Nyra, a silhouette against the pale, pre-dawn sky, held the rusty training sword in her hand, its dull blade glinting faintly with the residual grime of the Asura-blight. Black ichor, still clinging to the edge, shimmered under the nascent light. Her pupils narrowed with a sharp, hunting curiosity that turned Sujan’s stomach, distinct from the searing fire in his core. He kept his smile fixed, as if he’d simply been admiring the pre-dawn glow of the mountaintop's sculpted spice gardens.
“Fancy meeting you here, Nyra! Early bird catches the… well, usually the worm, but I was hoping for some rare night-blooming Kesar-lilies,” Sujan chirped, his voice a little too bright. He even managed a lighthearted gesture towards a patch of dew-kissed foliage.
She said nothing, merely twirled the sword, the black ichor a macabre ornament. “This isn’t yours, little buffer?” Her voice, usually a whisper, was surprisingly steady, laced with an unsettling edge. She gestured with the blade towards the exact spot where Sujan had been lurking. “Or is it?”
Sujan chuckled, a sound that felt brittle even to his own ears. “Oh, that old thing? Probably some trainee forgot it. Happens all the time. I was just about to report it to the quartermaster.” He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to appear nonchalant, as if his soul wasn’t currently eating itself alive from the inside out.
Nyra took a step closer, her gaze unwavering, sharp as a honed shard of obsidian. “Funny. I saw you drop it. Right after a certain… invisible blade cut off Lord Vritra’s arm. And right before you staggered as if your very essence was being torn apart.”
His smile faltered for a fraction of a second, his carefully constructed mask threatening to crack. The pain flared, a cruel reminder of the Dharma Wheel’s penalty. *She saw. How much?*
“My, my, Nyra, you have quite the imagination!” Sujan managed, forcing the levity back into his tone. “You’ve been spending too much time near those old Scroll-weavers in the archives. All those tales of forgotten heroes and phantom blades can be quite intoxicating, can’t they?” He stepped forward, reaching out a hand, as if to take the sword. “Now, if you’d just let me take that… it’s quite heavy, you know, for a frail balance-weaver like myself.”
Nyra didn’t move. She simply held the sword higher, the gesture surprisingly deliberate. “You’re no back-line support. You’re no cheerful buffoon. Who are you, really? And why are you here?” Her voice dropped to a low, dangerous growl. “Tell me, or I take this straight to the fortress commander, along with a report of everything I witnessed tonight.”
The air thickened, heavy with crushed cardamom and cold iron. Sujan’s mind raced, a thousand pathways to escape, to disarm her, to silence her, flashing through his thoughts. He could end this, right here, right now, with a whisper of Prana and a swift, silent movement. But the Dharma Wheel would chime again, draining more precious days, accelerating his countdown. He couldn’t. Not like this. He couldn’t afford another deduction. He couldn’t betray his new purpose, his new persona, for the sake of a moment’s ease.
Instead, he reached into the inner pocket of his tunic, pulling out a small, intricately woven pouch. From it, he produced a perfectly baked sweet bun, still warm, its crust glistening with a thin glaze of honey and studded with roasted pistachios. The aroma, rich and comforting, cut through the tension. He held it out to her, his smile softening, becoming genuine for the first time that night.
“You must be hungry, Nyra. You’ve been up all night, haven’t you?” Sujan’s voice was gentle, devoid of its usual exaggerated cheer. “No one gets that good at sneaking around without a lifetime of practice. You probably learned how to move like a shadow just to get to the scraps before the bigger rats did, back in the Undercities, didn’t you?”
Her posture froze, hands stiffening around the grip. The sword wavered in her grip. He watched her carefully, noting the sudden flicker of raw, wounded memory behind her gaze. The rough, calloused skin on her knuckles, the way her shoulders hunched slightly, as if bracing for a blow. He knew that look. He’d seen it in too many orphaned eyes after the First Blight.
“Vritra found you in some alley, didn’t he?” Sujan continued, his voice a murmur, almost a lament. “Promised you a family, food, a purpose. Told you the fortress was corrupt, that the Prana-lords hoarded everything while people starved. He groomed you, taught you to hate, made you his eyes and ears. Made you sabotage the wards tonight, didn’t he? And now… now he wants you to finish the job. Something about the aqueduct?”
