Chapter 3

“In retrospect, perhaps status plays a more crucial role in establishing order and expectations within social structures. We have viewed it as a superficial construct and have criticized the symbols associated with status — wealth, titles, and material possessions. But with a lack of organization, our people have fallen into chaos. Status markers may provide the framework that helps navigate social hierarchies and expectations, foster stability and clarity, and predict responsibilities of delineated roles. Perhaps maintaining one defining status marker, like a tassel, will bring needed order to a newborn society that requires supervision.”

A court scribe’s notes on the application of status tassels by King Casimir, the third king of Atoraxis, page 24 of Callanth’s compendium.

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After attempting to return the dagger to Corson, — to which Corson shook his head and offered the dagger as a souvenir — I make my way back out to the arena, dagger tucked back into my belts. This time when I push open the heavy, metal door, there’s no cheering populous, no trumpeting horns, no expectancy electrifying the air. I’m alone.

I walk to the very center of the arena, following the steel plates embedded into the stone forming concentric circles expanding outwards like ripples in a lake. I look up to take in the dimming sky above me. If I focus hard enough, I can almost make out the cluster of 16 stars hiding in the violet expanse; three for the head, four for the body, and nine for the circle the torso rests in, symbolizing the embrace of the goddess of all the three peaks. In a few hours, Hesperia’s constellation will be visible from anywhere, from any peak. As per tradition, I pay my respects with a craned neck and open eyes, sending up a prayer.

“Thank you for allowing me to compete in another Trial, Hesperia,” I say out loud. “And I’m sorry I still wasn’t able to make it onto the roster. I just… I just don’t know how I can let someone else struggle. I mean, you aided our founder in ascending the mountain all those years ago. Why shouldn’t I help if someone needs it?” I ask my burning question into the crisp, mountain air, willing my words to travel the far distance to the constellation every resident of the peaks worships. No audible words return to answer the question I’ve asked after each Trial. My right hand, however, twitches, my fingers perpetually curled into a stiff fist now. I sigh.

I guess it’s time. No point in postponing the inevitable.

I lower my gaze, a cool gust of wind sending a shiver up my spine. I pull my knitted arm warmers further up as I leave the center of the arena. I walk towards the steep ascending staircase that’s carved into the mountain side next to the edge of the arena seating. My thighs burn as I pass the halfway point of the staircase, but I know that the impending view is well worth the effort.

As I crest the top, I behold the majestic panorama of two mountain peaks that stand steadfast along the purple and pink horizon. The black storm sweeps in from the east, colliding with the rugged faces of both mountains, filling the air with a symphony of distant thunder and the scent of rain.

To the distant west lay Helios, cloaked in an emerald and gold embrace of dense forests, where proud pines reach skyward, serving as silent sentinels. Its peak sits flat, which creates a near perfect foundation for the town of tall spires to rival the mountain’s peak.

Directly across from Callanth, to the south, looms Ocassus — a canvas of reds and purples, its rugged hues starkly contrasting the arid environment. Towering cacti armored with spines stand protecting their water reserves, differing vastly from the milieu of Callanth. Each peak stands connected by stretched cables to support the silver-lit cable cars gliding through the evening air.

From my vantage point, I can clearly see how Callanth’s peak is shaped like a bowl, adorned with rocky spires dressed in glistening snow caps. Here, trickling streams converge, cascading into a shimmering lake that’s cradled at the heart of its dome. Encircling the lake, the vibrant tapestry of violet and indigo flora flourish in the mineral-rich soil. When the winds are just right, I can pick up on the diluted aromas of the sweet flowers covering the valley in a sweet blanket. Within the circle of floral fields, the stone buildings lined with silver rivets glint in the fading sunlight. They form a protective embrace, like a mother cradling a child.

I descend the staircase in half the time it took me to ascend, and soon I’m met with dancing grass fields and the relaxing scent of the purple flowers of Callanth.

However, the field of brilliant hues and calming scents staunch as I near the fuel station. The humming of the pure energy contained in the three brass tanks vibrate in my ears. The tanks’ shadows stretch far across the field, drawing a stark line between nature and advancement. The meticulously brick-laid path guides me past the fuel station and its thick tubes that run parallel to the path, connecting every home in the distance to the fuel station.

