In the grand design of existence, Rowan was but a smudge on a page. Visions and memories of his past trickled into his schema day by day, reminding him of who he’d been before the offscape—Rowan didn’t like what he’d seen. It wasn’t as if things miraculously had gotten better after entering the offscape, either. Rowan had been reduced to a whimpering mess on more than one occasion, he’d lucked his way into survival multiple times, and he’d let down his fair share of believers. They laid at his feet even now, robbed of their skin and lives. He didn’t want to be this way, mind. Was it his natural state? Was there no changing it? The question resided in Rowan’s head on a regular basis, taking root without concern. Who knew one word was all it took to shake the doubts free? Wonderful. She meant the equation: he knew that. Still, wonderful was a word Rowan didn’t think had ever been associated with him before.

  “Thank you.” He responded sheepishly, his cheeks matching her hair in color.

  “What was that livēsēns? That attack?”

  “I’m not sure, actually. It’s something I discovered from my research on the offscape.”

  Was that a lie? He technically did discover it in his logbook. Evidently the answer was sufficient enough for Morrigan: she simply nodded.

  “And you can do it again.”

  It wasn’t a question that left her thin lips, but an observation; an affirmation, even.

  “Right. I would need something to serve as a better conduit and I’m a little nervous about controlling its power, but—”

  Rowan’s mutterings died down as his eyes caught another dead prisoner at his feet. There were four in total that he could see, but that didn’t account for the others. They may have ran deeper into the labyrinth, taken their chances beyond the cave, or maybe even fallen prey to the Skin-snatcher out of Rowan’s sight, but they were gone. Was it too late to go after them? Was it too late to fix this?

  “We should bury them.” Rowan said, his voice shaking.

  “N?n. Time is not with us. We must go.” Her reply was swift and unflinching.

  “We can’t just leave them here. It’s not right. We should—”

  Morrigan stomped on the ground beneath their feet.

  “Ridinr?, this is no soft soil. I have not the time for you to realize you lack the strength to do this.” She paused momentarily, as if she was processing the right words for her next thought. “Instead, I shall do it and you shall listen to my story.”

  Rowan hadn’t expected her volunteering to do such a thing—she was already wrenching her tibia from her flesh and fashioning a shovel. The way Morrigan’s flesh simply opened up for her like a locked door would its keybearer, the way her bone regenerated itself at the base of where she’d break it off from, the way the vi coated her fingers as she shaped the bone: it was all so intriguing, beautiful, even. But why? Why tear his idea down just to do it anyway? Why perform such a strained grandstand at all?

  “I would have listened to your story either way.” Rowan said, finding himself filling her lack of a response with nervous laughter.

  When one body was beneath the rocky surface—in an expedient time frame, no less—she spoke again.

  “I am the last of a warrior race tasked with banishing a foul fētis from this plane of existence: the Malokith.”

  “The Malo—”

  “Mada. Listen, ridinr?, do not speak.”

  Rowan nodded like a scolded child in response to her chiding.

  “The creature is responsible for the maladies of Kativazch: the offscape, the encroaching fētis like the Skin-snatcher, the holes in your mind, the decline of morality prevalent around us—this can all be traced back to the Malokith.”

  As the second body fell into the hole, Rowan must have been staring harder than he meant to. Embarrassed, Rowan’s gaze fell to his feet when she whipped back in his direction.

  “Speak,” she sighed.

  “The-the Malokith.” The name hung in his throat like a lead ball, threatening to choke him. “Was it the same creature from the Great War?”

  He sat, legs criss-crossed, on the ground like a child in the early academy.

  “Great War?” Morrigan huffed.

  Rowan thought it was a scoff of offense; only when she looked back at him once more with annoyance did he realize she was waiting for an explanation.

  “The journey and collection of battles accompanying it that led to your trek across the planes”—her brow was furrowed as if she was trying to recall his words from her memory—“is known as the Great War in the records. It ended with the defeat of an unutterable tyranny. Was that—”

  She nodded. “Surely so.” Her choice of words perplexed Rowan, but the natural tongue clearly wasn’t her first language, so mayhap it was a product of that. “Yet the Malokith fled like cowardness incarnate. I can feel it, though, out there. Watching. Speak.”

  Rowan tried to hide the grin forming on his face. She was quite astute at knowing when he had a burning question.

  “I’m not sure if you recall—it happened while you still had the helmet on—but there was a situation with Aariv. He’d grabbed my hand and…” Rowan trailed off.

