Chapter 2

I lift my finger from the second trigger as I’m violently jerked to a stop. Then I press the third trigger. A sharp tug sends me flying up through the air again, past the four other candidates, and into the lighter layer of the storm. I arch my entire body in order to get enough momentum to swing towards Kaida. The rush of the storm records the sound of racing wind and my heartbeat.

With agility born of desperation, I maneuver through the wild winds, pushing off from the rock face when I get too close, aiming for Kaida, who is still spinning uncontrollably.

“I’ve got you! Hold on!” I yell through the screams of the tempest. I’m not sure whether Kaida can hear me or not.

As I release the third trigger, I slam into Kaida, stilling her but also sending us both into the mountain side. My face scrapes on the jagged rocks, but my grimace is due to my right index finger refusing to pull the trigger again. Amidst the gale, I lock eyes with a disoriented Kaida.

“What are you doing?!” Kaida mouths, but it occurs to me that Kaida is in fact screaming the words, but I can’t hear them.

With a strong tug of my functional hand, I secure Kaida against me. Fierce winds threaten to tear us apart. The winds seem to get a better grip on me now that I have more surface area with Kaida awkwardly nestled against my body.

“Hesperia!” I plead through gritted teeth, praying for any remaining power to be channeled to my right hand.

Slowly, my finger moves, and I find the strength to pull the third trigger again, the recoil trigger, on the harpoon. A mottled silver light illuminates the dark wisps of clouds swirling around us. The harpoon slowly recoils its rope, the storm still swinging us around chaotically, forcing us against the mountain.

As we inch out of the storm, the clouds thin, and the winds lose their breath. I find some stability, clutching the harpoon with every ounce of strength I have left in my right hand. My left arm starts to shake at how tightly I’m pressing Kaida to my side.

As we break through the final layer of storm, blue sky surrounds us. The sun warms my face again despite my wet hair dripping down my neck. I peer down below my feet, catching the last glimpse of the four others already releasing their spears to recoil it and deploy it anew. They’ll repeat the routine till they reach the base of the mountain.

I look to Kaida, who is panting, her eyes wide, and her skin tinged green. My throat feels dry, so I preserve my words for when we finish our ascent. The harpoon’s recoil mechanism creaks at the added weight, but it manages to carry both of us up to where the spear is embedded. I really didn’t want to try to release the spear, only to fall again — possibly losing my hold on Kaida — and try to deploy my spear again to continue our painstaking climb of the mountain. Without asking, I reach behind Kaida and grab her harpoon. I release Kaida’s spear implanted a couple of feet below us by pulling the first trigger, then recoil it. I proceed to shoot it above us, as close to the cliff’s edge as possible. Once the spear is secured into the rock again, I release my own spear and pull the recoil trigger on Kaida’s harpoon, continuing up the final stretch of cliff side.

The sound of chatter and clamor of the thousands of spectators grow as we near the precipice. By the time we reach the spear, Kaida won’t move out of my grip. We are close enough to the edge that I can guide a reluctant Kaida up onto my shoulders, where she shakily pushes off with her feet and pulls herself up onto the ground of the arena. I pull myself up shortly thereafter.

My entire body shakes as I drop my harpoon and let it dangle at my side. Sweat wets my hairline and my shirt has come untucked. But I’m here. And so is Kaida. Every muscle and joint protests me standing, but as I was about to sit down to rest till the other candidates arrive, Kaida takes exactly two stomps towards me and kicks me sharply in the shin.

She’s immediately in my face. “What in The Three Peaks do you think you’re doing? You ruined everything!” She spits with disdain.

I hiss at the throbbing pain, and rub my shin. “You would’ve kept spinning had I not—”

“I would’ve figured it out. But you took my chance away, and now I have to wait till the next Stormglass Trial to even hope to try again, and no one wants to try again!” Kaida yells, the green hue coloring her face gone, replaced by angry red. “Your path, your hands. Get it through your skull!”

I open my mouth to retort, but Kaida’s brown eyes have lost any of their warmth, her storm-tossed honey hair framing her tense face, and merely scoffs and stomps off in the direction of the weapons’ corridor and Corson’s workshop.

The arena is surprisingly quiet for being crowded with residents of Callanth and guests of the other peaks combined, and I’m acutely aware that I’m the cause of the silence. I proceed to finally sit down, forcing myself to rest my shaking hands on my knees.

I did it again, I think like I’m confessing a sin. Five Stormglass Trials and I just couldn’t help myself.

My left hand clenches into a fist, but I refrain from punching the ground. Am I just trying to prevent myself from reaching my goal? Is this some subconscious effort to self-sabotage? I consider with a scowl on my face.

