Halek's Story - Silent Storms

Halek and his brother Naolin were born at the beginning of winter, to new snows and a crescent moon. The pearly Polar Candle had turned a strange, dark blue, and in the moment of the birth, the winds died to a total hush.

Good omens, the clan elders all murmured, gathered in the silent night outside. Portents of miraculous lives, of proud and valorous deeds. 

And they were twins: the Hunter race had not been blessed with pure-blooded twins since the days of Vahe the Sun-Crowned, who had driven back the last great Endarkened incursion. Perhaps the twins would be like Vahe, the shamans whispered. Perhaps they had come to deliver their people from ruin. To save them from their slow demise. More and more Hunter children were being born without their powers: even a drop of mixed blood negated the exorcist gift, and the population had shrunk so much from the Hunters’ naturally-short lifespans and the Autarchy’s oppression that things were looking dire. The Hunter people would soon fade into obscurity if something wasn’t done. 

Perhaps the twins were not just a sign of hope, the boy’s father proposed proudly, but a blessing, a cure for all their people’s problems. There had to be something special about them, about him and his wife and the entire bloodline, blessed already by the fact that the father was Chieftain and ruler of the Reach. And he had, after all, produced not one, but two healthy future Hunters to serve their great tribe, when so many others struggled to produce even one snowy-haired child by dint of their muddled blood.

The elders agreed, and their whispers were passed from the servants to the common folk in the streets, to the hunters and the warriors in their citadel, to the messengers and couriers sent to bear the news to the other Hunter clans scattered across the Shield Peaks. 

Soon the whispers had coalesced into prophecy, and by the time the words came back to their original speakers, they had become rigid, certain. Grounded in the belief of many recitations. 

It was Halek who came first, quiet and clear-eyed. He looked sleepily upon the shaman who blessed him as sol, prince of their people and the next Chieftain of the Reach. That he did not cry in his first moments on earth only cemented the belief that he was a gift from Narthax, from heaven and the cosmos itself. Moonlight shone upon his pale, downy hair. The elders looked upon his face and wept, calling him Qaid. Savior.

Naolin came after, pink and bawling. The shaman named him sola, future captain of the Hunter guard and protector of his brother’s life. He would be Halek’s greatest soldier, his guardian, his bodyguard. 

Thus their fates were sealed, from the moment they first took breath and until the days they would die. The brothers grew together, ate together, trained together. Naolin was the first to speak, but Halek was the first to take his steps. Naolin grew into a studious, courteous boy; Halek into an elusive kind of phantom who had to be chased back to his duties with threats of his brother’s punishment—perhaps fittingly, he was unmoved by threats of his. They took their oaths together and received their mathas when they were fifteen: the scars that initiated them as ordained Hunters. 

At twenty, they reached the age of majority. That same night, Halek was betrothed to Moonsilk, a young woman just a handful of years older than him and scion of one of the last pure-blooded clans in the Reach. The celebrations ran late into the night, the scent of the bonfires and the sounds of the drums drifting through the still and foreboding mountains.

The day after that, Halek ran.

And Naolin, his brother, followed.

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

“Brothers,” Naolin said, just a little desperately. “Your hospitality is—very much appreciated. You are very gracious. But, please. I’d just like to see my brother. My, er, actual brother. Halek.”

As expected, none of the silent monks scurrying around him paid him any mind. Naolin heaved a mental sigh. Of course. Of course he had finally tracked his elusive brother down after weeks of looking at bare rock and frost, only to find him ensconced in a monastery. A monastery for the Blank God, no less: an enclave of Hunters who’d forsaken their calling and powers to spend their lives in silence, seeking the illusory peace of their made-up idol. They thought isolation and quiet could save them from the curses of their people, from the blood rage that took them all when the Endarkened came near. 

Of course Halek would come here, seeking refuge from his own curses. It was stupid that Naolin hadn’t put the pieces together sooner.

“Brother Yl,” Naolin said in slightly sterner tones, putting on the persona that Halek called his sola voice: “I need to see my brother. It’s very urgent.”