  Her eyes told him she recalled his words, but not the situation he was thinking of. The words that came out of Aariv’s were not his own, but Morrigan didn’t seem to notice then or now.

  “Nevermind.” Rowan cleared his throat.

  Morrigan rolled her eyes and continued.

  “The Malokith is unyielding and plots our demise. I am to banish him to oblivion like I aimed to before. I want you with me. I propose a Pact of Providence.”

  A Pact of Providence? Rowan had only heard about such a thing in old stories or read about it in occasional record footnotes. Whatever the archaic agreement was, it wasn’t the sort of entente entertained by Scholars of today.

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  “Trust me.”

  Again, not a question.

  Her words were few but her gaze met his and painted a picture beyond such paltry comments. She was abrupt, coarse, violent, and far too many other less-than-pleasant adjectives for Rowan to consider—but there was more to her than such surface-level observations. She warned of a ruinous event and promised a means by which to prevent it. Could there be a better way to make one’s mark as a Scholar than by being a part of a quest with Morrigan Queen? Selfishly and more important to Rowan at the moment, she chose him. She wasn’t reduced to working with him and her eyes weren’t lying: she saw value in him. Rowan had never been an equal partner in anything before and, until his log finished revealing whatever it had to tell him, he was simply spinning his wheels in the offscape. Luck and Law had gotten him this far, but maybe this was where he was meant to be.

  Rowan cleared his throat. “What would I need to do?”

  “Your hand,” she said.

  Rowan extended it without question, wincing as Morrigan sharpened her nail with vi, marking his palm. A Scholar’s mark: a symbol unique to each Scholar assigned at birth for identification and used as a formal acknowledgement of loyalty. Her finger moved with slow precision as she made a partially open circle with four line segments, one on either side of the circle’s opening, and then one opposite each of those. The vi interacted with the blood on his palm, the cyan overpowering the red hue.

  “Your endname?”

  “Hightower,” Rowan said, admiring the mark on his hand.

  Wordlessly, Morrigan nodded to him and he understood immediately, taking a knee before her.

  “Rowan of the Hightowers, you are my comrade in arms. The victories, defeats, sweat, cheers, and tears: we share them all. We are bound by blood and fate, now. Until the Malokith falls or we do. This is not a desire, but a desideratum. Do you swear to follow me across Kativazch and beyond?”

  “I swear.” Rowan said, his voice shaking.

  Such a momentous occasion felt almost ill-befitting of his station, yet he quivered with the gravity of the situation. If his father could see him, now.

  “Then rise, Rowan of the Hightowers, rise as a vassal of Morrigan Queen.”

  “I’m honored, Morrigan, truly I—”

  Morrigan’s hand shot out toward Rowan’s face, just shy of making contact, and halted his words. Her closed fist opened up, three fingers uncoiling before his eyes.

  “Three demands. For every three demands I make, you may make one. This is the means by which we shall cohabitate. Understand?”

  This felt quite formal; Rowan wondered if a Scholar in the know would have reviewed the theoretical terms of the offer before giving their hand to a mysterious Scholar they’d met in the offscape. Yet Rowan couldn’t trust his memory, so he was left with little to go off beyond his own instincts. His instincts told him Morrigan Queen was the way to get where he needed to be. And, truthfully, walking in the shadow of Morrigan Queen left Rowan feeling quite confident in his chances of survival within the offscape. He nodded to her words.

  “What happens now?”

  “Now, we equip ourselves with whatever this filthy trader has to offer and we set out.”

  “To where?”

  “Tsk, you ask too many questions.” Morrigan said, her nose crinkling in annoyance.

  She turned away from Rowan, yet took a pause, turned back around to him, and pointed at her nose.

  “This nose can smell the stench of fētis from kētrals away, and something in this distance reeks. I wish to assess the source.”

  “I understand; thank you for answering my question.” Rowan smiled, not that Morrigan knew as she turned away from him again. “I’m going to go gather some supplies.”

  “We leave within the hour.”

  “Right.”

  Rowan looked around, wondering if anyone had returned to the labyrinth, but no one was in sight. Technically, Aariv’s wish had come true: the prisoners of Mogrim’s labyrinth had been freed. So why did Rowan feel so wrong? So disappointed with himself? The pit in his stomach weighed him down as he climbed the ladder back up to Mogrim’s office. He wasn’t sure why he expected otherwise, but he was surprised to find Mogrim wasn’t present. Instead, Achaia was huddled underneath his desk, attempting to make herself scarce.

