Bush lit his cigar with the tip of his finger, searing his skin in the process. The burn would match the one on his outer left arm. It felt good actually, like the pain of a cut earned through victory.
He took a long, satisfying draw and let the smoke curl in lazy spirals against the stained glass of his office window.
It tasted expensive, it was expensive.
The Conexe had done their best to tighten control over the people of Nurks, but Bush was one of them now. An elite. After generations of clawing through the filth of the city's underbelly, the Hosh family name had finally risen into power.
Free, he thought, exhaling. Truly free.
He turned away from the window, the smoke lingering behind him. The room was mostly bare, save for a single chair surrounded by faint lines of flash powder. Everything was set.
They should have the girl by now.
Bush adjusted the cuffs of his new coat. The finer life suited him in some ways, though the weight gain had crept in. Despite that however, he still retained the lean muscle from his twenties.
A muffled sound from downstairs caught his ear. A scream, strained through a gag. He smiled.
A knock followed.
"Enter," he said.
Two Paipite men entered, short and wiry, with blank expressions. Between them, they held a girl draped in fine silks. Elven, with metallic hair. She didn't look like the average slave.
Where most in her situation would be either afraid or hollow, this girl actually seemed somewhat curious. Her large child-like eyes inspected the room and lingered on his window.
Two thousand raches, he thought. A fortune for a commoner, but it seemed well spent.
"Leave us."
The men bowed and left without a word. Loyal, obedient—Paipites always were. Not as valuable as Elves, but reliable, despite the wrongness their presence left.
Of course any slave was unsettling, that went for the traders as well. Both were illegal in Navahownum, but enslaving and being enslaved had an effect on people. Common crime wasn't the same. That was why Bush had the Paiptes fetch the girl.
The girl stood still. She couldn't have been older than thirteen by appearance, though Elves aged strangely. She might have been older.
Bush offered a slight bow and gestured to the seat. She obeyed without apparent hesitation. No, she was not broken. That would make this all the more fun.
Bush blinked, his eyes reflecting a fire that wasn't there. Until it was. A sudden circle of flame burst around the chair—igniting the powder. He kept the flames from burning too fast, shaping the blaze with skill refined over decades.
The fire in his eyes wasn't a metaphor, but literal. Pulx fire responded to his will as though it was alive.
He watched as the surprise bloomed in her expression. Saw it subtly shift to fear and panic. The moment she realized she had misjudged the situation. That moment, to Bush, was pure euphoria.
Another man might have assaulted the girl, Bush wasn't interested. He had no taste for such things. Fear, however—true, helpless terror—seen in the eyes the moment life became something near obsolete.
Bush's grin widened, and for a time he forgot the heat was even there. The smoke brought him out of his trance however, as it was growing too thick. The elf wavered, swayed, and began to slump. He sighed, willing the flames down.
He stepped toward a barrel for water—she'd need to recover if the game was to continue—but a knock interrupted him.
"What!?" he barked.
"Pardon, sir," came the voice. "The Conexe wishes to speak with you."
He paused. That voice wasn't familiar. Bush's eyes reflected another flame before its existence, his old street instincts kicking in.
Starting a fire with wood would take more mana, but he was skilled enough. Before his door could burst into flames however, the window shattered behind him.
His body froze mid-spin. He didn't fall. He didn't even bleed. He simply… stopped.
In the cracked glass, he saw the mark—an ink-dark glyph glowing faintly on his forehead. A separation pulx. It pulsed like it was alive.
It was not on parchment, nor was it painted. It was as if it had been etched onto his skin.
The door slammed open.
"We got him. Nice shot, Green," said a deep voice.
A mountain of a man entered, clad in a black t-shirt and thick gauntlets. His boots echoed heavily as he crossed the floor. On his chest gleamed a golden medallion: twin blades intertwined—the unmistakable mark of a bounty hunter.
Bush's stomach dropped. He had known there was a bounty on his head, but he hadn't expected anyone to actually take it. Nurks was far too remote a location, and any bounty hunter here was employed by the Conexe under the table.
Behind the man, a second figure moved toward the elf girl, freeing her.
Bush watched helplessly as his world cracked. His fire pulx—useless—it wasn't activating for some reason. His power, his reputation, his carefully built life—all slipping away.
Green sat atop the inn's roof, letting his legs dangle off the side, and turning a bullet casing over in his palm.
His dark glasses reflected the faint lamplight of the street below. Unlike most, his weren't divided in two, but formed a single lens across his face. Small and seamless, they were so dark that even in direct light, no one could see his eyes.
He liked that for a multitude of reasons.
Looking out into the soot stained and industrial city, many would think this a time to think, to contemplate. When Green would ask what he should contemplate about, people would say life. Contemplating his place, his plan for the future.