The smiling old man across from him, sporting the strangely-alien shaved head of all the monks, only nodded and slid Naolin a cup of the monastery’s earthy wood tea. Reluctantly, Naolin took a sip, out of politeness; as he did so, the old monk across from him scribbled something down on parchment he produced from his sleeve.

The sol has retired to our inner sanctum, Brother Yl wrote. Naolin had heard from a younger initiate that the man had not uttered a word aloud for thirty years. Although his wrinkles were light, he had to be nearing the end of his life soon. The sol is attempting to communicate with He Who Is. He is not to be disturbed for another moon.

Naolin’s jaw dropped. An entire moon? Damn his irresponsible twin!

“I understand,” he said, keeping his expression calm and diplomatic. “And I’ll take any responsibility, any blame from the sol.” He paused. “But I’m sure you know I would not have come here if it weren’t important. And—after I leave—I’m sure he can… restart his time in the sanctum. Afterwards. That way you’ll get to keep him for even longer.”

He knew very well that he was not leaving this place unless he was also dragging Halek out—by his heels, if need be. But Brother Yl didn’t need to know that. And a sola did what a sola had to do.

It took a few more moments of wordless consultation among the monks before a decision was reached. Brother Yl nodded, and a young initiate—the same one who had gossiped to Naolin earlier—stood to lead him from the refectory to wherever they were keeping Halek. Naolin made the gesture for respect and the monks returned the gesture. Secluded from the rest of Hunter society as they were, they still revered their precious sol’s little brother.

“Halek-Qaid has been in deep meditation for days,” the initiate said proudly as he led Naolin through the sand-blasted corridors of the monastery. He had shaved his head, but had not yet taken his vows of silence: Naolin vaguely wondered how well he was going to fare, chatty as he was in comparison to the rest. Maybe they’d all started out this way. “Never have I seen an outsider take so well to the strictures of solitude! The strength of his spirit is incomparable!”

“Indeed,” Naolin droned, trying not to tap his foot impatiently as they reached some sort of chamber with a stone door carved in the likeness of the Blank God’s animal form, a tortoise. The initiate touched his palm to the tile in the center of the tortoise’s shell, which caused the door to rumble and begin to swivel. At Naolin’s expectant look, the eager initiate bowed and hastily took his leave.

Naolin stepped into the shaded quiet of the inner sanctum and had his senses invaded by the scents of cool earth and dust. For the briefest moment he saw why this space was so precious to the monks here: there was something heavy and significant about it, something about the silence within that seemed… sacred. Hard to break. He looked to the alcove at the rear of the room, where he imagined occupants generally sat in complicated postures of contemplativeness and reflection.

Instead he found Halek lying on the floor by the west wall, his back on the ground and his long legs propped up in a right angle against the wall. His boots rested quite carelessly on top of a mural of a tortoise devouring an arachnid. His brother glanced up from a book he was reading and said, completely straight-faced, “I can’t believe they let you in. I gave the strictest instructions not to be disturbed.”

Naolin stepped closer and hissed, “Put that away! What are you doing, Halek? The monks here think you’ve been meditating!”

“That’s not my fault. I just asked to use their most secure room.”

“Their most secure room that’s historically always been used for meditating?” He looked around and scoffed lightly: there were no windows in this place, but he would have found his brother eventually. “And as if something like this was ever going to keep me from finding you.”

Halek sighed and kicked himself off the wall, rolling gracefully into a sitting position. “I thought it would buy me some time, at least.” His lips quirked as he took Naolin in. “Hi.”

Naolin blew out a breath and felt himself deflate a little. “Hi.” He cast a glance at the thin booklet in Halek’s hands. “What are you reading?”

The sol tucked the pamphlet away into his back pocket. “Doesn’t matter. Are you here to haul me back?”

Naolin folded his arms. “You’re—” He thought twice about swearing in a holy place, even if he didn’t believe in its god. “You’re absolutely right I am.”

For the first time, a wince broke the careful nonchalance settled on his brother’s face. “…How bad is it?”

