Nezavek
The scrying bowl shows me everything.
I watch Yorika through the layer of liquid shadow that serves as my window into her quarters. She lies on the bed fully clothed, every muscle coiled for action even in supposed rest. Her hand never strays far from the knife in her boot. Even unconscious, she's ready for war.
The anchor bond pulses between us, not complete, not yet, but present. A thread of connection I can follow like tracking prey through darkness. Through it, her emotions flow: rage (expected), determination (admirable), grief (constant), and something else. Something she doesn't want to acknowledge.
When I touched her arm to transport her here, her body responded. Not fear. Something else. My proximity affects her in ways she’s fighting hard to ignore. She hated that response. Hates it still.
The tremor hits without warning.
My form scatters across the study, shadows spreading thin, consciousness fragmenting into too many pieces. For a moment, I exist everywhere and nowhere: in the walls, in the air, in the spaces between heartbeats.
Three months since the Collector discovered how to poison the void paths themselves. The taint spreads through every shadow road, every dissolution, every use of my nature. I feel it now, corruption threading through my essence like acid through veins.
Meditation slows it. Staying solid helps. But only an anchor bond can burn the poison clean. Without one, I have weeks at most.
I force myself back together, but it takes longer than yesterday. Longer than this morning. The edges won't quite solidify, leaving me translucent, barely there.
I feel Yorika shift in her sleep, responding to my distress without waking.
"Master."
Mikaere stands in the doorway, all four arms crossed in what would be disapproval if he allowed himself such emotions.
"Report," I manage, though speaking costs more effort than it should.
"The human tested every surface of her quarters. Twice. She identified the observation properties of the mirror within minutes." He pauses. "She's already planning something."
"Of course she is."
"Master, she's dangerous."
"Yes."
"More dangerous than the others."
"Yes."
"Then why."
"Because she doesn't flinch." I turn from the scrying pool to face him fully. "Because her mind works in patterns I haven't seen before. Because she has the anchor potential."
"The tremors are getting worse."
"I'm aware."
"If she doesn't accept the bond soon."
"Then I dissolve." I look back at the pool where Yorika has rolled onto her side, hand tightening on an invisible weapon in her dreams. "But forcing it would break her mind. The bond requires willing participation."
"She wants you dead."
"She wants someone dead. Her focused rage is a sharp, metallic tang I can almost taste. But I don't think it's me she's truly after."
Mikaere goes still. "You think she's hunting the Collector?"
"I think she's hunting someone. The rage is too focused, too personal. This isn't a contract. It's a vendetta."
"If she learns you've been hunting him too."
"She won't believe me. Not yet. Trust takes time."
"Time you don't have."
Another tremor. Smaller but sharp, like something inside me tearing. Mikaere takes an involuntary step forward before stopping himself.
"The training room," I say. "Bring her there after she wakes. I want to see how she fights."
"Master?"
"I want to see how she fights. Really fights."
"That seems... unwise."
"Everything about this is unwise. But wisdom hasn't worked. Perhaps foolishness will yield better results."
He bows and leaves. I return to watching Yorika, who's now awake but pretending otherwise. Smart. She's listening to the realm's sounds, cataloging patterns, learning rhythms. I feel her mind working: focused, analytical, never resting.
But there's something else too. When she shifts on the bed, testing her body's readiness, I catch a flash of something.
A dream, perhaps. Or a memory. Shadow and silver intertwined, her body arching beneath something dark and vast. The image is gone before I can grasp it fully, but it leaves an echo of heat that has nothing to do with anger.
She sits up finally, stretches carefully. Each movement tests her body's readiness while appearing casual. She's performed this routine a thousand times in hostile territory.
The door opens at my mental command. She spins toward it, already reaching for her knife, then stops when no one enters.
"The training room," I say through the shadows. My voice comes from everywhere and nowhere. "Mikaere will escort you."
She doesn't jump at the disembodied voice. Another person would have. Instead, she stands slowly, adjusts her clothes, and walks through the door like she has a choice in the matter.
I dissolve from the study and rematerialize in the training room's observation shadow. Mikaere is already there, standing beside racks of weapons from a hundred dead civilizations.
Yorika enters and immediately catalogs exits (three), weapons (too many to count), and threats (primarily Mikaere). Her eyes linger on a blade from the Third Age of Kellos; she recognizes quality even in unfamiliar forms.
"Choose," I say, stepping from the shadows.
She doesn't startle, but her pulse quickens. Not fear. Something else. My proximity affects her in ways she’s fighting hard to ignore.
"Choose what?" Her voice is steady.
"A weapon. Show me how you fight."
