Time had always been a tormenter to Marigold Strongtower. It rushed past in a blur when joy burned in her heart. It slowed to a crawl when boredom came, crushing her with a heaviness she couldn’t shake or ignore. She could never remember the days and dates of important events or commitments she'd made. Almost every year she forgot Marek’s birthday or those of her siblings or parents. Time felt as abstract and obscure as the mystery of one’s soul or the gods above. It just didn’t feel real to her in the way it did to everyone else.

  These were common experiences, and yet few seemed so consistently plagued by them. It made her feel useless, and at times broken.

  When Yuze left her beneath the oak, Mags prayed she might be wise or exceptionally skilled. If Yuze had performed the miracle in a day, perhaps she would as well. She wanted so badly to be done with this test as quickly as possible. Who knew what secrets the old man would reveal if she managed it? And yet time pressed her down as it so often did, and every minute that passed only added to that weight.

  Mags labored through the first night, warmed only by the slowly burning coal of the Divine Fruit. It was most certainly more than an apple, for her teacher was soon proven right. Despite hunger and thirst nagging at her, Mags carried on through the next day as well, and not once did she faint or weary. During the second night, Mags made progress. Focusing deeply, she found the ring of fire she'd seen in her vision. It was right there in her belly, burning bright and fierce. Yet when she tried to do as Yuze suggested, to remove a thread of that fire, Mags failed completely. What thread? There are no threads! It’s just light and liquid and energy! How am I supposed to do this without learning what I'm doing?

  Rain fell in the early hours of the third morning. Her clothes soaked through, and she shivered endlessly. Desperation gave way to anger and then a deep, abiding fear. What if I fail? she couldn't help but wonder. I’ve failed at everything else in my life. What if I'm too stupid or too broken to accept this gift? It is a gift, right? Yuze said I'd be able to get stronger, like one of the Classed. This is what I've dreamed of for years! Why can't I just figure it out?

  Her anger boiled over and she got to her feet. Mags paced the width of the oak tree, walking back and forth like a caged beast. She knotted her hands till they cramped, pulled her hair to soothe her frayed nerves. Finally, an hour before the sun came up, she hit a breaking point. Mags fell to her knees at the edge of the oak’s great branches. Digging her fingers into the mud, she screamed like a wraith. The terrible sound of her own suffering frightened her, and one scream begat another. Mags continued until her voice cracked and all she was capable of producing was a hoarse and stifled moan.

  She fell to her side, uncaring of the mud, allowing her body to shiver. Exhaustion pulled her under, and she reassured herself, He never said I couldn't sleep.

  Mags woke with a ray of sun burning on her eyelid. She recoiled and then coughed. "Gods help me," she said in a haggard voice. "I feel like I've been buried alive." Mags coughed and spat before slowly getting to her feet. Just over there, she thought. I could walk a little ways, sit near the fire and dry myself, and be fed.

  The eagerness with which her heart longed for just that stirred her anger once more. She decided to make better use of the emotion, walking to the base of the oak tree and sitting with her back against its rough bark. She closed her eyes. Rather than attempt to conjure the ring as she'd done previously, Mags repeated the First Principle again and again in the sanctuary of her mind. To achieve governance over the enemy, one must first achieve governance over oneself.

  When she'd done so several dozen times, Mags thought more closely about what the words actually meant. "What Yuze means..." She stopped herself and cleared her throat. "What Kiyashi means is that in order to defeat your enemy, you have to defeat yourself." Something was wrong with her interpretation. Governance wasn't a commonly used word, but its meaning wasn't elusive. She tried again. "To control your enemy, you must control yourself? That's closer."

  Mags felt a thread of hope return. Control wasn't an exact definition. She knew she was lacking nuance, and yet she felt it would be enough. "I have to control myself—my body and my mind. Did I really think I could try hard enough and force my way through?"

  She didn't waste time chastising herself. That would serve no purpose. And she pushed away all thoughts of what this gift might mean in the coming days. Instead, she focused exclusively on the moment, her breathing, the wind tugging at a strand of hair hanging loose from her braid, the cool press of the soil beneath her. Only when she'd reached a state of absolute calmness did Mags look inward.

  There it was. The ring in her belly burned as strong as it had the first time she'd seen it. She considered Kiyashi's description, imagined she might observe tiny threads forming a rope. Looking closer, Mags saw only the liquid, surging fire as it circled round and round. I'm being too literal. Perhaps I can draw out only a little, the smallest bit of that light. Maybe if I'm careful and quiet, if I'm still, I might...

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  Even as she thought it, a strand of white essence coiled out from the ring. She stamped out the flare of excitement that threatened to shatter her progress. Guiding the thread with her intention, Mags willed it to emerge. Briefly, she thought to draw it out directly from her stomach. Her intuition fought the urge, however, and so she allowed the thread to take a more organic flow through her body.

  Up through the chest and into the right shoulder. Down her arm past the elbow. Finally, Mags plucked it from the palm of her hand. She pictured the white flame Kiyashi had made. Its stillness, its light, its insistent glow.

  Slowly, she opened her eyes. There, burning still and perfectly, was a tiny white flame.

