The liquid burned going down—bitter, rotten, disgusting. His stomach churned, bile rising slow and acidic. He didn't stop. He drank the cup dry with his eyes shut.
Water is water.
Merrin gasped when it was done, staggering slightly. A strange lightness moved through him—as if a pressure that had been sitting on top of his skull for days had finally lifted. His head felt clearer. Thinner. That was good enough.
He moved away from the water barrel, through the gathered slaves, toward the edges of the cave where it was quieter. A few benches sat scattered around. The good ones were already claimed—territories drawn fast and without discussion, the way these things always went when men were given just enough vagueness to fight over.
The Excubitor had said to choose a leader. He had not said how many or how. From that gap, violence would grow. Merrin could see it already forming—slave-cohorts pulling together, tension thickening the air between them like smoke.
They should just dance it out, he thought, the idea not quite serious.
He found a spot alone and sat.
"Ma'rim."
He turned.
The man standing behind him was enormous—broad-shouldered, muscular, with scattered black hair shot through with white strands that caught the dim light. His eyes were round, black, and very still. There was something unsettling about how calm they were.
brightCrown. Merrin's heart jolted. How does he know my name?
The man wore a long black coat, buttoned to the waist and flared at the ankles, split at the belly to show dark trousers beneath. It had been sophisticated once. Now the cuffs were torn, and the edges faded. His arms were folded within the robes, like a priest delivering a sermon.
An Aspirant? But Aspirants wear white.
What does he want?
The man smiled. It was warm—too warm. Strangely unthreatening.
"Ma'rim, why not with others?"
An accent?
"I deserve the solitude," Merrin said.
The man tilted his head. "Ma'rim, this is humble."
"If you say so."
"Ma'rim, what this?" He gestured toward Merrin. "Believe me not?"
"Why do you keep saying that?" Merrin's voice sharpened. "Ma'rim—is that supposed to be my name?"
The man shook his head gently. "Ah. This word—greeting. Not name."
"Then why do you keep saying it?"
"Because you not respond."
Merrin watched him. There was no hidden angle in the man's face. No calculation. He seemed, against all odds, genuine.
Merrin exhaled. "Ma'rim."
The smile widened. "This is good."
Merrin shifted away slightly. The man followed.
"What are you doing?" he asked, regretting the question before it finished leaving his mouth.
"This place new," the man said simply. "I think—together is better."
"You want to form a team."
"Yes. That."
"Not interested."
The answer came cold, and Merrin meant it. Why would he do that again—follow a lead, attach himself to a purpose, walk someone else toward ruin? He had lost the right to that kind of life. His path was the solitary one. That was what he deserved.
The man nodded. "I see. Humble. True."
"I look humble to you?" Merrin asked, then immediately wished he hadn't. Why am I still talking to him?
"You see me," the man said. "From Clan Odium. Yet you not take chance."
Merrin went still. "You're from Clan Odium?"
That didn't match. Clan Odium was known for red hair. This man had none.
"Ah. I see confusion. Odium blood… not always bred true."
"So why would I take the chance?" Merrin's curiosity was winning over his better judgment. He hated that.
"Odium—hated. But strength… true. Adi favors us."
"Adi?" Dangerous question. He asked it anyway.
"This you nights call… symbols. Things casted." The man gestured vaguely.
"I'm not Night," Merrin said flatly.
Adi. Powers of the Almighty. That meant casting
He breathed. Let the thought settle. Conversation was something human. Something that still felt real, even here.
Should I let myself enjoy it?
"You there!"
The call cracked across the cave.
Merrin turned. Four men approached—slaves, but fresh ones. The hollow look hadn't reached their eyes yet. No servs hovered near them, which confirmed it: they still had enough hope in them to be dangerous.
Their leader stepped forward with a piercestone (sharp stone) in hand and a look in his eyes.
Merrin felt the old instinct stir in him. I could take them.
"Ma'rim," the Odium man said beside him, tilting his head in greeting—a giant bowing slightly, like a mountain acknowledging the wind. It looked absurd. But the approaching leader faltered for just a moment, something flickering behind his eyes.
Then bravery reclaimed his face.
"You will join our group," he said. "I'm the leader. Call me Kzeith."
The giant smiled. "Ma'rim. My name Ron."
Kzeith's eyes narrowed. "You speak strangely. Not like the nights." He spat—saliva hissing where it struck the hot ground, steaming instantly. Merrin's feet almost moved toward the steam before he caught himself.
Not now.
"Ma'rim, yes," Ron replied. "I am Odium."
"Hated scum!" someone in Kzeith's group shouted. More spitting. More steam.
Ron didn't react. His eyes lowered. "That is past. Done by ancestors. We must grow. Be unified. Cohort."
Kzeith's gaze shifted. It landed on Merrin.
No.
"Are you with this filth?"
Merrin hesitated. He could lie. He should. It would be the sensible thing. But he was Ashman, and Ashmen did not lie.
"Yes."
"Then I must save you from Odium!"
Before Merrin could say a word, Kzeith moved. The stone struck Ron's skull with a crack that cut through the distant hammering of the mine. A beat of silence followed.
Ron staggered. He did not fall. Blood ran down one side of his face. His arms remained folded inside his sleeves.
"What are you doing!" The words broke from Merrin before he could stop them. I don't know this man. I should leave.
But memory flashed. A man dangling from a rusted chain. A scream. A thud from far below. He saw it again—the miner who had fallen. The one he hadn't helped.
"Please stop." The urge to fight was right under his skin. He could win. In the mountains, he had always won.
"This is for you," Kzeith said. Blood from the stone hissed where it dripped to the ground. "He is Odium. Hate is all he has."
Merrin looked around for intervention. He found only a crowd. Slaves watching. Some smiling. Yellow servs—happiness—drifting lazily above their heads.
They've lost their minds.
No one moved. Kzeith raised the stone again. Ron stood still, smiling, radiant in his pain.
He looks like—
Merrin's eyes widened.
They can't kill him. They can't kill Liem.
He ran. Kzeith's arm came down. Ron didn't move. Merrin reached them just as the stone fell and put his body between them.
The stone struck his skull.
Darkness.
He shall save and be stoned. —From the Seventh Paragraph of the El'shadie Prophecies.
He dreamed of a dance.
Ash and darkness. He was ash—swift, soft, weightless, trailing above black sand. His legs and arms curling and extending in the old rhythm. The dance of self. The dance the Ashmen believed was how creation had begun. He enjoyed it fully, for the first time in a long time. He was one with the mist, the steam, the ash. All of it.
He had always danced alone. But now there were others moving with him—shapes he couldn't quite see, but felt. They matched his rhythm.
"He will never die," a shrill voice whispered in his ear.
Merrin's eyes opened slowly. White light washed over his face, and he raised his hands instinctively, shielding his eyes. His thoughts were thick with fog.
Above him stood a giant of a man—black hair streaked with white, holding a chain-roped lamp that buzzed softly. Ron. His smile was simple. Almost peaceful.
"This must hurt," Ron said.
Merrin pushed himself upright. Faint heat pressed against his back. He looked down.
A bed.
Not stone. Not the straw he had slept on back in the mountains. Something soft—thick enough that it hadn't burned him through. He didn't know what the material was, but it reminded him of the garments worn by the Night Clans. Someone had put him here. Had kept him from burning.
It would still burn eventually, he thought vaguely, glancing back at Ron.
The man wore his smile the way some men wore hats—with a kind of uncomplicated pride.