Not even 20 steps later, stalls shaded by colored fabrics line the path on either side. The air comes to life and takes on the energy of the working side of Callanth. A short, plump woman haggles loudly with an older woman selling fish, waving around a handful of glowing silver Tiles, insisting the fish is worth half the price they’re marked at. The apparel of reds and purples of the Occasean woman clashes with the blue and gray fabrics the Callanthean fish stall owner is dressed in. Both women’s Trades status is displayed in dark green tassels wrapped around their wrists, matching the tassel braided into my hair.

A low rumbling grows as I continue down the brick path, and a man dressed in patched pants and a sleeveless grey shirt huffs towards me. I move aside as the large man trudges up the path pulling a wood and metal cart. The rattling of metal ingots — presumably his chosen collectible — tied to his belt punctuates each tiring step he takes. As he yanks at the cart meant for transporting the clear, robust container to the fuel station, the silvery liquid of finely crushed Stormglass mixed with Chemist solvents sloshes inside the container.

I stroll further down the path, taking in the spice-filled air, the laughter of children playing in the grass between stalls, and the array of colors accentuating livelihoods and origin.

Beyond the stalls, homes constructed from robust stone and gleaming metal glisten under the sliver of sun that’s left. It isn’t just architecture that sets this place apart; it’s the life-giving liquids that pulses through its veins

In Atoraxis, survival and advancement relies on the power of three distinct liquids, each carefully concocted by the city’s esteemed High Chemists. Their main ingredient: Stormglass. This essence penetrates the heart of Atoraxis’s machinery, powering everything from humble ovens to grand workshops, fueling creativity and unity.

I move through the field of browsing people who brush past me like stalks of wheat, trying to keep my pace casual despite the growing need creating an itch under my skin. I can’t seem too eager. Can’t make it appear as though I’m in any sense of urgency.

Eagerness draws attention.

Urgency gets you killed.

I pass the blanket stall, the confection stall, and a stall that must be serving some sort of tea judging by the wave of herbal sweetness I pass through, but I don’t turn to check. I keep my eyes fixated on the red of the drape framing the stall ahead, too focused to—

A shoulder propels me a few steps backwards, completely taken aback by the shove. I turn, if nothing else then to send whoever an apologetic look for not paying attention. Instead, I stop my measured pace instantly when I lock eyes with the person. A man, maybe the age of the High Chemist that had approached me, with lose wrinkles framing his tight-pressed lips and haunted eyes, frantically looks to me. Then around him. Then back to me again. His feet shuffle unevenly as if he’s eager to run away, but is restraining himself. He looks scared. No, that’s too mild of a word for the way his hands tremble as he wraps his arms around himself and shoves his hands—

My eyes lock on his right hand. He’s now stuffed it into his armpit, firmly pressing his bicep over it. But that glow was unmistakable. That symbol. It matched my own.

I look up and hold his gaze, watching the way he stares me down as if to scream ‘please. Please don’t tell’. I don’t nod or even smile to assure him, even though I wish I could walk up and embrace him. Embrace him the same way I wish to be embraced and held like I’m not a ticking time bomb.

An unpredictable anomaly.

A liability.

My face is set in blankness as I mouth ‘slow down’ to him. Then I turn back around to continue towards that stall. My silence my offering of assurance. But if someone is looking. If someone is searching for the way he’s walking faster than the rest, or the way he’s trying to hide amongst the crowd, they’ll come for him. My fingernails dig into my palm as they fist, but I keep walking steadily, although stiffly.

Just get to the stall. Just get to the stall, and then I can hide. It’s only a few more steps.

Then running footsteps crack through the air. I fling around.

No…

My spine turns to steel the very same moment my feet feel like melting as four guards shove through people like old-fashioned bullets cutting through cloud. I don’t need to look. I usually prefer not to. But a small part of me — the hopeful part of me — hopes they run past him. That they’re running through the Market for a different purpose. Just this once.

It never happens that way.

The four guards deftly circle the man. He spins, wildly searching for an escape. But the glint of steel armor plates strapped to their chests is a twin to the subtle glow of silver swirling around in the flasklock pistols they have cocked and pointed at the man’s head. No words are spoken. None are needed. The man’s shoulders slump and his hands leave the safety of his armpits, revealing the constant silver glow of the Carving running from his very fingertips to his wrist of his right hand. Gasps erupt through the growing crowd, a wide birth left between the trained guards.

“An abomination!” Someone shouts.

