Both wrists were burning. That was the first sensation he felt. Not so much hot as a pain like flesh charring away, dissolving into nothing. When he opened his eyes, the sky was red. Tornia was burning. The former capital had truly burned on that day three years ago. The sound of the great stone temple collapsing. The crying of a child held in the arms of a demonkin woman. The measured footsteps of human soldiers forming neat ranks, advancing through the streets. The sound of a sword piercing the back of a fleeing man—Valdo remembered it all still. That sound did not fade even in dreams. --- Smoke filled the grand plaza of the capital, Tornia. Valdo could no longer stand. He knelt on the stone pavement, blood dripping from his body. The sword he had gripped in his right hand was gone—no, more precisely, it had been knocked away. Standing before him was a young man. Perhaps twenty-five years old. Golden hair caught the light of the flames and gleamed. Eyes of pale blue looked down upon the fallen Valdo. He was tall, his body lean and taut. A longsword of white silver hung at his right side, and his breathing was not even labored. Elios. The man whom humans called the "hero." "[cold]Let us end this," That was all Elios said. There were no unnecessary words. Valdo tried to open his mouth. He tried to speak. But no sound came. The wound opened in his chest had crushed half his lung. It was the wound made by the white silver sword—ironically, the holy sword of Tornia, originally a treasure of the demonkin kept in this very temple—that had pierced him through. Elios crouched down. In his hand was a chain of red-hot iron. Or rather, it was a seal. Valdo understood in the moment that he intended to press the iron mass inscribed with ritual formulas against both wrists, and he instinctively tried to flee. But his body would not move. "[serious]It will hurt, but endure it," His voice was calm. There was no anger, no hatred, no exultation of victory. It was merely matter-of-fact, the tone of one completing a task. That, somehow, was more terrifying. The moment the iron chain touched his left wrist, the world exploded white. It was not pain. It was something more fundamental—a sensation of something being erased. Mana—the power that welled from the earth, that which the demonkin possessed from birth—was being sealed away entirely. It was as though something that composed his very being was being torn from the depths of his body. Valdo let out a scream that had no voice. Then his right wrist as well. And then it was over. Grave Chain. The Ash-Binding Shackles. A sealing ritual that Elios had brought forth from ancient ruins. The inscription that blocked ninety-five percent or more of the flow of Mana was burned into both wrists. What remained after was almost nothing—a body stripped of power, a burning city, and Elios's retreating back. --- When his eyes opened, it was morning. In the wooden ceiling of the inn room, there were three knots. For three years, Valdo had woken each morning to the sight of these three knots. Golda. A small settlement of perhaps three thousand people, nestled at the western edge of the Galdia Plain, at the foot of the Selva Mountains. Roughly two hundred kilometers northwest of Granfors, where the royal capital stood. The reason he had chosen this place was that the gaze of the Orgrim Agency—the intelligence apparatus of the Felzesta Kingdom—was thin here. Valdo sat up and looked down at his left wrist. The inscription was there. A blackish, charred-looking pattern was burned into the inside of his wrist. It was slightly warm to the touch. He had developed the habit of checking it each morning—not to confirm that it had not faded, but to tell himself that he was still here. The room was small. A single bed and a small table. On the wall was a map he had carved himself. A map of what had once been Dorgana. Major cities, mines, roads, water sources. Over three years, he had added to it bit by bit. Now, every night, Valdo gazed upon the map of what was called the "Ash Wastes"—the burned-out husk of his former realm. He had to go to work today. --- In Golda, they called the work of hauling cargo "Hauler." The daily wage was three silver coins. Since a night at the inn cost one silver coin, even earning three left him with only two. The real problem was Nulgras. Nulgras was a medicinal herb. It could change the amber or crimson eyes of the demonkin to the same color as a human's for twelve hours. Without it, he could not live. Literally. There were no official Orgrim Agency operatives in Golda, but there were informants. For a bounty of ten gold coins, someone would run to the authorities. That would be the end. And Nulgras cost two gold coins per dose. Valdo had developed the habit of calculating silently as he carried his loads. Nearly all his earnings vanished into Nulgras. A single loaf of bread cost two copper coins, and he ate two a day. The math did not add up on some days, so he would reduce his evening meal to half a loaf. A man who had once commanded eighty thousand demonkin now sometimes split a single loaf of bread for his supper. He did not find this absurd. He simply accepted it quietly. Today's work was to carry a wooden crate filled with iron ore from the mining office to the way station. Valdo shouldered the crate and walked up the stone-paved slope. His frame was slender, and to the eye it might not seem suited to hauling work. But after three years of doing it, he had grown accustomed. Black short hair, a gaunt face. Eyes that appeared brown thanks to the Nulgras, indistinguishable now from those of any human. Halfway up the slope, a voice rang out. "[angry]Just hand it over, I'm telling you!" Rounding the corner, Valdo saw two soldiers. They wore the armor of the Felzesta Kingdom, bearing its crest. Before them stood a small old woman, clutching a cloth bag she had apparently bought at the market. From the