The storm had arrived in the night, booming and rattling the cottage windows, whistling through the eaves and howling in the dark.
Ruin hadn't been able to sleep for a long while, so he lay awake, staring into the black, listening to the moaning of the world beyond his window.
When he did finally fall into slumber, it was racked with dreams—old, familiar nightmares that felt more real than memory.
Like a shadow in his mind, Ruin paced through the sea city, passing distilled images of Veer's body on the stones, face covered in blood. His dream-self walked through empty streets, mist twisting about his ethereal form, trying to become part of him. The vision carried him all the way to the barrier.
This dream again. The thought flickered through his sleeping mind, a distant recognition of terror.
He could see it perfectly: standing in an alleyway, facing the monolith of stone, listening to the lapping and crashing of waves on the other side. He had never stood in that exact place, yet it was so real, so visceral, it seemed that it had to be true.
In the dream, Ruin reached out gently, brushing the stone. He looked back and forth, left to right, tracing the endless expanse with his eyes. It went on for at least a mile in any direction, in all places at least fifty feet thick and just as tall—all one single block of stone.
Then it broke when he touched it.
The stone splintered, shattering down every line of strata, every vein, letting the wave of the sea beyond crash into the city. Only moments before, the world had seemed quiet, the streets devoid of all life. Now they were filled with screams, and the raging waves sought wrathful vengeance on the city that had been arrogant enough to carve foundations at the bottom of the bay.
Ruin watched it all, helpless. His dream-mind flicked from one body to another as they died—flashing in and out of his vision. Flash: a father heading out for work. Flash: a house flattened. Flash: a daughter running for high ground. Flash on flash on flash.
And Ruin walked atop the waves.
For a long while, there was crashing—the stones of the city being rent apart, the leveling of everything. Then there was only the waves. They lifted Ruin up, then brought him down, only to lift him again—giant waves taller than the barrier had ever been. Still Ruin walked, mindless, thoughtless, brightness in the dream.
All around him, the shadows of a black fire deepened, twisting into revolt, running down the waves, following him up and down. Silhouettes—vague, bulbous shapes, almost comical—arms and legs disproportionate, spherical heads glossy black with faint, pale white eyes. All watching Ruin.
The shadows called him names: Ender. Terminus. Herald. Endbringer.
Ruin tried to forget the dream, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't. Whenever he came close to succeeding, his mind flipped back to the memory of his fight with Veer—how thoroughly the older boy had taken him apart, piece by piece. Why am I so weak? When Ruin tried to forget that, he would always remember the dream again.
Saln tossed another potato into the basket, where it landed with a dull thump on the pile of its fellows.
The two of them sat on Ruin's cottage porch, peeling potatoes, longing for dinner. Ruin struggled through his own potato, finishing it just in time to hear another of Saln's beat him to the basket. Even at this, he's faster.
The family had a peeler, but the boys preferred to use their own familiar knives, which made the process go quicker. Only Ruin didn't have his knife—he had left it out in the woods, with the wolf—so he used the peeler instead.
Saln was nearly done with his pile, forcing Ruin to focus on the gnawing hunger blooming in his stomach. Compared to Ruin, Saln had always been better at everything.
It was still raining, droplets coming down in heavy sheets one moment, then soft spattering the next, as the storm tossed itself back and forth above. Ruin tossed another potato into the basket.
The best thing about storms was the smell. Up in the mountains, it was easy to catch the whiff of villages below, or smoke from city chimneys. But during and after rain, there were no such smells. Everything was clean, clear, easy to breathe.
There was a double thump as both Ruin and Saln dropped potatoes into their baskets. The downside of rain was, of course, getting wet—and the rain was cold.
After they finished, they washed the potatoes in the downpour, then diced them inside, adding them to a boiling pot over the fire. Then they simply waited, listening to the rain drumming its song on the eaves.
Their fathers had left that morning, gone down into the city on some errand, leaving the boys with too few chores and far too much time to recover from their branding.