Naolin blew out another breath and crossed the room to sit across from Halek. He looked at his brother; it had only been a few sennights since they’d last seen each other, but that was a longer time than they were accustomed to, excluding the rite of passage they’d gone through when they were fifteen, which involved surviving a winter in the wild mountains alone. Other than that, Naolin always accompanied Halek on his demon-hunting expeditions… or found him within a few hours whenever he happened to run away. He could tell Halek had lost just a little weight, subsisting on the thin gruel the monks tended to serve—it was like looking at his own reflection in a mirror, after all. But otherwise he looked healthy enough. Naolin, his initial worries allayed, said severely: “While you were reading and taking naps in this nice quiet room, Father’s been dealing with the uproar back home.” He gave his brother a reproachful look. “People are panicking, Halek. I had to lie and say you were called away for some emergency, but the fact that you went alone had the rumormongers whispering… and Moonsilk’s family is furious. They’re talking about calling off the betrothal.”

“Good,” Halek said, sitting up a little straighter. “I don’t want to marry her.”

“You have to,” Naolin shot back. “There aren’t that many women left within the Reach who are suitable to carry our—your—bloodline. Unless you send away for a Middle Crescent bride, or—”

“I don’t want to send away for any bride,” Halek insisted then. He wasn’t the most expressive person, but now his grey eyes were fierce and defiant. “I told you and Father that enough times before he forced the engagement on me at our party. And you’re not getting married. Why should I?”

“Your party,” Naolin corrected. Unbidden, he felt a tiny flicker of resentment inside his chest and snapped, “And it’s not as much of a priority for me. I have to focus on protecting your family first; they think having one of my own will distract me from my duties as sola. And that’s not the point!” For some reason, his fingers touched the hraqa at his waist, his chosen Hunter weapon. His was a dagger while Halek’s was a spear. “You have to come home, Halek. I know you’re upset you can’t bed every man and woman you come across anymore, but—”

Halek stiffened, but his expression didn’t change. It was only the icy drop in his tone that told Naolin he was angry. “That’s not what this is about,” he told his brother coldly. Then he looked away. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Naolin clenched his teeth against the equally-bitter words that were threatening to spill out from him. For a moment, silence lay between them, loaded with meaning, before Naolin regained his composure and said tightly: “It’s not just that. Thrau of the Dunlath tribe has issued a challenge against you.”

He heard his twin suck in a sharp breath, but when he looked back, Halek’s expression was unreadable. Thrau was a young upstart warrior, a bowman who led one of the most prized hunting parties in the Reach: a hunter not of demons, but of deer. He was vital when it came to finding food to feed the community. And there had been one or two like him throughout the years—puffed-up braggarts who had seen it fit to issue a challenge against Halek for the title of Chieftain, as was every Hunter’s technical right. 

But the case of Thrau was also a bit more complicated than the others. He was the childhood sweetheart of Moonsilk, Halek’s betrothed. He was issuing the demand to duel Halek for both the leadership of the Hunters and the right to marry Moonsilk.

“Let him, then,” Halek said finally, lolling his neck as if all of this was giving him a headache. “It will clearly make us all happier in the long run.”

Naolin huffed an exasperated breath. “If he marries her, he also takes your title,” he told Halek. “You can’t give him permission to do one but not the other. Father will lose face; and you’ll lose everything. Your titles, your legacy. Your birthright.” He wrinkled his nose. “And I don’t want to be sola to someone like Thrau. Have you smelled him? He looks like he’s never even seen a bar of soap.”

Normally, a comment like this would make Halek crack a small smile—just a faint one. But today he simply looked at his twin, looking like his mind was far away. Against his will, Naolin flinched. He knew what his brother was thinking: he always did. It was about the very same thing they’d argued about the night Halek had left. 

“You could be sol,” Halek said softly, pitching his voice low enough that any lurking monks couldn’t hear. “You’re better at it, anyway. And you want it.”

