Chapter 16 Connor
CONNOR
The ancient stronghold of the Yām Kh?mk?n clung to the earth, its weathered, lichen-covered walls blending seamlessly with the jungle that had tried to reclaim it for centuries.
Connor stood on the highest balcony, watching mist rise from the canopy below.
Humid air pressed against him like a living thing, heavy with the fecund scents of life—and decay.
Insects droned their endless chorus while fruit bats shrieked, their leathery wings flitting through the velvet night.
The stone beneath Connor’s bare feet still radiated the day’s heat, but a cool mountain breeze raised goosebumps along his arms. He could taste a coming storm on that wind; metallic and electric, it promised violence.
Lightning flickered in the distance, harshly illuminating the landscape for milliseconds before plunging it back into darkness.
It had only been a few years since he’d killed the previous Master, a man with purple eyes whose real name Connor never learned. A man he’d respected, but one who’d been under the poisonous influence of Sophie’s mother, Pim Wat.
The memory of their final confrontation still haunted him; he’d been the Master’s choice of successor, but he’d never wanted to be. Hadn’t imagined or aspired to be the Yām Kh?mk?n’s leader. In defending himself and killing his mentor, he’d become trapped here.
His attempt to escape to another life with Sophie and her children had only brought them trouble and danger.
Behind him, the stronghold seemed to squeak and groan, ancient timbers and stones adjusting to the barometric pressure changes of the oncoming storm as he gazed out into the falling, flickering darkness; a night filled with the sounds of jungle life—and death.
“You sent for me, Master?”
Connor turned. The Healer stood in the doorway, his stocky frame filling the space.
His sandaled feet had made no sound on the worn stones.
Despite his sixty-odd years and graying beard, the man moved with a warrior’s grace.
His hands, thick-fingered and strong from massaging tired muscles, hung loose at his sides.
Of all the elders, he had never shown resentment at Connor’s accidental ascension, and he’d saved Connor’s life more than once.
The old man’s eyes caught the lamplight, reflecting it as Connor observed him—and his royal blue energy field. There was something unsettling in that gaze—a depth of knowledge that came from his decades of spiritual practice.
“Welcome, Healer,” Connor said. “Thank you for coming.”
The Healer joined him on the open terrace, bringing with him the scent of medicinal herbs and woodsmoke as his robes whispered over the stone floor. “You look troubled, Master.”
“I am. I’ve asked you here because I trust you.”
“I’m honored, Master.” The Healer bowed slightly; the oil lamp’s light gleamed over his shaved scalp.
“I need information from someone who won’t talk about what I’m asking for. Can I count on you?”
“Of course.”
“Sunan’s group, the Brotherhood of Ancient Ways, is gathering ancient Hawaiian artifacts for some purpose.” Connor tugged at the sash of his white gi in agitation. “They’ve stolen twenty-three pieces so far. What could they want with them?”
The Healer moved closer; the old man’s weathered face was grave, and the deep lines on it seemed to grow darker. “You know what day approaches?”
Another flash. Thunder rumbled closer, vibrating through the stone beneath their feet. Connor’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath skin stretched taut with tension. “The anniversary. Three years since I became Master.”
“The day Sunan has chosen for his challenge of you.” The older man moved to the parapet; his thick fingers curled around the balustrade and whitened as he gripped it. “They prepare for the Ceremony of Claiming.”
The lamp flames on either side of the door guttered suddenly, as if responding to the name. Shadows leaped and danced on the wall, and for a moment Connor saw shapes in them—warriors in battle.
He gusted out a breath, mastering fear. “I do not know of this ritual.”
“An ancient one. The Brotherhood believes that by gathering artifacts of power and focusing their combined will upon them, they can channel that energy.” The Healer looked up at him, dark eyes serious. “They seek to give Sunan every advantage when he faces you in the courtyard.”
Connor felt cold settle in his chest, spreading outward like ice crystals forming in his blood. “A week from now.”
“Yes. The ceremony will reach its peak when Sunan issues his formal challenge. His followers will be performing the ceremony, releasing the artifacts’ power to flow into him as the Brotherhood’s focused intention strengthens his spirit.