  "Well done," Yuze said, causing her to gasp. When she looked again, the flame was gone. "Do not worry. Once summoned, the flame will respond with greater ease when you have need to do so again.”

  Mags grinned and leaned forward, pressing her hand on the ground to rise. She wanted to smash the old man in a bear hug. A flood of heat rushed outward from her ring so intensely she froze in place and inhaled sharply. Power, untamed and boundless, surged through her arms and legs, crackled along every inch of her body. Mags didn't cry out, for the sensation wasn't painful. It was intoxicating.

  When the warmth began to fade, she was overcome with joy. Anything was possible, she knew in that moment. For the first time in her life, the future was hers for the making.

  Mags bounced to her feet, giggling like a child. "Yuze, I… I mean, Kiyashi… I did it! I feel amazing! Is this what being a Cultivator feels like all the time? This power? Kiyashi! I feel like I could run down a horse!"

  Oddly, the man who'd given her this boon deflated. The once joyous eyes dimmed, and his back hunched. Smiling weakly, he said, "Some have certainly tried. The hare exalts in the strength of his legs, but he'll never catch the horse."

  Mags tilted her head to the side, frowning. "Are you okay? You don't look so good."

  Yuze scowled suddenly and withdrew from the hand she'd extended. "Don't touch me," he said in a strained voice, one seemingly foreign in his mouth. His eyes scrunched closed, and he released a shuddering sigh. "I need to rest," he said at last, once again her Kiyashi. "Celebrate as you see fit, young Marigold, and don't worry about me. I'll be myself again tomorrow."

  He left her as he had previously, dumbfounded below the branches of the oak tree, heading away from camp at a slow pace. She didn't understand what had happened. Her Kiyashi showed many signs of madness, and she supposed this was simply another of his quirks. There was nothing she could do about it anyhow.

  Regardless, Mags found it was impossible to suppress her mood. She bounded toward camp in the hopes of sharing her good news. Only Gorb was present. The golemite waved as she approached.

  "You are brighter than the last time I saw you," it said. "Yuze found his disciple at last."

  "I am!” she shouted. "Pain in the ass, I'll tell you, but I did the damn thing! But wait, where's Marek?"

  "Hunting the Graysouls. He left two days ago, promising to return when he could."

  Mags' stomach knotted. She sighed, fighting hard not to lose hold of the excitement brimming within her. "Oh," she said, unable to conjure a better response. "Well... I hope he's alright." She scanned between the tents and found no signs of Ashurai or Rushi either. This wasn't at all what she'd been picturing. After three days of withering away in the elements, Mags had wanted… something.

  Determined to celebrate, Mags asked, "The stream—it's down that way, isn't it? Beyond those pine trees?"

  Gorb rumbled in confirmation, and Mags left the golemite alone in camp. She ran through the forest, delighting in the strength of her new body. True, she'd be no match for a horse, yet Mags couldn't image anyone without a Class keeping up with her now.

  Mags barreled into the clearing beside the stream, giggling with joy. She tore off her tunic and pried at the laces of her boots. Flinging them aside, Mags unfastened her belt and was about to shrug out of her trousers when the sound of splashing water drew her attention. She froze and covered her breasts, eyes going wide as someone emerged from the pool.

  Ashurai stepped free of the water. His body glistened, corded muscle and sinew rippling with each step. Yet it was not the warrior's physique or intense gaze she gaped at. Nor was it his nakedness. Mags' eye was drawn to the countless scars that adorned Ashurai's body. Not just the puckered scars of battle, but others more hideous.

  The Basari's chest bore the greatest of these scars.

  Not once did Ashurai dip his head in shame. He strode calmly from the water to where his clothes lay neatly folded on a rock nearby. He stooped to retrieve a bundle of cloth, then began methodically wrapping his legs.

  “Ashurai,” she said with eyes averted. “You are—”

  “I was,” he replied before she’d completed her thought. “I am as you have met me, the man named Ashurai that travels with Gorb and Niamh.”

  Mags clutched her chest, feeling her heart pound beneath her sternum. His proximity, and the unexpected and uninvited revelation, had stunned her. She felt his eyes on her, and after a few moments, she found the courage to meet his gaze, but by the time she had, his focus rested exclusively on his task. Ashurai’s movements were mechanical and precise, as if he’d repeated them thousands of times and kept them sacred like a ritual. Each limb was bound tightly, first his legs and then his arms, until he’d concealed every sigil.

  Marek had mentioned these—the sigils burned or carved into flesh and bone. He'd told her their making was an abomination, a forbidden art his uncle had mastered in order to quell the curse of the Remnant Mage Class. She saw that they were ugly things, dark red and brown, running up and down his limbs and torso.

  After wrapping his second arm, the warrior stood, his demeanor severe and dignified like a fallen god. His eyes hold so much pain, she thought. So much shame and heartache. Yet in them too was a deep and unshakable acceptance of self. Ashurai had chosen his path long ago, had defied the laws of man to craft a version of himself that few could have imagined possible. Silently, he held her in that terrible gaze. Then he finished the ritual, tightly sealing away the lifetime of scars that covered his chest.

  The man pulled on his trousers and tunic. Picking up his boots and belt, he bowed at the waist and left her there. "The pool is yours, Mistress Mags. I'll make certain you aren't bothered."