Naolin stood up abruptly. “No,” he said, feeling something inside of him squirm and quiver away from the very thought. There was something there that he refused to look at, refused to acknowledge. No, he was sola. He always had been, and he always would be. “Don’t ask me again, Halek. Now get up. I promised Father I’d bring you back, dead or alive. And unlike you, I keep my promises.”

His brother sighed and slowly unfolded himself from the floor. At their full heights, both twins stood at least a head taller than almost everyone else in their tribe. It added to the idea that they could be living gods—though right now, Naolin only felt small and tired and human. 

From the look on his face, Halek did, too.

“All right,” he said heavily, looking like a man who’d been sentenced to the gallows. “I’ll come. If only because it was wrong of me to leave you and Father with my messes.” It was as close to an apology as Naolin usually got. Then Halek shot his brother a look. “But you get to explain to the monks why you’re pulling me from the greatest religious revelations of the century. And while you’re doing that, I’m going to finish my book.”

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

Challenges among the Hunters were always a strangely-festive affair. Halek had wanted to abolish the tradition, claiming that the blood of Hunter youth was precious enough without being spilled in hot-headed duels, but even his influence as sol could only stretch so far. As he dressed himself in the ornamental armor of his position, struggling with the dark weapons sash and silently cursing, he could hear the cheers and calls of the crowd in the arena below.

It was not a large space—the population of Uth Baryd, capital of the Reach, never having been that large—but it was ancient and traditional, two things the Hunters loved. A circular field with tamped-down dirt cleared of snow, it was currently occupied by archers and horsemen from Thrau’s tribe, tasked with entertaining the masses until the duel.

Amidst the uproarious cheering, he missed the sounds of the door opening behind him. When he glanced up in the mirror and saw someone standing there, though, his movement to face them was languid, slow: Naolin was standing outside, and his sola would never permit anyone to enter the room who might be a threat to him. 

Then he froze. His fiancée, Moonsilk, was standing in the entrance and watching him.

Halek dropped his gaze to his boots as he continued tying his sash. He had only met Moonsilk once before his disastrous birthday celebration, the night he had found out the engagement was made official without his consent. The first time was when he and Naolin were seventeen, forced to attend a dignitary dinner with their father and Moonsilk’s visiting clan elders. He remembered that he’d dismissed her from his mind, even then: she’d seemed so demure, so “by your leave, my lord.” He didn’t know how to explain it, but it seemed most of the people he met were like that. Nothing about them ever seemed that real.

Suddenly Moonsilk was behind him, her pale, soft hands reaching towards his waist. Halek jerked away, but his betrothed was only deftly re-tying his sash. 

“You’re doing it all wrong,” she murmured in his ear. Her breath was cool and minted. “Let me.”

Halek paused and allowed her to tie the belt for him, if only because it was not often that people told him he was wrong. He studied Moonsilk in the mirror as she kept her eyes on her hands. She was beautiful, Moonsilk, in the way that a painting or a vase in a museum was beautiful. Remote, untouchable. Her striking blue eyes were framed by long, pale lashes, her lips painted a dark ruby red. Her skin glowed with a kind of pale light, as if she bathed daily in honey and milk. She always smelled of jasmine. Her long white hair fell like silk—her namesake—all the way down to her feet in a straight, perfect sheet. He wondered how she kept her hair like that. It had to require a dozen servants to get it that way, and it had to be a hell of a hassle living with it. Didn’t she trip or ever sit on her hair?

Then again, he couldn’t imagine Moonsilk, with her perfect, practiced movements, ever doing anything so unseemly as tripping.

Or approaching her sol alone in his dressing room, unsupervised by any chaperones.

“Thanks,” he said finally as Moonsilk finished up, stepping away to face her. Moonsilk met his gaze, unafraid. “What are you doing here?” Come to beg me not to take your beloved’s life?

Moonsilk was assessing him right back. There was something calculating in that look: perhaps she was not the subdued, prim girl he remembered, after all. “I only came to wish my future husband good luck, that’s all,” she said finally, inclining her head in the motion for deference. Somehow it didn’t seem very sincere.