“Such irresponsibility. To poison your body and blood in such a way is abhorrent,” another scolds.

“Hesperia guide us,” the woman beside me curses in prayer.

Many more snide remarks interrupt the sound of marching footsteps retreating. The man doesn’t raise his gaze from the path as he’s guided towards the Citadel, the waning sunlight limning the emptiness on his face.

If this instance is like all the others, no one will ever see him again.

Don’t linger. Don’t mourn. Keep going. Steady and slow. Casual and trivial.

I match my breathing with every third step I take. I can feel the way my lungs claw for more as my heart accelerates at the draped stall being within arm’s reach.

I bank left, ducking between two stall with woven rugs and leftover trinkets from the last Scavenger expedition. I don’t look around to see if anyone noticed my detour. I merely keep my gaze forward and my chin raised. I know where I’m going and why.

While Callanth basks in the evening sun, a shadowed part of the Market hugs the rock wall. Where tired figures hover nearby, their skin glimmering with silver symbols, I seek my aid.

A small natural cavern nestled between two smaller rock spires guides me forward. Jutting rocks stretch down from the ceiling like skeletal fingers. A tall figure, shrouded in all reds, leans against the wall not far into the cavern.

“19 days, 3 hours, and 25 minutes. Almost three weeks. Cutting it kind of close, aren’t we, Leander?” The man jeers and turns to face me. The movement makes his cape made of stringed beads clatter like a snake’s rattler.

I press my lips into a tight line and keep my left fist clenched, trying to conceal how far I’ve pushed my last dose.

“Chatting won’t make me buy more, Vix,” I mutter in an even, restrained tone. The slender man raises a white eyebrow, a contrast from his other black one.

Vix slicks back his white hair with a gloved hand. “No, but it does make this feel less like a business transaction and more like a… a visit between acquaintances,” he articulates.

“If you didn’t have reasonable prices, I would be the last to come down this way,” I say with a grimace. “How much this time?”

Vix purses his lips while tapping his heavy boot. “I’ll let it go for five Tiles this time.”

“Five?” I blurt. “I charge five Tiles for five bowls of noddles!”

Vix shrugs, fishing his long fingers through a hidden pocket on the inside of his red and black embroidered waistcoat. “But noodles won’t fix your hand, will they?” He says as he pulls a jagged shard of uncut Stormglass from his pocket. He waves it in front of me, its silvery glow leaving faint trails in the air, like smoke.

I bite my lip. I could stop. I could walk out of here without the Stormglass and go on with my life. I would keep selling meals out of the house. It pays. But where would that leave me?

“What happened to reasonable prices?” I arch an eyebrow at the chaotically dressed man.

“Demand,” Vix replies. “With another Scavenger lost in the storm, we can all assume there’ll be longer than a month between the most recent expedition and the next. They need to train the newest candidate after all. Supplies will dip, which always sends clients into a buying spree,” Vix explains, not looking the least bothered by his raised price.

Begrudgingly, I reach into my tall boot and retrieve five Tiles; smoothened Stormglass filed down to the shape of thin rectangular tiles. I hold it out in front of him, copying how Vix tempted me with the uncut Stormglass. With a serious nod, we step forward, me placing the five Tiles into Vix’s free hand simultaneously to Vix placing the Stormglass into my free hand, which unfortunately happens to be my frozen right hand. If I didn’t know better, I’ve would’ve thought that I caught a flash of sympathy cross Vix’s face.

“Most of my clientele consists of Miners who need a boost for a heavier job or regular folk who just want to enhance their natural capabilities. You, however, might be the only one who I’d deem actually needs Stormglass’s properties,” Vix says as he counts and tucks away the five Tiles into another hidden pocket.

I move the Stormglass to my left hand, my fingers brushing its sharp edges. It emits a low, whitish glow, the look of the thin mist it produces makes it seem like it would be cold, but it rests warmly in my palm.

“You’d be surprised,” I say harshly. “Control is control no matter the reason for your use.” With no salutation, I turn on my heel and slip the Stormglass into my pant’s pocket.

Weapons, machinery, humans — everything has a lifespan. Stormglass, even when enhanced with customized solvents, only lasts a few weeks. For my use, this shard will sustain me for one month.