Green didn't sigh, nor did he agree with what people say. If one had enough time to contemplate life, they weren't busy enough. If one felt the need to plan the future, they had already let go of the present.
No, Green wouldn't give himself that time, instead, he would do what he had come here to do.
A voice sounded behind him. It was Grace—his older sister.
Green glanced over his shoulder. She and her husband, Mark, had been going over the plan when she suddenly threw the question his way.
"Hm? What?" Green said.
"Can you make the shot? Or do we need to move closer?"
"The target?" Green asked, fully aware of the answer.
Grace sighed and pointed west. "Second-story window. Aim for the man inside. Remember."
Green turned to the building in question. It was six hundred paces at least. The distance was far, even for a sniper. But Green didn't worry for his rifle. It was his pistol he'd be using to hit his target.
He nodded to Grace.
"Great." She said, "Wait for our signal." She and Mark turned and disappeared down the inn stairs.
Green looked back to the building and ran a hand through his long onyx black hair. Grace had always had too much faith in him. Sure, he was twenty-one and technically an adult, but he only had two years of firearm experience. Even so, he rarely missed.
His sister called it a gift. He didn't agree. A curse seemed like a better description to him. It was something he couldn't run from. Something that never let go.
Still… It was intoxicating. The silence, the stillness, the snap of the shot. As much as he hated it, it was a part of him now.
He stood up and reached back for the rifle slung across his back, resting it on the concrete ledge of the roof. Laying prone, he adjusted his weight, bracing the barrel and flipping the safety off.
He removed his glasses so as to properly see through the scope.
This shot would require him to break the window first—then immediately draw his pulx pistol and shoot the man's head before he could react.
Of course a shot like this was madness with a pistol, but he'd manage.
He checked the weapon at his waist.
It was uniquely crafted, a sleek black frame with an inlaid silver dragon running from the grip to the barrel. The dragons glowed whilst it spelled out two glyphs—nairk and shi. Silver Death.
Grace's work. She built the frame. Mark had imbued the pulx.
While a regular round would arc and fall. Pulx rounds didn't obey gravity or air resistance—they traveled in straight, unstoppable lines of energy.
Looking through the scope, he saw two thin Paipite men dragging a girl in fine silk through the street. She was small—an elf judging by her elongated ears.
He tensed. She looked vaguely familiar for some reason. Though he hadn't met any female Elves. They tended to stay in their cities.
He lifted his head for a moment, letting the night breeze wash over him. It smelled faintly of oil and burning rust. Then snuggled on a pair of muffs—built specifically for shooting rifles.
He still remembered the sharp ringing in his ears from firing a shotgun without protection. Though he hadn't sustained lasting damage, it was a lesson he wouldn't forget.
Green peeked back through his scope. In the window now, he could see the girl being sat. Then came the fire. A ring of it burst up around her—unnatural and controlled.
A faint movement caught his eye—Mark raised a glowing hand. The signal.
Green exhaled slowly. The hardest part was about to begin.
He had to hit the seam of the glass to shatter it cleanly—then draw, aim, and hit the target with the pulx pistol all within seconds. A mistake would cost them the hunt. Maybe the girl's life.
Front of the head, he reminded himself. That would disable motor function without killing. The back would stop breath. Chest or limbs would leave him dangerous.
This one was a chantless.
Normal pulx hummed to life only after the words. Long, careful chants that ruined any hope of quick reaction in a fight. Chantless users didn't need the incantation. Their minds flared and pulx obeyed instantly. That kind of speed made them lethal.
He lined up the scope. The fire inside was starting to recede.
"Six hundred paces with a pistol," he muttered. "Grace really is losing it."
But they couldn't move closer. Doing so would alert any Conexe guards around the target's home. Without state sanction, a bounty hunter like him wouldn't be protected.
He let out his breath.
"Bang."
The glass shattered.
In one smooth motion he drew the pistol. Aimed. Fired.
The pulx recoil pulsed through his wrist and arm. And his heart jumped from the mana.
He turned back to the scope a few moments later.
Mark hefted a frozen body onto his shoulder. Behind him, Grace knelt beside the elf, helping her up.
Another clean shot.
The next day, Green kept watch at the inn while his sister and Mark turned in the bounty. He leaned against the wall near the elf, and the window looking out into the depressing streets of the city.
Whenever he looked, Green found the elf looking around curiously. Not an emotion of someone who had been through slavery.
That wasn't all.
The few times Green had encountered Elves, they were polished, like their whole culture had been soaked in perfection. They walked with the kind of ease that came from centuries of superiority.
But the girl across from him wasn't like that. She acted almost human. She had the metallic hair, gem-like eyes, and that grassy scent Elves carried, but it all felt muted.