Halek raised an eyebrow. “You… want me to win?”

Moonsilk looked back at him with bland assurance. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Wisely, Halek kept quiet. Moonsilk sighed and drifted to the window to look down at the bright, sunny arena; somehow her footfalls were near silent against the floor. Finally she said, without looking at him: “If I had to marry one man, who would you tell me to marry? Chieftain of our people and savior of our kind, or a lowly archer from a third-rate tribe?”

Halek’s eyebrows raised even further. “I was under the impression that you…” He trailed off, struggling to find the right words. Naolin was so much better at being diplomatic than he was. “That your attachment was more personal than that.”

“Thrau gave you that impression,” Moonsilk returned, still looking out the window. The back of her neck was white and very still. “I did not. True?”

Halek didn’t know what to say to that. What could anyone say? “But he’s really in love with you?”

Moonsilk trailed her fingers along the window frame, examining the dust that gathered on one rosy fingertip. “Many people are.” She glanced at him expectantly. “As with you.”

No one loves me except as their god, he wanted to say, but Halek only replied, “Would that bother you? To be married to someone like that?”

Moonsilk shrugged. “Why would it? It is an honor to have a man who others covet.”

“…Right,” he said slowly. “Well… I suppose I might as well go kill him, then. Since his loss apparently wouldn’t upset you.” He pretended to be preoccupied with looking for his weapons, but really he was watching her for her reaction. 

Moonsilk touched her steepled fingers against her brow, then her chin: the sign of highest worship. “Happy hunting, my husband,” was all she said in answer. 

Halek beat a hasty retreat out the door. If we actually get married, I’m going to have to sleep with my eyes open. 

Naolin fell into silent step with him as soon as he left the dressing room and made his way to the archway leading into the stadium. Before they entered the arena properly, however, his brother caught his arm and said, “It’ll be an archery challenge, diru. The fool’s not skilled at anything else, so it’d be madness to choose any other weapon.”

Halek nodded absently, not missing that Naolin had finally lapsed back into using the Hunter word for “brother” in referring to him. That meant he wasn’t angry at him anymore—which was a relief. If there was anything Halek cared about in this world, it was his bond with his twin brother, the only person he felt he could really trust. He drawled, “My archery skills are rusty. I haven’t shot a bow in moons.”

Naolin looked like he was going to laugh, but then he caught Halek’s expression, and his eyes sharpened. “You’re not serious, are you?”

“Would I joke about this?”

“Halek,” Naolin hissed, his grip on his arm turning pincer-like. “What have I told you about keeping up-to-date on your weapons skills? About practicing? You could be issued a challenge in any area on any day—”

Halek waved him off just as a rousing cheer from the arena signaled that the duel was set to begin. “Who has the time for that? No, don’t answer—it’s fine. Whatever happens, happens, right? It’s the will of the gods… or something.”

He slouched into the stadium before Naolin could say anything else, keeping his posture relaxed and lackadaisical despite the roar of noise from the stands. He would answer this challenge if it was so important to everybody, but he was damn well not going to live up to anyone’s image of him while doing it.

Thrau stood waiting in the middle of the dusty arena, standing tall and proud with his arms crossed and a signature silver bow slung across his broad shoulders. All hraqa were silver, though for what reasons Halek had already forgotten (he had not paid close attention to his studies growing up). The man straightened his spine as he saw Halek approaching, and his eyes darted to the side; Halek watched from the corner of his vision as one of Thrau’s kinsmen approached him with a second bow, this one plain and unadorned, outstretched in his hands.

The issuer of a challenge like this was always allowed to choose the time, location, and manner of the resulting fight. The recipient of the challenge could abide by the terms or not, but choosing to alter them—or worse, not showing up—was seen as one of the highest acts of cowardice in an honor-based culture like the Hunters’. And Naolin had been right: Thrau was challenging him first to a contest of archery skills, of firing at a series of increasingly-difficult targets in something like a deadly game. The winner got to keep his hraqa in the final fight, the weapon he had trained with all his life and the conduit for his grace, his Hunter powers. The loser had to fight with a plain weapon at a clear disadvantage. 