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I pass the shadowed figures selling the uncut shards of Stormglass, indiscriminately adding Traders, Miners, Cable Drivers, and Guards, young and old to their list of active dependents. I have even passed a Court Aid sneaking into the cavern once or twice. Here dependency feeds on dreams, its victims chasing enhancement through one medium; Body Carving — initially called an art, but the glow betrays a warning. Yes, the shimmering allure of Stormglass brings powerful enhancements. But at what cost? What gains outweigh the despair etched on their bodies?

I burst out of the cavern and stalk my way between stalls till I reach the brick path again, taking a cleansing breath as I feel the Stormglass press against my thigh. I relish the cool mountain air filling my lungs, and am surprised at how warm it must’ve been in the cavern.

I’m focused on my heart rate slowly climbing in anticipation as I move closer to the homes on the south side of the lake, when I hear a loud clatter behind me. I whip around to see Traders hurriedly gathering supplies into baskets and small carts, each stall owner glancing repetitively in the direction of Callanth’s tallest peak. I know what they’re preparing for. A quick glance at the streamers writhing on the post on the peak gives me all the information I need; the streamers are flying yellow.

I turn to the first stall I pass — a spice stall — and start assisting the older man in bagging his displayed yellow and orange spices. The older man pauses his bagging and watches me for a moment. His knobby fingers caress a polished crystal hanging from a string around his neck before silently resuming his own bagging.

Temperatures are dropping sooner and sooner every month. Will we be able to go outside at all in a year’s time? I ponder, willing myself to carefully pour the last bowl of orange spice into the cotton sack despite my already freezing fingers. When I struggled to tie the sack closed, the old man swats my hands away and completes the job himself.

“You need to get going!” The man shouts into the wind that has drastically picked up and is whipping dust and pebbles through the Market. I move to the small cart standing beside the stall, now filled with full sacks of spices. I lift by the handle, testing its weight.

“So do you!” I shout back, then start pulling the cart with minimal effort, but the wind slams against me like an invisible wall. The old man nearly falls backwards at the sudden gust.

“I’ll be fine! The cold hasn’t taken me yet!” He assures, yet with tiny flurries of snow intermingling with the howling wind, I’m certain if I don’t help him, he won’t make it in time.

“Me neither.” I wink, which is quite the feat with my eyes watering in the icy wind. “Let’s make sure it doesn’t take us today.”

The old man doesn’t fight me further on the subject. Instead, he shuffles unsteadily beside me, his blue shawl whipping violently behind him. As the brick path widens and leads into the residential area of Callanth, I find that I have to lean more and more forward to be able to make progress against the wind. A few times, the old man has to clutch the side of the cart for support. By the time he taps me on the shoulder, frost has gathered in his greying hairline and at the tips of his bushy eyebrows. He motions to our right with a trembling hand, and I heave with all my strength to turn the small cart to the right, where we are able to duck between two, tall buildings. Both stone buildings have several metal plates lining the exterior walls, mainly surrounding three square windows that sit a ways atop each other. It’s more than likely the buildings hold several domiciles.

With the temporary shelter from the freezing wind, the old man quickly scuffles over to a narrow door at the center of one of the buildings. Once he manages to push it open, he motions for me to bring the cart through the door.

Inside, warmth makes me breathe a sigh of relief. The home is meager. Nothing but a small kitchen consisting of an old stove and a cutting table, and a cushioned, metal bench furnishing the room.

My fingers slowly unfurl themselves from the cart’s handle. Or at least my left hand does. A quick glance down at my right hand nearly makes me gasp.

I need to get home now, I decide as I blanche and move towards the door, intending to make a quick escape now that the old man is safely inside.

“Hold up. I won’t let you leave without some more clothing. I have a few blankets laying around here somewhere,” he mumbles, then starts rummaging through crates and sacks stacked in the corner of the room.

I grab the rounded, brass doorknob, preparing myself. “That’s very kind, but I really need to get home. It’s just a few more blocks,” I insist and shield my right hand behind my hip.

The old man then offers me his blue shawl. “Then take this. Please,” he begs, his brown eyes pleading, but I shake my head at him.

Reluctantly, he wraps the shawl around his shoulders again. “Thank you,” he whispers, then offers me a smile, which I reciprocate.

“Don’t worry,” I assure, ripping the door open. “I’ve made this run before.” The warmth of his home leaves me as soon as I close the door behind me.

