his finger on what happened, he felt it. A myriad of new voices and feelings erupted within him. Like the whispers he heard in the forest, only different in a way he couldn’t explain.
Dizziness threatened to take him under, but Vir shook himself out of it. Whatever it was, it would have to wait until he was free from the cultist’s clutches.
“Join us! I shall bring you to the Blessed Chosen. Together we shall join with the Prana Swarm, the one true god!”
He finally found the opening he needed as the cultist blathered on.
No thanks! Vir lowered himself, nice and slow. He didn’t want to attract the cultist’s attention.
“Yes… Yes! Red Eyes, you belong with us!”
Uh, nooope. I really, really don’t.
“My name… is Ekavir!” Vir shouted.
Vir crouched and jumped, kicking off the cultist’s chest to propel himself into a perfect backflip. What he’d needed was leverage to overpower the stronger man’s grip. If his muscles couldn’t do that, then he’d use his weight instead.