shape of the bag, he could tell it held food. One of the soldiers reached for the bag. The old woman pulled it back. "[sad]This is mine...!" "[angry]You have unpaid taxes. Pay in goods," A merchant nearby took a step forward. He seemed about to say something. But when the other soldier turned to look at him, the merchant fell silent. Valdo stopped walking. Still carrying the wooden crate, he watched the scene unfold. The soldier snatched the bag from the old woman. The old woman sank to the ground. Everyone nearby averted their eyes. The inscriptions on both his wrists throbbed with a dull ache. No Mana. No power. If he did anything here now, his identity would be exposed. And beyond that, without power, he could not defeat two soldiers. Valdo took a quiet step forward and passed by. After turning the corner, he stared at a single point on the stone pavement for a long time. He had not been unable to act. He had chosen not to. The difference between those two things changed nothing for Valdo now. Both led to the same result. --- That night, he returned to his room at the inn. From the window, he could see the town. Golda was small enough that he could see from one end to the other. Stone buildings stood in rows, candlelight glowing here and there. From a distance, he could see that something new had been posted on the town notice board. Two officials stood before the board. They finished posting and moved on to the next one. Valdo turned from the window and looked at the map on the wall. Three years of information was here. The kingdom's tax collection routes, the weak points in its supply lines, the regions where official corruption was particularly severe, and conversely, the areas where the people's discontent had accumulated enough that a single push might set them in motion. He no longer had the power to fight directly. But he had spent all this time thinking about ways to gnaw away from within, given enough time. The problem was that it was not yet time to move. The information was accumulating. But there were no people. Valdo knew that one man alone could do nothing. (Not yet.) He turned his gaze back to the window. Several townspeople had gathered before the notice board, reading the new proclamation. Valdo narrowed his eyes, trying to make out the distant paper. There was a portrait of a golden-haired man. Elios. He did not need to read it to know the content. It was a new proclamation of the Hero's Tax Edict. Surrender half the harvest as tax; failure to pay shall be deemed treason. The law had continued since three years ago, but each autumn a new proclamation arrived. Either the deadline was growing shorter or the scope was expanding—one or the other. The people stood before the board and looked at one another. But no one spoke. That was what hurt most. Not outrage or resistance. Only silence. Because of the Orgrim Agency's informant reward system, no one knew who might be an informant. Speak your true thoughts and the next day you would be reported to the Agency. So everyone fell silent. They had learned the method of silence. They stood before the board for a while, then each departed in their own direction. Valdo rested his arm on the window frame and watched. There was anger. But there was nowhere to direct it now. Anger could either be transformed into power or pressed down and buried. Valdo had chosen the latter all this time. (Do not rush.) He told himself this and closed the window. --- Once a week, a black market opened in the depths of an alley in Golda. The location changed each week. But the regulars all knew where to find it. Valdo had been coming for three years, so he was already a familiar face. He entered the alley behind the "Cross General Store," and tapped three bricks on the wall. After a moment, a board came loose, creating a gap. Inside was a dimly lit basement with about ten people. Lantern light flickered. The shelves held contraband. Medicinal herbs the kingdom had banned, forged identification papers, and Nulgras. The shopkeeper saw Valdo and immediately reached to the back of the shelf. "The usual?" "[serious]Yes," A small paper bag appeared. It contained dried medicinal herbs, ground into powder for application to the eyes. One dose lasted twelve hours. He placed two gold coins on the table. In silver, that was twenty coins. Nearly everything Valdo earned in a week. That was the price of one dose of the herb that hid his eye color. Nulgras had once grown wild in the mountains of southern Dorgana, but it had been burned away in the war three years ago and had become rare. Now it could only be obtained on the black market. (Not worth the price,) he thought, even as he knew that without it, he could not live. Valdo placed the coins and took the bag of medicine. He showed no emotion. His face remained blank, his manner matter-of-fact. As he turned to leave, the lantern flickered. Not from wind. There were no windows in this room. It must have been the air current from another customer moving. Valdo left the basement, slipped through the gap in the board, and returned to the alley. The night air was cold. Wind blew from the direction of the Selva Mountains, carrying the scent of autumn's end. A single fallen leaf tumbled across the stone pavement. Valdo watched it roll away, then began walking. As he made his way back to the inn, he placed the medicine bag in his jacket pocket. This would last him the week. Next week he would have to buy again. As he turned the corner of an alley, the back of his neck suddenly grew cold. A gaze. Even with Mana nearly sealed away, the senses honed over long years remained. Someone was watching him. Valdo did not stop walking. With a natural motion, he turned as if to look back, scanning his surroundings. In the shadows of the alley, there was a figure. A young woman. She stood beyond the reach of the lantern light, and her face was not clearly visible. But her gaze was di