***

The wind screams in my frozen ears as I near the tall, bricked building that I’ve grown up in. The silver plates lining every corner of the leaning tower usually glint at me in greeting, but the evening winds have darkened the sky faster than the sun has set, leaving a matted look on any visible metal. Instead, it’s the oval metal sign swinging back and forth from its rod that welcomes me home. The etched letters spelling out The Copper Bowl are barely visible through the thin sheet of ice covering everything. A wind chime made of metal ingots is frantically dancing in the wind, but I hear no clings. What I do hear though, is the sound of Leil screaming from inside the house. With my run having slowed to a stagger, I finally reach the wooden front door decorated with a vine design cast in metal. With one, painstaking push, I fall through the doorway and onto the broken, black tiles.

“Leil, if you put one more piece of dried mushroom in there, we might as well be eating tree bark!” Maven threatens somewhere in the room.

“And If you don’t stop complaining, I’ll just pour it all over you. You need to learn that food is supposed to have flavor, not just—” Leil’s retaliation is interrupted by Maven’s gasp.

“Ryn! What are you doing? You should’ve been inside ages ago!” Maven redirects her reprimand at me, and quickly two warm hands grab me by my arms and pull me up. I’m met by a set of sapphire blue eyes framed by fans of dark lashes, their size larger than usual. I smile at the familiar face of my best friend.

“I’m inside now,” I chime, my voice hoarse and my lips chapped. Maven scrunches her nose in a grimace, then quickly helps me into one of the four chairs surrounding the square, wooden dining table. Maven’s wispy blonde hair tickles my nose, eliciting a sneeze.

“Good thing I’ve got some stew going. It’ll warm you right up,” Maven assures. Her ink-stained hands feel my face and must’ve deduced that I’m still too cold to her standards, and grabs a shawl draped over the back of one of the chairs.

Leil scoffs from the kitchen. “I wouldn’t exactly call it a stew when all you’ll let me add is herbs,” he mumbles, clearly intended for himself, but Leil has never been a quiet talker, much like myself.

Maven stands, hand on her hip. “Our friend was just outside in the middle of a frost storm, and you’re still pouting about the mushrooms?”

I finally peek around at the scene; Maven is still dressed in her Court Aid attire, her white shirt hanging loosely under her blue vest, her white tassel dangling from the chest pocket. The numerous gold and silver earrings lining her lobes up the helixes of her ears shimmer in the low light. Leil is currently mimicking Maven’s gesture in a mocking manner, his Fish Farmer’s vest discarded somewhere, leaving him in a grey shirt and utility pants, his collectible of glass marbles filling one of the pockets. He’s standing in the kitchen located in the back left corner of the room, the two stoves standing side by side at a mismatched height, the wall above lined with a single shelf holding vials and jars of any spice or herb I can forage, and a collection of copper pots and pans hanging on the other wall.

Leil shakes his head disapprovingly and swipes some of his jaw-length sandy hair out of his eyes. “There’s a frost storm nearly every night. This isn’t the first one she’s got caught in,” he justifies, then noisily stirs the pot, the metal ladle clanking against the sides.

I smile at the exchange. “Wow. I thought the mountains were the only thing with peaks around here,” I tease, earning a sharp look from Maven. The attempted glare is quickly replaced with concern.

“You look… spent,” Maven points out, then pulls out a chair and sits in front of me.

I tighten my grip on the knitted shawl, Maven’s scent of parchment and ink heavy on the item.

“We went looking for you after the Trial, but couldn’t find you. Where did you go?” Leil asks, the crease between his eyebrows prominent. I take a breath and glance down at my right hand hidden inside the shawl at my chest.

“I… I did have an interesting conversation with someone,” I mention, finally feeling warmth return to the fingertips of my left hand.

“Who?” Maven asks with narrow eyes.

“A High Chemist,” I reply in a nonchalant voice.

Maven nearly jumps in her seat. “A High Chemist? Which one?” She asks eagerly as she leans forward with all of her attention.

Leil usually doesn’t share mine and Maven’s interest in court dealings, but a High Chemist approaching a Trial candidate, and more importantly, a Trial candidate who was disqualified, is unusual. So Leil effectively abandons the ‘stew’ and waits with heightened interest, which doesn’t look much different from him merely leaning leisurely against the cutting table.

“ He said his name was Sulien,” I recall. Maven opens her mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. It’s Leil who breaks the sudden silence.

“So what did he want?” He asks, solely inquiring because Maven usually doesn’t go mute at the reveal of new information.