The crowd suddenly comes to life again, and I lift my gaze to the cliff’s edge just in time to see Raiden fly high above before landing in the arena with frustrating grace. His short cape hanging off his left shoulder is drenched and appears torn in some places, his tied hair now loose and tousled, but his face looks determined and satisfied. He stalks to the center of the arena marked by a metal disc and holds up a glowing, jagged shard of smoky Stormglass, eliciting an even louder cry from the audience as they get to their feet.

Frankly, not surprising, I admit to myself, although with a taste of annoyance on my tongue. It’s bitter business losing to your ex, but even worse is that he’s going to think I’ve proved him right.

Shortly after Raiden has done his third turn of showmanship, basking unashamed in the glory of victory, Kyrell crawls up over the edge almost at the same time as one of the blonde boys. The two begrudgingly undo their harpoon harnesses and drop the entire regalia on the stone ground. Kyrell stalks off in the same direction Kaida had gone without looking back, but the blonde boy keeps nervously peaking over the edge. A sadness creeps into my chest at the realization. A realization the boy with no helmet now and a concerned look painting his entire demeanor has yet to admit.

The spectacle of The Stormglass Trials is always an unparalleled whirlwind. It easily distracts from the sight of the blonde boy crumbling at the edge of the cliff, fear-stricken eyes still desperately searching the tempest below. No announcement is made, no condolences given. Candidates know the risks, and we still headily sign up because we think we’re untouchable on the mountain summit. But we’re only as invincible as our willingness to admit weakness. Something Callantheans abhor almost as much as the Carving on my hand

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I press my lips into a line, the guilt of helping Kaida and not noticing one of the boys must’ve also needed help settles in my stomach. My efforts are either unwanted or not enough.

The Stormglass Trials do indeed demand sacrifice.

I should’ve gotten up a while ago to return my useless dagger, but I’m always intrigued by the announcement of the official winner. It appears that the king has waited till Raiden has received enough praise for a lifetime before standing from his seat and approaching the flared horn again.

“Callanth, we have our winner!” King Aramis emphatically exclaims, clearly as invested in The Stormglass Trials as any other resident of Atoraxis’ three peaks who took the time to attend. “Raiden Abbott has been added to the Scavengers’ roster and will now await further testing by the Scavengers themselves. May Hesperia guide you in your endeavors!” King Aramis announces with such energy the crowd can’t even deign to match.

Upon mention, the ten Scavengers get to their feet and effortlessly maneuver through the crowd, some resorting to leaping from backrest to backrest of the stone seats, till they reach the arena. The ten surround Raiden, both in congratulation and in curiosity, clearly assessing their newest potential asset.

My fascination gets the best of me, and I force myself to my feet, ignoring my aching muscles and the weight of my harpoon. Being this close to the Scavengers, I can clearly make out their sleek, black attire, no pieces of fabric lose to tempt the winds to grab hold. Steel plates adorn arms and legs above and below joints, offering protection against Stormglass surges that may arrive too soon during an expedition. Each one wears leather gauntlets with a silver-glowing compass embedded in the leather on the back of the hand, and goggles emitting the same glow sit atop each of their heads.

After participating in five Trials, I feel like I should recognize most if not all the faces on the Scavenger team, but the dark reality is that Stormglass Trials are only held when a Scavenger doesn’t make it back to the peak. Throughout my now five near encounters with the Scavengers, I only recognize three of the ten. Two men, their heads close-shaven, stand attentively behind the woman talking with Raiden. Her blonde hair is kept short, her remaining her braided tightly to her scalp, while a long, black scarf is wrapped tightly around her neck and hangs from her shoulders. I always thought it was odd that the leader of the Scavengers regularly wears a long and lose hanging scarf that can easily be caught in the wind or on the jutting rocks of the mountain. But if she’s survived this long — four years, if I remember correctly from my very first Trial — I assume she must know what she’s doing.

Raiden has always been a stoic talker, but he becomes more animated when nervous, which is probably why his hands are making wide gestures as he explains his success. My eyes drift back to the Scavenger leader. The lower half of her face appears relaxed, even amused, but the upper half of her face doesn’t move. Her eyes are distant, her brows set, and her forehead unwavering. To me, she looks a thousand miles away.

“Three times,” an unfamiliar voice states from behind me. I flip around and see an older man with a white, combed beard that reaches mid-chest, gathered into two metal ringlets. He’s dressed in only black, his beard the only part of him that contrasts. I would’ve mistaken him for any common Callanthean, had I not noticed his black status tassel tied into his beard.

“High Chemist,” I greet, uncertain why one of the six High Chemists would not already be halfway to the Citadel. “Three times what?”

I expect some mockery for failing my fifth Trial, but I’ve never been approached by a High Chemist who wanted to deliver the ridicule himself.