Ruin and Saln sat listening—always trying to listen past the rain, past the steady rhythm of the shingles being pelted from above.
There was a soft, steady whistling joining with the thunder and rain. An old familiar tune with words, though none were sung. An old Perion's song.
[Song verse one]
A flash of lightning clashed with the firelight spilling through the window.
[Song verse two]
Thunder boomed right on top of them, shaking the ground, shaking the entire cottage, making the boys jump in their seats.
[Song verse three]
Ruin wondered if their fathers would be all right, walking through lightning and rain.
[Song verse four]
The whistling grew louder, and then—
[Song verse five]
The front door burst open. The whistling was now indoors, joined by laughing and the chattering of teeth.
"You should've seen it," Kram was saying. "One of those bolts nearly took us out. Hit a tree right across our path."
"Ah, but you're right to grin—we're still alive," Daylan said, grinning as he booted Ruin out of the armchair. Ruin happily complied.
The fathers brought with them a torrent of rainwater, dripping off drenched frames and heavy cloaks, threatening to puddle on the floor. Ruin mopped the water with a towel and hung the cloaks to dry while the fathers inspected dinner. Everyone was hungry.
The stew was good—fresher than usual, all the ingredients recently sourced from the city.
Ruin had heard of places where you ate in silence. He couldn't imagine it. Their table was always loud—with conversation, with laughter, with joy. With bickering and boasts.
Kram, Saln's father, and Daylan, Ruin's father, were just like their sons—practically brothers despite their lack of blood. Which made for an easy dynamic between the two cottages on their small acreage, secluded from the world.
Nowadays, they all just stayed in one cottage. It was big enough; it had once supported Ruin's mother and sisters, making it practically spacious for the four men who remained.
Ruin tried to take his mind off that thought. They were happy.
The meal went quickly, and Ruin cursed himself for not doubling the portions.
Usually after dinner, the cottage quieted, all preparing for sleep. But tonight was different. Almost as soon as the meal was over, Daylan leaned back with a grin and produced a small parcel from beneath his chair, where he had hidden it.
The boys glanced at each other, raising eyebrows.
With a flourish like a street performer, Daylan revealed a bottle tinged crimson-black, followed soon after by something wrapped heavily in waxed parchment, radiating a heavenly aroma.
Slowly, reverently, he peeled the paper back—revealing a large cake made in the usual Darn style: like a wheel, hollow in the center, fluffy all around.
He divided the pastry into fourths while Kram fetched glasses and poured the cheap wine. Ruin and Saln could hardly stop laughing; Daylan seemed like a child, in all the right ways.
"What's the special occasion?" Saln asked.
Kram and Daylan shared a wry smile.
"Oh, you two are getting so old—and you did get your sun-marks. We thought it was time for a little celebration," Daylan said, sipping his wine.
"And it's the anniversary, of course," Kram added.
"What anniversary?" Ruin asked, beating Saln to it. Confusion flashed across both boys' faces.
Daylan shot Kram a questioning glance, but Saln's father didn't seem to notice.
"It's our twenty-fifth anniversary since we were in the [trial name]." Kram said, raising his glass.
There was a hint of a shadow in Daylan's eyes. But surely, there could be no shadows here. The fire roared, all four chairs were filled, the pantry was stocked, lanterns glowed. Yet it made Ruin remember his dream. He forced himself to forget.
He sipped the wine, nearly gagging at its strength.
Daylan laughed. "It tastes wrong, but that's about it. No effects, I'm afraid." He winked at Ruin.
"Twenty-five years since you were in the trials?" Saln pressed.
Again, Ruin thought he caught a shadow pass through his father's eyes—and maybe Kram's too—but it was gone in an instant.
The fathers shared a look, the kind only brothers could.
"Yes," Daylan said. "Twenty-five years since the trials."