"Why?"
"Because I'm curious. Whether you're worth what I paid for you."
The insult lands as intended. A muscle feathers in her cheek, a subtle sign of her rising pride. She moves to the weapons, fingers trailing over hilts and handles with a lover's touch. She selects a pair of curved blades, not the flashiest or most obviously deadly, but perfectly balanced. Smart.
"Against what?" she asks.
I gesture, and training constructs rise from the floor. Shadow given form and purpose, designed to test without killing. Usually.
She doesn't wait for permission. The first construct barely finishes forming before she's moving, blades singing through the air. Her style is one of brutal efficiency. There's no wasted movement and no flourishes, just a clear design in every strike to end things quickly.
She destroys three constructs in as many seconds.
I make the next wave harder. She adapts instantly, using the room's geometry to her advantage, forcing the constructs to come at her single file. She doesn't just fight, she controls the entire battlefield.
Seven constructs down. Ten. Fifteen.
The third wave comes from multiple dimensions.
This should overwhelm her, force mistakes.
Instead, she drops and rolls, coming up inside their guard, blades working in lethal harmony.
She takes a hit, a construct's tendril catches her shoulder, but she doesn't slow. The pain just sharpens her focus.
Her emotions flood the bond: the heat of anger, the sharp scent of pride, and underneath, a confusing, magnetic pull toward me that she fights to ignore.
Her body sings with the joy of competent violence, and underneath, that darker hunger pulses.
Combat arousal, her body responding to danger with more than adrenaline.
Twenty constructs destroyed.
"Enough."
The remaining constructs dissolve. She stands in the center of the room, breathing hard but controlled, blood seeping through her shirt from the shoulder wound. The blades in her hands are steady.
"Satisfied?" she asks.
"Intrigued."
I move closer. She doesn't step back, though every instinct probably screams she should. This close, I can see the pulse in her throat, feel the heat radiating from her exertion.
"You fight like you're always outnumbered," I observe.
"I usually am."
"Was. Past tense. You're here now."
She shifts her weight, still ready to fight. "And here I'm definitely outnumbered."
I reach toward her shoulder wound. She tenses but doesn't pull away. My shadow wraps around the injury, numbing the pain. Not healing, that would require more intimate contact than she'd allow, but easing.
"Why?" she asks.
"I don't want you damaged."
"Because you need me functional."
"Because I find myself... protective of you."
The admission surprises us both. A phantom headache pricks at my temples, her confusion, followed by the bitter taste of suspicion.
"I'm not yours to protect."
"No?" I let my hand hover near her face, not touching but close enough she can feel the cold. "Then why does your body respond to my proximity? Why does your pulse quicken when I'm near?"
"Adrenaline. You're a threat."
"I'm many things. But right now, I'm not your threat."
"Right now?"
"Right now, you're hunting someone. I can taste it in your rage, focused, personal. This isn't a contract. It's revenge."
She jerks back slightly, but I catch her wrist before she can fully retreat. Not hard, just firm. Present.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't you?" I move into her space, my shadow falling over her. She doesn't retreat, but her chin lifts in a clear challenge. "You chose me at that auction for a reason. You're here for a purpose. But I don't think it's what you believe it is."
"Let go."
I release her immediately. She doesn't expect that. The instant compliance throws her off balance more than force would have.
"You're going to train every day," I say, stepping back. "With Mikaere. With the constructs. With me when I have time."
"Why?"
"Because violence makes you honest. When you fight, you stop thinking so hard. You just exist." I turn to leave, then pause. "And because watching you destroy things is... educational."
"About what?"
"About what you'll do when you discover you're hunting the wrong monster."
I dissolve into shadow before she can respond, but I feel her confusion deepen. Good. Confusion is better than certainty. Doubt is the first crack in her armor.
The shoulder wound doesn't seem to bother her; she's had worse. But my words do. They've planted seeds she doesn't want to water.
The tremor that hits is a seismic shock to my very essence, and my form fractures, threatening to fly apart into a thousand useless fragments of shadow. When I finally pull myself back together, I’m barely visible, even to myself. The dissolution is accelerating.
The Bone Collector's signature has been growing stronger these past weeks. He's following patterns, searching for something. Or someone.
Yorika's dreams bleed through to me, tasting of silver and shadow, heat and hunger. Her unconscious mind is already reaching for me, even as her conscious mind plots violence.
Perhaps that's the key. Not forcing the bond, but letting her body's wisdom override her mind's resistance.
Tomorrow, we'll see how she handles proximity without violence as a buffer.
Tomorrow, I'll push a different boundary.