Despite the unique appearance, there was something more. Green leaned in unconsciously. She really does resemble her, he thought. The similarities were uncanny, uncomfortably so.
"U-um," the girl said.
Green blinked, and realized his face was only a foot from hers. She had backed away uncomfortably. Green leaned back and looked out the window.
He narrowed his eyes at the short figure peaking around the corner from inside a small alleyway. It backed out of sight the moment Green looked however.
"What's your name?" The elf asked.
Green didn't answer right away, waiting to see if the figure would come back.
"Green," he said.
She nodded. "My name is Careless. It's nice to meet you." Her voice was more mature than he expected—not girlish, not soft. Balanced and even.
Green tilted his head. "Careless, huh?" he repeated. "That's… unique."
She smiled faintly. He looked back out the window and spotted another figure on the roof of another building.
His hand drifted to the knife at his belt, and before he thought better of it, he drew it across his forearm. A shallow cut. Just enough to bleed, enough to sharpen the edges of the moment.
The girl gasped. "A-Are you alright?" She started forward instinctively.
He held out a hand to stop her, keeping her at a distance. "I'm fine. Happens sometimes." He walked to the basin and grabbed a rag, wetting it.
But when he turned back, she was still watching him. Not afraid, not pitying. Just watching. Children, Green thought, too curious for their own good sometimes.
He looked away first.
She spoke softly. "So… what's going to happen now?"
"Grace and Mark will be back soon. Then we'll take you home."
Her shoulders dipped. "Oh," she said, trying—and failing—to keep the disappointment from her tone.
"You don't sound thrilled."
She fidgeted. "It's not that. It's just… I don't think they want me back."
"They're offering fifty-six full raches for you. That's not pocket change."
She shook her head. "They're not paying to bring me back. They're paying to avoid embarrassment."
Green didn't argue. She might be right. He wasn't in a position to judge.
She went on. "My name… um, Careless. Elves name children after the father's emotions when they're born. I have five older sisters. My father wanted a son."
Green said nothing. But he understood more than she probably guessed. Sometimes, a name wasn't just a name. It was a sentence. And other times, it was what grounded the kind of person someone was.
Finally, he spoke. "Even if they didn't want you, we can't take you with us or give you to anyone else. It'd be illegal. Not to mention we'd become the target."
"I know," she whispered. "I just thought… maybe I could see the outside for a while."
Green raised an eyebrow. Outside? She'd been dragged from city to city as a slave. Hadn't that been enough? Perhaps not. Green had been to many places, yet he couldn't tell much of them now.
Must be an adventurous type, Green thought. Though a lot of Elves were based on his experience. Few were ever allowed to leave their city.
Green rubbed at his brow. Comfort wasn't something he was good at. It had to be lined with emotions, rather than a clear path. Maps however… maps he could understand. They made a clear and logical path.
An idea took root. He reached into his pack, pulled out parchment, and started sketching glyphs with precise, practiced motions.
"You know," he said slowly, "Lindhael's not exactly close."
"No, it's not," Careless said, her voice softer now. "But I'll manage."
Green shook his head, still drawing. "That's not what I meant. I mean it's going to take time. Mountains. Valleys. Bad roads. Could be months."
She paused. "A long trip, huh?" She said with a smile.
"The longer we're on the road, the safer we are. Less chance Conexe catches on. They won't let an asset go very easily." Green said, his tone back to normal.
She looked down, then up. There was a glimmer in her voice now—hope, maybe. "And we'd have to stop often, right?"
He nodded. Not with a smile, but something loosened in his chest. One more.
He set the map down and examined the ink.
Downstairs, the door opened. Instinctively his hand went to his holster—then he heard Grace's voice and let the tension go. A moment later, she and Mark entered.
"Hey," Grace said.
"Hey," Green answered, still working over his map.
"What are you doing?"
"Finding a way to bring her home."
Grace tilted her head. "Oh. Did you?"
"Not yet. But I've got a starting point." He etched two swerved lines into the parchment, glyphs woven so no one but him could read them. "How much?"
"Nineteen quarter-raches." Grace grinned.
"Nineteen?"
"At first they offered fourteen. I got them higher."
"You used the incense?"
"…Maybe."
"Cheater."
"I didn't cheat. I just, nudged them a bit." Grace said with a smile, giving Green his sha
"If you recall—you're supposed to be the moral one." Green accepted the coins, putting them in his pouch.
"The incense just helps you relax, they could have still said no."
Green shook his head. "Either way, the route to Lindhael will take months. We'll need to work bounties along the way."
"That's not a problem." Mark commented. "Fifty-six full raches is more than enough for a few months of work. But we'll have to collect bounties on the way. And we'll want to resupply before we leave town."
Green nodded, sketching a second version of the route—one safe for others to read. The real map, the one only he could follow, he'd burn later.