“He… He basically asked me to consider a Chemist’s apprenticeship… with him. He’s invited me to his lab tomorrow,” I explain, although speaking the words out loud makes it sound ridiculous. In no area of my imagination did I ever entertain the idea of a High Chemist approaching me unprompted to extend an invitation. While I hadn’t interacted with really any of the High Chemists before, I know enough of the court through Maven to know that the behavior is unorthodox.

Maven blinks, scooting her chair closer. “Okay, wait, so High Chemist Sulien approached you and just invited you to his laboratory tomorrow? The one who wears all black? He asked you to come to his laboratory in the Citadel tomorrow?” I’m amused by Maven’s slack-jawed reaction. She usually returns from her job as Scribe for Princess Atarah full of colorful stories and enchanting exchanges that captivates all of my attention. It’s rare that I have something shocking to share.

I smirk. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell you all about it.”

Maven’s eyes light up, an excited smile growing on her slender face. “I can’t believe it,” she punctuates her words with an incredulous laugh.

“Any idea why?” Leil inquires, his arms folded across his broad chest. His usual ‘give no care’ demeanor fades for a moment, revealing the protectiveness an older brother would show to his younger sisters. But being as Leil is only a few months older than Maven and I at 23, he just sounds jealous.

I feign a pout. “Worried I’ll be cooler than you and your fish family?”

“Hey hey hey, it’s not every Fish Farmer who can recognize each and every one of their fish. I already told you I’d name two of them after you both if you’re nice to me,” Leil sputters while poking the air with his finger sanctimoniously.

Maven shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “And how do we accomplish that exactly?”

Leil sends a beaming smile in her direction, then lifts the large pot off the stove and carries it to the table. “By eating my mushroom stew.”

***

Laughter rolls through the kitchen, the table decked with shared dishes and three sweating candles in the middle.

“Is it that bad?” Leil asks as he wipes tears from the corners of his blurry eyes. I’ve let the shawl fall from my shoulders, the stew warming me faster than any blanket could.

“Next time, just let me make the stew,” I chide, scooping another bite into my mouth, chewing away at the rubbery mushrooms.

Leil is rubbing his light scruff pensively, his empty bowl discarded as he relaxes in the creaky chair with his black mug. “At least you’re eating it. My fish are still acting like picky eaters,” he notes in surrender, which only sends Maven and I into further fits of laughter. The lightness of our laughter fills the small room consisting of a skeleton of broken, black tiles and chipped bricks. But there’s nowhere else I’d consider home. The storm howls outside, but the night is dark outside the square window next to the front door. The shawl and stew has warmed me enough for me to start to sweat, but a different cold clings to me.

I sigh and collect my bowl and spoon. “I better head to bed. I’ve got some catching up to do in the morning.” I move to get to my feet, but I wince at the pang of pain emanating from my shin that Kaida kicked.

Maven clears her throat and shifts in her chair. “You don’t have to, you know.”

I pause just before getting up from my chair. “Go to bed?”

Maven leans forward, resting her arms on the table. “Compete. You don’t have to compete in The Stormglass Trials every time.”

I watch Maven and her measured expression, how blank it is. This isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation. Or argument.

My fingers tighten around my bowl, my eyes narrowing. “You know I do.”

Leil places his mug on the smooth table with a light thud. “I think what Maven means to say is that it’s pretty uncommon for candidates to return. No one would blame you if you didn’t compete again. They expect it actually.”

I shoot a menacing scowl at him. “You're not helping.”

Maven rubs her temples the way she does when she’s frustrated. “You’ve tried five times, Ryn. You’ve trained yourself the best you could, which is already an incredible accomplishment. But how many more times will you compete before you stop? When you’re the one who doesn’t make it back? When your harpoon fails?”

“When I win,” I enunciate carefully.

Maven gazes at me with unbridled frankness, a skill I hate to love about her. She shakes her head. “It’s been three years. You know as good as any Scavenger that it’s a lot more than just about the physical aspect.”

Heat floods my face with either embarrassment or anger. “Easy for you to say. You were appointed a Scribe when you were 16 based on your penmanship. No need for ‘physical aspects’ there.”

Leil leans his chair further back, balancing it on two legs, and laughs, his booming voice bouncing around the room.