This person was almost always the one who died.

Halek drew up to Thrau, who raised his chin and barked something about how Halek was unworthy of his position, how the Hunter people deserved better than a false messiah. The onlookers in the crowd gasped—Halek spotted Naolin taking a wary position off to the side, looking quietly furious—but honestly the words slipped in one ear and out the other in the same instant. He was looking up at the sky, which was a sharp and acidic blue for once. A storm had just blown through, leaving everything feeling crisp and revitalized. Another storm was going to come through tonight. He could feel it in his bones. 

“—and with that, I challenge you, Halek-false-Qaid! I challenge you for your title and for your woman.” Thrau finished his challenge by spitting at Halek’s feet, earning more scandalized gasps from the crowd. 

Halek forced back a yawn. “I accept your challenge.”

He took the proffered bow from Thrau’s tribesman, and the two of them swiveled on their heels so that they were back to back. Immediately, three horsemen from an uninvolved tribe sprang into action, galloping in a swift circle around the arena. All three had targets strung over various parts of their bodies: one at the heart, one at the throat, and one at the knee. All were heavily armored, so the barbed arrows wouldn’t harm them… usually.

Halek eyed the moving targets as the riders spurred their mounts into weaving complex formations. What a hassle. If given a practice round, he could likely hit all three targets—but not on the first try. His only chance of winning this round was to hope that Thrau would do worse.

It was a faint hope. Halek’s first arrow struck the target at the rider’s chest, but his second, meant for the throat target, ricocheted off the woman’s shoulder-plate. Both of Thrau’s arrows, on the other hand, found their marks. Only the knee target remained, and this one was worth the most points. Halek’s only hope of winning was to take this target while Thrau failed to.

“You look scared, little sol,” Thrau jeered—then faltered when he turned to look at Halek’s face, which he knew full well simply looked bored. Halek didn’t deign to look at him, but remarked just as the other man raised his bow to fire: “This is a pointless challenge. Moonsilk says she has no interest in marrying you. Was your so-called romance even real, or was that all just pretense so you could work up the gall to fight me?”

Thrau jerked, and his arrow went flying off uselessly towards the arena’s wall, to the screaming laughter of the watching crowd. The man whirled on Halek, his face purple with rage, but Halek was already taking his shot…

And his arrow pierced the target at the rider’s knee.

Halek threw down the borrowed bow, motioning for Naolin to bring him his spear. “I win,” he drawled, exchanging a look with his brother, who just looked exasperated. “You can take that bow, Thrau. Give your hraqa to whoever you want to have it after you die.”

The color drained from Thrau’s face… but then he snatched up the discarded bow and lunged. Halek lazily sidestepped, and the fight was on.

Halek’s mind drifted as he dodged and parried Thrau’s flurry of arrows. It often did in non-Endarkened fights, when his thoughts stayed free of the bloodlust and mindless rage that bridled at the whiff of Rot. He thought mostly of the book still tucked protectively into his back pocket: a travelogue, a collection of recipes from around the rest of the Continent—a land he would never see for himself. Probably at the celebration feast after this—his people did love their feasts—they would serve the same old food with the same old people, as always. Spicy stews and chili oil over bitter greens. Even the food at the Order of the Blank God had been a welcome respite from the sameness of his community.

He could have gone farther abroad when he’d left, he knew. Could have taken a horse and fled to Haven, Ambryn, even faraway Conte—could have taken the plunge anywhere in the wide world and lost himself among the teeming crowds. Even Naolin couldn’t have found him, then.

But he’d stayed close instead, hiding away in a Hunter monastery where the people would still recognize him, where his brother could still catch up to him. Why, he wasn’t totally sure himself. Maybe, for all his fantasies, he wasn’t ready to abandon his identity and become a nobody. Someone without purpose, without anyone to tell him what to do. Freedom could be the same as paralyzing aimlessness. A blank slate was still emptiness and loss. Maybe he wasn’t ready to take that step yet.