Nyra flinched, her entire body tensing as if struck. The rusty sword clattered to the ground, forgotten. Her eyes, suddenly swimming, fixed on the sweet bun in Sujan’s outstretched hand. A single tear, then another, traced paths through the grime on her cheek. The stony mask she wore, the one he’d seen every day since she’d joined the barracks, fractured completely. She looked small, utterly defenseless. A scared child, not a calculating saboteur.
“He… he said… today. Before the sun fully rises,” she choked out, her voice breaking, the words tumbling out in a torrent of shame and fear. “The aqueduct. A vial… it’s in my pouch. He said it would weaken them, make them ripe for the taking. He said I’d be rewarded. A real home… but… but he hurt you. He hurt the senior striker. I didn’t mean for that to happen!” She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
Sujan didn’t hesitate. He thrust the sweet bun into her hands. “Eat. And then show me the vial. We don’t have much time.”
With a ragged gasp, Nyra tore open her satchel, fumbling inside. She pulled out a small, obsidian vial, no bigger than her thumb, filled with a viscous, inky liquid that seemed to absorb the dim light. Its surface pulsed with a faint, sickly green glow. “This is it. He called it the ‘Drowse-bane’.”
“Drowse-bane. Creative,” Sujan muttered, his gaze hardening. He snatched the vial from her, his habitual grin dropping into a flat, grim slit. “Come on. To the fountains. Now.”
They sprinted across the awakening terrace, past bleary-eyed sentries and spice-haulers, leather soles slapping flat flagstones. The grand aqueduct, a marvel of ancient engineering, fed a series of ornate fountains in the central courtyard. As they burst into the open, a figure was already there, leaning over the main basin, cupping his hands to drink. A brawny young striker stood over it, heavy shoulders silhouetted against the pink horizon, tipping his chin back.
“Drop the cup!” Sujan roared, a gravelly bellow tearing from his throat. He launched himself forward, a flash of movement that startled even Nyra. He didn’t care about his facade, not right now. Not with the boy about to swallow an undiluted dose of poison. Sujan lowered his shoulder and slammed the swordsman sideways mid-sip. Water splashed across gravel as both tumbled to the dirt, the trainee yelping in fury.
“What in the nine hells?!” the swordsman snarled, spitting mud. “Are you trying to break my ribs, you pathetic ward-scrub?!”
Sujan, already scrambling up, feigned a stumble, then, with an exaggerated gasp of “Oh, my! So thirsty!” he plunged his own face into the now frothing water of the fountain. He opened his mouth wide and swallowed deeply, the sickeningly sweet, metallic taste of the tainted venom coating his tongue. He winced internally, the poison burning a trail down his throat, a dull ache already blooming in his stomach. But he forced a wide, goofy grin, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ah, nothing like a fresh drink after a morning stroll, eh, swordsman?”
The trainee stared, bewildered, then curled his lip in disgust. “You’re utterly insane. You just drank from the trough like a common beast. Get away from me, you fool.” He pushed himself up, wiping the remaining water from his face with a sleeve. “Honestly, some people shouldn’t be allowed outside the kitchens.” He turned to stalk off, muttering under his breath about the idiocy of support classes.
Sujan just laughed, a little too loudly, ignoring the growing nausea, the sudden tremor in his hands. He watched the striker march off, then pivoted to Nyra, who stared in paralyzed shock. His smile faltered, a spasm of pain passing through his face before he could recompose himself. “Right. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I hear the Commander calling for morning muster. He might need a cheerful buffer to loosen up his joints!” He winked, then spun on his heel, heading toward the outer gate, his stride brisk, desperate to find an empty alley before his guts rebelled.
As he reached the courtyard’s edge, a deep, resonant voice boomed, cutting through the morning air like a thunderclap. “Attention, initiates! The high seat arrives!”
Sujan froze. He turned slowly, his heart sinking, the venom already blurring the edges of his vision. Striding into the central courtyard between two steel-clad wardens came the master of the fortress, sweeping forward like an encroaching storm. Yet it was not the commander's stern scowl that caught Sujan’s attention. It was the massive, intricately sealed crate that floated effortlessly behind them, humming with an ancient, barely contained power. Runes of protection blazed across its surface, gold on dark wood. Ashvan raised a hand, silencing the murmuring crowd that had begun to gather.
“Tomorrow, the Grand Exhibition begins!” Ashvan announced, his voice reverberating through the stone. “And today, I bring forth the instrument of its judgment. The legendary Suncleaver!”