The boys' curiosity sharpened. They had long been excited by the thought of their fathers participating in such things. The trials were a test that came only every seven years, selecting participants at random from across the Empire. The boys had asked before, but the fathers had shut them down. We'll tell you when you're older. Maybe.
But now, they seemed ready to talk.
Saln jumped in first. "How did you get in?"
"In the usual way—at random," Daylan said, grinning but bracing for the barrage of questions.
"How old were you?" Ruin asked.
"About your age. Maybe a year older." The fathers shared another look.
"And you made it all the way through?" Ruin asked, incredulous.
Both men nodded. The trials were notoriously difficult—most participants never returned home. If they had cheated, they would have had better positions, better houses, better lives.
A sudden suspicion dawned on Ruin, and he blurted out before thinking: "Is that where you met Mom?"
Both men went still.
Daylan answered hesitantly. "It is. But what came after was what truly made me fall in love."
Ruin had always wondered how his parents had met. His mother had only ever smiled softly and said the same thing: We'll tell you when you're older. Maybe.
Ruin saw the gentle burning in both fathers' eyes, longing for their wives, their families united again. For Ruin's mother and sisters, it had only been two years since they were forced to move deeper into the Empire. For Kram, the sorrow was older, deeper. Saln's mother had been gone for five years.
I wish I'd thought about the consequences before asking.
What must it feel like to be separated not just by distance, but by death itself?
A somber mood settled over the table. The sweetness of cake was lost, washed down with bitter wine.
Finally, after silence stretched too long, Daylan patted Kram on the shoulder. Both men nodded to each other. Then they reached beneath their chairs and produced parcels, handing one each to Ruin and Saln.
"I'm afraid, in our current circumstances, we must," Daylan said.
Current circumstances? Ruin thought. What did that mean?
A small letter fell with Saln's parcel.
Gingerly, as though it might combust, Saln opened the letter. The wax seal was already broken by the fathers.
No. This can't be happening.
But it was. Ruin read the words over Saln's shoulder, plain as day. His gut twisted into chains, every link overlapping, making him feel heavy, bound.
At the bottom of the page was Saln's name, in neat, spidery handwriting. Below it, his imperial identification number.
The trials were calling Saln.
His hands tightened on the parchment, crinkling it, refusing to let go.
Every boy dreamed of the trials. A chance to rise, to become more. But it was always fantasy, impossibility—until it wasn't.
For a moment, jealousy pricked at Ruin. Why him and not me? But he killed the feeling quickly, leaving only dread.
"How long have you known?" Saln asked after a long silence.
Kram answered. "About a week. We thought it best to let you get your brand first, before telling you."
It all made sense now—their fathers' extra kindness, the added freedom, the laughter and easy days. A way of letting them say goodbye.
He's going to leave me, Ruin thought. He's going to leave me.
What would he do with no true friend like Saln, no siblings, no one but his uncle Kram—and even he wasn't blood?
Saln opened the parcels. The first revealed a uniform, sleek and black, finely made, expensive. The second revealed a cloak—white, pristine, rainproof, soft-lined.
Fit for a lamb, Ruin thought bitterly.
"When... when do I have to leave?" Saln asked. "Do I have to?" His voice betrayed that he already knew. There was no choice. No boy in his right mind would refuse.
"Two days," Kram said.
Two days.
Ruin's throat tightened. He excused himself, muttering something about not feeling well, and stepped out onto the porch into the storm.
Rain poured over him, stinging his eyes. Lightning flashed. Thunder rolled.
Two days. Only two days.
He staggered into the woods before he realized it, half-crazed, soaked, shivering. By the time he dragged his feet back to the porch, he was exhausted.
And then he froze.
There, in front of the door, stood a small, sleek figure. No bigger than Ruin's hand. Glossy, black, glass-like—as if made of shadows compressed to a single point, ready to burst.
A round head. A grotesque, abstract little body. Pale eyes staring into his.
A shadow from his dream.
The names whispered again: Two days. Herald of Ending. Two days. Endbringer.