” The Healer’s voice dropped lower. “He means to kill you. Not just defeat you.”
“I know. That is how it’s done in the Yām Kh?mk?n. I learned that the hard way.” Connor narrowed his eyes. “The part you said about releasing the artifacts’ power. How is that done?”
“The artifacts are burned on an altar as the participants focus their intentions by chanting.”
A gecko called from somewhere in the rafters—a sharp, mocking sound that raised the hair on Connor’s neck. “That would be a tragedy. We must stop the ceremony from going forward.”
The Healer said nothing. The stronghold seemed to press in around them, centuries of tradition weighing like physical force.
Connor moved to the balustrade again. Lightning split the sky, revealing the jungle in a snapshot of silver and shadow.
Somewhere out there, Sophie was hunting the same enemies he was. A fragile thread between them, but a real one. “What can I do to prepare?”
“Clear your mind and heart,” the Healer said.
His voice carried the weight of absolute certainty.
“Meditate on the tiger’s-eye plinth before the men, where they can see you and surround you with power.
Set your intentions solely on victory.” He paused.
“And surround yourself with trusted comrades—though I know they are fewer without young Feirn by your side.”
“I had to send him. Sophie needs protection more than I.”
The Healer made a noncommittal sound, stroking his beard.
“Train diligently all week. Use the healing pools beneath the temple to restore your body each night. Most importantly . . .” He paused, as if choosing his words.
The silence stretched taut between them.
“You must commit completely to the Yām Kh?mk?n. No divided heart. No dreams of another life.”
Connor’s hands gripped the stone balustrade hard. The rough surface bit into his palms, grounding him in the present even as his mind reached across oceans. “You’re saying I need to let her go.”
“I’m saying you cannot defeat Sunan with half your spirit elsewhere.
He has spent years preparing for this moment, gathering followers, planning each detail.
His commitment is absolute.” The Healer laid a hand on Connor’s shoulder.
Heat radiated from the old man’s body, coiled strength that age had not diminished. “What is your commitment?”
Connor closed his eyes and saw Sophie’s face with painful clarity.
The way she’d looked at him that last morning before he left.
Her hair tousled, gorgeous eyes sleepy, not knowing he was leaving to protect her from this world.
Momi and Sean calling him ‘Uncle Connor.’ Their laughter and young voices, so light and bright, couldn’t be more of a contrast to the measured discipline of these ancient halls.
Rain began to fall suddenly, fat drops splattering against the stone. The air temperature dropped, raising goosebumps along Connor’s arms.
“The Brotherhood went after her,” he said. “They’re in Hawaii right now. If Sunan wins against me . . .”
“He will not stop with claiming the mastership,” the Healer confirmed. His voice was matter-of-fact, which somehow made it worse. “The Brotherhood sees her as your weakness. They will eliminate her and her family to solidify Sunan’s rule.”
In order to save Sophie, he had to survive. To survive, he had to win. To win, he had to become what the Yām Kh?mk?n needed—not a reluctant leader with one foot out the door, but the order’s true Master.
A lightning flash—then thunder crashed directly overhead, the rumble rolling through the stronghold like the drums of war—followed by the roar of the rain.
Connor and the Healer stepped inside at last. Connor closed the door to the balcony, shutting out the storm.
“I understand what you’re telling me,” he said at last.
The Healer studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “Come.”
He led Connor through the stronghold’s maze of corridors.
Their footsteps echoed off stone worn smooth by centuries of passage.
They passed the Hall of Blades, where weapons from a thousand battles hung in silent testimony.
Connor’s reflection flickered across polished steel—distorted, multiplied, fragmented.
Like his identity, torn between who he was and who he needed to become.
The Healer stopped before a wooden door Connor had never noticed, carved with symbols that seemed to shift in the lamplight. The old man pressed his palm against a worn indentation, and the door swung open on hinges that made no sound.
The chamber beyond was simple: polished stone floors, a counter with a basin and ceramic jug, a wooden chest beneath it.
In the middle of the room, a single wooden chair.
Ancient weapons lined the walls, and lamplight twinkled off their surfaces, a parody of coziness. The air smelled of lamp oil and soap.
“Sit,” the Healer instructed.