“I can't afford a break yet. I started too late; only last year, I was still Copper. If I don't try as hard as I can, I can't catch up.”

She threw her hands in the air. “Catch up? Who exactly are you trying to catch up to, hm?”

Only two names flashed through his mind, but he was embarrassed to say them out loud.

“They call you the twenty-fourth ranked Lowgold on the combat charts,” she said. “You know what that means?”

“That there are twenty-three Lowgolds stronger than I am,” he said immediately.

“That you're ranked higher than three quarters of the Empire! If you settled down and lived in the Arelius family, you'd be Highgold by twenty-five. Considering it's you, probably Truegold ten years later. You could be an Underlord in your fifties. And that's living peacefully! You could settle down, rest, find a nice young lady, raise a family. You don't have to live every day like you're looking to die!”

She was shouting by the end, and Lindon winced as every word landed.

Because they hit him too close to home.

Since leaving Sacred Valley, he had risked his life almost daily. He'd given everything to move forward. He didn't regret it—if anything, his only regret was that he'd advanced too slowly.

But it was scraping him raw.

He felt like a man who had started to run down a hill, going faster and faster until he couldn't stop. Now he had to keep accelerating or stumble and fall.

The problem was, he really couldn't stop. As enticing as that vision was, he could never return to his homeland as an Underlord. Not if it took him more than thirty more years.

His home would be gone by then.

Lindon started to speak, and was surprised to find his voice rough. His vision had blurred—were those tears? Fisher Gesha looked down on him sympathetically.

There came a single knock at the door, and then Yerin pushed her way in. “They said you'd be fussing around with constructs in here,” she said, glancing around the room. “Didn't want to bump your sword-hand, so I knocked.” She saw the white arm and brightened.

“Skeleton arm! Scarier than a tiger's teeth, I love it. With your black eyes, that'll have them messing themselves before you ever throw a punch.”

That hadn't been Lindon's actual goal, but he was glad she was pleased. And it did remind him of another issue: he had to test the arm with Blackflame. All of the tests performed on samples by Fisher Gesha's drudge had suggested the two types of madra wouldn't interfere with each other, certainly not after his soul acclimated to the limb, but there was no way to be sure without testing.

“I'll take any advantage I can get, in a fight,” Lindon said, surreptitiously swiping at his eyes and rising to his feet.

Yerin straightened her back, the silver Goldsigns over her shoulders rising. “That wasn't why I came. I have news for you, and the sand's running down.” She met his eyes with a firm gaze. “Skysworn are going sword-to-sword with Redmoon Hall. I'm joining them.”

Lindon's new arm twitched as he lost control of his breathing technique. He had known she’d spoken with the Skysworn, but not how it had turned out. She hadn’t told him, and he’d been afraid to ask.

But now...Yerin was going. And he wasn't.

“Already?” he asked, and he sounded like he’d swallowed sand.

“Told you I wasn’t burning time,” she said, meeting his eyes. “They’ve got some test or something coming up. Could be my last chance, and I’m not planning to miss it.”

He wanted to say he was going to join her, wanted to leave Fisher Gesha and walk out alongside Yerin. They’d traveled together for so long, it felt wrong to be parting ways now.

But she was still rushing, he wasn’t wrong about that. The smart thing to do was wait.

If only it didn’t feel like slicing into his own chest.

“There will be another test, though? Perhaps I can join then.”

“Could be,” she said, with half a smile. “Couldn’t tell you when it is, though.”

Then, at least for now, he needed to say good-bye. He bowed at the waist, as deeply as he could. “This one thanks you for your long guidance. He could never have made it without you.”

She scratched the back of her neck with one hand. “Yeah, well...wouldn't have made it out of the Valley without you, would I? And having you around kept me busy.”

Lindon straightened and looked into her eyes. “Thank you, Yerin. I can't...ah, thank you.” It wasn't adequate, but he was afraid that if he said any more, he would embarrass himself.

She nodded, shifting her gaze. They stood in silence for a few moments before Yerin finally waved and turned on her heel. “Don’t need to make this any fancier than it has to be,” she said as she walked out. “I’ll see you soon, won’t I? Not gone forever.”

“I'll see you then!” he called after her, even as the door shut.

Fisher Gesha eyed him. “I'm sorry, boy.”

Lindon didn't hear her.

The excitement of his new arm had been completely dampened. He packed up his things in a haze, and the next thing he knew, he had returned to his room. It was simple—less appointed even than the cell where the Skysworn had kept him before, but mercifully bigger. It was connected to a kind of stable, where Orthos slept.

He stood in the center of his room, lost.

When Gesha had asked him who he was trying to catch up to, only two faces had popped into his mind: Yerin and Eithan.

Both of them were too embarrassing to say aloud. Yerin was the apprentice of a Sage, and a prodigy. Eithan was an Underlord and the Patriarch of a great family.

But they had both treated him as though he could catch up to them. They had made him believe it.

Now he was on his own.

Without knowing what he was doing, he grabbed his pack with his left hand and slipped it on. He froze halfway through, realizing he didn't need it, but it comforted him. Made him feel prepared.

Then, aimlessly, he drifted over to Orthos' room. It was broad, empty, and its walls were plated in dark, scripted metal. It had been designed to hold contracted sacred beasts, or so Lindon had been told.

Orthos hadn't been asleep, which Lindon had expected from the feel of his spirit. Instead, the turtle was munching on a pile of rocks and broken chunks of street that Lindon had scavenged from around the city. The red circles of his eyes pivoted to Lindon as he entered, but the turtle didn't say anything. He just kept chewing away.

Lindon hugged his pack to himself—with one arm, because the other had rebelled again—and sat down.

Orthos felt confused and weak again. The years he'd spent with a damaged spirit had left their mark on his mind. Now, he was struggling to think.

Little Blue popped up from inside Lindon's robes, eyeing Orthos. With a quick glance at Lindon, she hurried across the floor, resting her blue hand on one of the turtle's forelegs.

His spirit and body shuddered as the Sylvan Riverseed's power cleansed his madra channels, but he kept munching away on the rock.

“Lin...don...” he said, through a mouthful of gravel.

Little Blue gave him a mournful whistle and then drifted back to Lindon.

“Good morning, Orthos,” Lindon said.

“...arm,” the turtle forced out.