The High Chemist looks down, using a piece of silken fabric to polish a monocle. A thin, gold chain runs from the monocle to the chest pocket in his black vest. The vest reminds me of the multi-pocket vests the Callanthean Fish Farmers wear.

“Three times you’ve competed in The Stormglass Trials…” He finishes polishing the monocle, and pockets the fabric. “… without the use of a weapon.” He replaces his monocle on his left eye, and I notice with piqued curiosity how it glows silver.

Did he polish it with Stormglass liquid? But what reason would he have to use it on his monocle?

The High Chemist lifts his gaze to me. “Some might call it overconfidence,” he notes, his right, uncovered eye unblinking.

I’m used to a vast variety of taunts, but I still straighten my spine in defiance. “Are you ‘some’?” I ask, my voice even.

The old man smirks, the one green eye that isn’t hidden behind the Stormglass-greased monocle twinkles. “I’m Sulien, and I consider myself a member of the other ‘some’,” he says, then gives me a once-over with a studious eye.

I frown. “And what does the ‘other some’ say?”

Sulien’s gaze leaves me and raises skyward. “The other some might call it capability. Why do you compete?”

The question takes me, suddenly forgetting all about the Scavengers behind me or my now rigid right hand.

“Why do you ask?” Apprehension coloring my tone.

He chuckles, then starts circling me. “Because there are other avenues for someone like you. Other… apprenticeships for you to pursue with less of a physical risk.”

“What type of apprenticeship?” I blurt as soon he’s finished.

He pauses a step behind me. “Well, mine.”

I turn, my stringed coins tied to one of my belts clatter. “A Chemist’s apprenticeship? You have to go through the Institute and accept The Chemist Edict before you can even apply for one. I’m not—I’m not qualified,” I scrutinize and place my frozen hand on my hip to make it appear more natural.

He shrugs. “There are more than one way to earn The Edict,” he says as if that’s the least of his concerns.

Still skeptical, I stare at his calm profile. “But… Why?”

He turns his head fully, his monocle glinting in the sun light, the silver sheen hiding the eye behind it. “Because whoever is my apprentice will know that weapons and Stormglass alike are meant to enhance effort, not replace it.”

I narrow my eyes. “I’ve not used any weapons for the last three Trials, like you said. Why now?”

His expression doesn’t change as he turns away from me again, continuing to walk towards the crowd now filing out of the arena.

“I wanted to see how stubborn you were. It takes a certain alight of stubbornness to be a Chemist, else nothing would ever be invented.” He tosses a self-satisfied glance back at me for just a second. “Why don’t you come visit my laboratory tomorrow? Maybe you’ll find something that suits your taste for the unexpected.”

I watch him go, his tall figure hunched slightly forward as he clasps his hands behind his back in a leisurely stroll.

I don’t move from my spot, not even when Raiden and the Scavengers walk off full of enthusiasm and promises of a celebratory night. Not even when I swear I can hear Maven’s voice call out from somewhere in the throng. Because as the adrenalin of the Trial wears off, my thoughts awaken.

Why do you compete?

I know exactly why I compete. Why I want to be a Scavenger. I know why I don’t want to serve meals out of my house for the rest of my life, even if it’s keeping the memory of my mother alive. I want to be more like Leil on the crisp mornings when he patiently lures and herds his appointed flock of fish as a Fish Farmer. I want to take on the grace and deep-rooted kindness Maven personifies in her duties as the personal scribe to the king’s daughter. I want to be something more, something important. As a Scavenger, I would serve a purpose. Along with the rest of the Scavenger team, I would loot the deserted Old Atoraxis for materials and old trinkets that could be repurposed by the inhabitants of The Three Peaks. I could collect Stormglass to fuel our machinery, warm our homes, and fill our pockets. I would truly help. Including my hand.

I sigh at my piqued ambition. I don’t have to delve far into myself to remember that my desire for significance isn’t noble or innocent. At the end of the day, I just want — need — a way to obtain Stormglass for free. That’s all that matters now. It was an easy answer for me when I learned three years ago that Scavengers get their own allotment of uncut Stormglass. Before then, the storm irked me like it does most. No one wants to willingly fall into a storm that never wanes or ebbs. Yet, three years ago, something changed. Now it calls to me. Beckoning me to come. Come see for myself why we live on mountain peaks. After my first Trial, I couldn’t stay away. I may need Stormglass, but the sensation of flying through the storm like a bird of mist and lightning is unmatched.

But… I muse. I look in the direction of where the High Chemist disappeared into the now dwindling crowd. It wouldn’t hurt to research other options while I wait for the next Stormglass Trial.

I chew on my lip, my hand finding the hilt of the cold dagger still resting in my belt.

Maybe there are other ways.