“What makes you think little Maven didn’t need to apply mental toughness to get the job? You know she applied multiple times. Weren’t you so nervous filling out your first application that you wrote three paragraphs on your fear of heights, Maven?” He doesn’t give Maven time to respond, even though all she does is roll her eyes. “See? We all mess up a time or two.”

“Or five,” I admit with a scoff.

For a moment, it’s like neither heard me. Maven is just quietly watching Leil steal hearty sips of his drink. Not even the flickering candles at the center of the table can take credit for the gleam in Maven’s eyes. That gleam is solely reserved for Leil. Finally, she leans back in her own chair with folded arms. “My mishaps don’t leave me balancing on the tip of a knife. If I make a mistake at work, I strike out the misspelled word. If Ryn makes a mistake, she gets killed.”

The table shakes as Leil slides down in his chair and tries kicking Maven under the table.

“Lighten up,” he whines.

I release the bowl to tighten my grip on the shawl. I can’t shake the feeling that my friends can see right through me every time I come home with a new shard of Stormglass in my pocket. The shard might as well be set ablaze in my pant’s pocket with how paranoid I’ve started feeling.

Might be time to call it quits on the night and do what I need to.

Leil must’ve sensed the increased tense air around me, because he doesn’t spew another joke at Maven’s expense. He clears his throat and cards a hand through his wavy hair.

“Have you ever considered not breaking the one rule of the Trials?” He pauses long enough for me to turn towards him with both brows raised in skepticism. “Hear me out; helping others isn’t a bad thing in and of itself. I don’t think it’s so much of a vice as it’s a strength.”

It’s quiet for a moment while Leil takes a hearty swig from his drink. “Or maybe you just like the attention and infamy disqualification gets you.”

I throw my head back and groan loudly. Maven scoots her chair closer to the table.

“I think we are glancing over a very important fact. You’ve attracted a High Chemist’s interest. And all without an application or even academic credentials. You don’t need to compete, Ryn.”

The shard in my pocket might as well have been lodged in my chest with how those words cut. The fact is, she’s not wrong, and she’s not right.

Leil slams his mug onto the table, the amber liquid spilling over the edge. “We need a pet!” He slurs, placing his mug a little more clumsily on the table. A somber shadow slides into Maven’s bright eyes, but does nothing more than lower her gaze, away from him.

I shake my head vehemently. “No pets,” I respond decidedly for the umpteenth time this month, but otherwise content with focusing on something else for the time being.

Leil’s head did a shake as if I had shot him. “Why? Give me one good reason why we shouldn’t have a communal pet to come home to? Someone we could all love on and grace us with adorableness.”

“Stars, you’re laying it on thick this time, Leil,” Maven mutters.

“The same as always, Leil. We all work. We don’t have time to maintain and care for a pet that’s more high maintenance than a fish,” I explain flatly, mostly due to the amount of times I’ve had to repeat the same reason to him.

Leil shoots a glare at me along with a pointed finger. “Fish need more care and love than a mountain goat and you know it.”

I raise my hands in surrender, the corners of my mouth twitching at his devotion to his fish family. “My apologies.”

“Besides,” Maven adds as she reaches for her mug. “We’re already too busy making sure this one makes it home on the nights a cold storm comes in.” Maven raises her mug and gestures to me before bringing it to her lips and sips at her hot drink.

A forlorn look falls over Leil’s face. “Fine. Can one of us just have a baby then?”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Maven spits all she’d sipped across the table and all over Leil in a mist of golden droplets.

“I beg your most delicate pardon?” Maven coughs. Leil doesn’t respond, but sits completely still with his lips pressed together and glowering at Maven.

“So to you, a baby is less work than a pet?” I ask with narrow eyes, but every muscle in my face tries to refrain from laughing at Maven’s plate-sized eyes.

Leil simply shrugs. “I think it’s about the same amount, right? I mean, we’re already sort of a family, so why not just add to it?”

Maven does not like to miss any opportunity to correct Leil, especially since she acts as the group’s unspoken matriarch. She eagerly initiates thorough lectures on whichever topic Leil feigns ignorance in. Feigns because Leil knows a lot more than he lets on, but from where I’m sitting, it looks an awful lot like he doesn’t care how long it takes Maven to state her thesis. He just likes the way Maven’s voice sounds when she’s impassioned.

Well, I think Leil might be right about one thing, I think with a tight smile on my face and a bitter taste in my mouth. We sort of are a family.