He spotted an opening in Thrau’s increasingly-desperate attacks and flicked out his spear, catching his opponent’s bow with the tip and yanking the weapon out of Thrau’s hands. The man gasped, tried to lunge for it—but Halek’s spear was already at his throat. A thin red line opened at the archer’s neck, and a little blood splattered to the ground.

The noise from the crowd was deafening as they realized the swift end of the fight. Naolin was there in an instant, forcing Thrau to his knees as Halek stood poised to pierce his airway. “On your knees,” his twin said coldly, looking down at Thrau with disdain. Halek knew his brother strongly disapproved of people who challenged the sol, if only because they upset the social order of things, prioritized their own ego over the good of the community. 

“Do it, then,” Thrau rasped. To his credit, he didn’t close his eyes: only stared up into Halek’s own, with just a trace of panic. “Do it and get it over with.” He hesitated. “And—and tell Moonsilk—” Then his face twisted, and he stopped talking. “Just do it.”

Halek felt his brother’s eyes on him as the dull roar of the crowd resolved into a chant: Sol! Sol! Sol! He felt Moonsilk’s eyes, too, somehow, and his Father’s, although they hadn’t spoken since he’d returned to the city. He felt his spear tip resting against the line of Thrau’s throat, sharpened to a deadly point. It would be very, very easy to end Thrau’s life here, and custom demanded it. Defiance against the sol could not be tolerated, especially not defiance like the words Thrau had thrown around at the beginning of the fight. Such disrespect bred discontent, rebellion, and letting it pass was the weakness of a lion who had been lamed. Sooner or later, other lions would take notice of his softness and tear him to pieces.

His hraqa was so, so light in his hands. The sky was so, so blue. The blood in the dust when he emptied Thrau’s body would be so, so red. 

Naolin turned to Halek and whispered, “What are you doing? Put him out of his misery.”

Halek’s muscles tensed… then loosened. He let his spear drop to the ground.

Somehow the silence was more deafening than the cheers.

“Fun match,” Halek said lightly as he turned away from the kneeling man. He did not want to see Thrau’s expression of surprise, or relief, or outrage. “Let’s do it again sometime.”

He had almost made it to the archway of the arena when the cries of protest started. Naolin caught up to him and grabbed his shoulder.

“What are you doing, Halek?” he demanded. No diru this time: this was a sola addressing his sol. “You can’t leave him alive! If you leave him to his own devices, he’ll form a mutiny against you—a coup! He’ll open your throat in your sleep—or get Moonsilk to do it!”

It was the first time his brother had ever voiced distrust in Halek’s future wife. Somehow, he felt relieved. “Let him, then,” Halek answered. His life had been governed by the rhythms of fate and prophecies since the day he was born. If this was meant to happen, who was he to work against that? “Let’s see how this plays out.”

Naolin stared at him as Halek turned away. “Do you want to die, brother?” he asked him in a whisper as the stampede of feet rumbling down from the stands threatened to drown him out. “Are you leaving him a threat so he’ll kill you in the future?”

Halek snorted at his melodrama. “No,” he answered. He holstered his hraqa in one fluid movement. “But I wasn’t going to give that bastard such an easy escape. He doesn’t get a quick out like that.” He shrugged and began to move towards the room where the woman he didn’t want to marry was waiting for him; towards the shrine that he didn’t believe in but would have to give thanks to. The feast where everyone would look upon their sol and try to rationalize away their disappointment. “If I have to stick around this place, so does he. If I have to keep fighting, so does he.” He looked back over his shoulder and gave his brother a rare, fierce kind of grin. “We’re Hunters, but we’ve trapped ourselves… and we all get to live in this trap together. Let’s see if we’ll tear each other apart, shall we?”

His words landed, and Naolin looked struck speechless; he had nothing to say. Halek kept walking with the thunder of voices at his back, and above, the heavens gave an answering rumble. Halek had been right. A storm was moving in over the horizon.