  “Fig?” Rowan called out, reaching out to her beneath the desk.

  His hand came before his words did, however, and the frazzled girl let out a yelp of shock.

  “No,” she cried out, trying to push his hand away.

  “Fig, Fig,” Rowan repeated, trying to calm the child. “Achaia.”

  He waited until she settled and her eyes opened. Her face registered Rowan’s visage and she scrambled out from underneath the desk.

  “Sorry, I should have—”

  Rowan tried to apologize for scaring the girl, but she cut his words off, squeezing him tightly and burying her face in his chest. The appearance of the Skin-snatcher left Rowan so bewildered, he hadn’t even considered how scary such a thing would be to a child. He tried to get her out of there as soon as possible, but even a hasty escape would do nothing to alleviate Achaia’s fear. Rowan tried to think of the right words to calm her, but found none. Instead, he patted her head and let her hug him tightly until she was ready to let go.

  “I thought maybe you…” Achaia trailed off, sniffling and wiping her nose with her forearm. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  “I’m glad you’re okay too, Fig, but I need to talk to you about something pretty important, okay?”

  “‘Kay.” Achaia whispered, soft-spoken as ever.

  “The scary lady? Her name’s Morrigan Queen and she’s a big hero where I’m from.” Rowan spreads his arms out, trying to communicate the importance of Morrigan’s presence.

  “Really?”

  “Really." He responded. "She’s got to do some important stuff for everyone and she’s requested my help.”

  “We’re going with her?”

  Rowan chuckled at Achaia’s words. They hadn’t even discussed whether or not she’d go with him—Achaia just assumed it was a foregone conclusion. “Well, it’s not exactly a safe journey for a kid.”

  “But we’re family, aren’t we?” Her face was back to its composed state, but her eyes were searching for validation.

  He’d said as much before, hadn’t he? Such a word couldn’t be taken lightly. Rowan worried about the potential risk he’d be putting Achaia in by bringing her along. She was only alive by the sheer luck of Law: had the Skin-snatcher gotten its proverbial hands on Achaia instead of one of its victims, Rowan wouldn’t have been able to do anything to stop it. She wasn’t any safer with him than she was alone, but the offscape was also inherently dangerous. She wasn’t safe either way. Rowan had never raised a child before—he’d never even had a pet—but he’d been a child, certainly so. Helpless, confused, unsure of the world around him: Rowan’s childhood memories were fragmented, but various shades of unpleasant. Rowan couldn’t promise to protect Achaia like Morrigan could, he couldn’t promise to have all the answers like his father could, but he could give her something he always yearned for when he was a child.

  He leaned against the desk and patted the chair for Achaia to sit on. She did so, kicking her feet playfully.

  “Fig, I’m going to leave this up to you. I can’t guarantee your safety on this journey: all I can guarantee is I’ll do my best to keep you safe. You’re still a kid, but it’s your choice to make.” Rowan extended his hand to Achaia, palm out for her to take. “Want to come with me?”

  “Yes,” she spoke without hesitation, gripping his hand with both of hers. “I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

  In truth, neither did he. Although it was selfish of him, he’d hoped she’d want to come. “Then let’s do this right. I’m Rowan Hightower. And you are?”

  Achaia giggled. “You know my name.”

  “So pretend I don’t. What’s your name, Miss?” Rowan chuckled, putting on a snooty voice.

  “It’s Achaia.”

  “Achaia Hightower.”

  Achaia’s eyes widened. She’d certainly been educated on endnames and their importance, but she had none of her own. She often wanted to pretend she did, but Mogrim never told her his and the other prisoners avoided her, so she didn’t have an example of what an endname sounded like. Until now. And it was no example—it was a gift.

  “Achaia Hightower.” She repeated it to herself, her stoicism wavering once again.

  “But I can still call you Fig sometimes, right?” Rowan chuckled, patting her head.

  “Yeah. And I’ll call you…” Achaia trailed off, waiting for some input from Rowan.

  “Oh, um, Rowan is fine. Or”—it felt embarrassing for Rowan to suggest a nickname himself—“maybe brother, or something?”

  Achaia pouted by the mundanity of Rowan’s suggestion. “I’ll come up with something.”

  Rowan snorted at the rejection. “Anyway, we have to get ready to go. Let’s go shopping, no tickets necessary.”