Chapter 2

Dangerous regions in the world are labeled as Threat Zones and are given a color to mark just how dangerous the area is. Blue Zones are rare with 0% of death from an attack or injury of some kind. Green Zones are uncommon, with between 1% and 20% chance of death or injury. Yellow Zones have between 21% and 40% chance of death or injury. Orange Zones have between 41% and 60% of death or injury. Red Zones have between 61% and 80% chance of death or injury. And the ever dreaded Black Zones are rare, but they have an 81% to 90% of death. Injury in a Black Zone is all but guaranteed.

The sun was high in a sky half-obscured by thick gray clouds. The five moons were pale shadows looking down on the dense local forest. The forest was ripe with the scents of wet grass and damp soil. Dew sparkled on the leaves of the trees in the shimmering sunlight. I could not deny that it was a beautiful day. I would have soaked in the wonder of the scene if I hadn’t had a Great Axe hurtling at my face at top speed.

I dove away from the strike, feeling its wind rush through my hair. I heard a reverberating crack from behind me as I struck the dewy grass shoulder first. Rolling to my feet, I spun in a crouch to face my assailant. Four feet from me was the massive, scar-ridden gray-green back of an Orc. His massive Great Axe was lodged halfway through the trunk of a willow that looked to be ancient from its girth.

The burly Orc planted a massive boot against the tree trunk. The tree emitted a groan of defiant protest before releasing the weapon with a wrench of brute strength from my opponent. He hefted his axe in both hands as he slowly turned to face me. 

“Remember, boy, economy of movement.” Mystagogue Thrasher rumbled as he shouldered his axe and used a thick finger from his free hand to push his half-moon spectacles up his nose. “You avoided the blow but used too much energy. Minimal motion for maximum result.”

I pulled myself to my feet and threw my Vekenna to lodge in the sod of the Mystagogue’s lawn before folding my arm in defiance. “Mystagogue Thrasher-” I started when he raised a single finger. “Mister.” He corrected.

“Sorry. Mister Thrasher, what exactly is minimal movement when I need to avoid getting cleaved in half,” I pointed an accusing finger at his weapon, “by something the size  of a car hood?”

Thrasher stuck me with a look that said he was taking none of my complaining. “Don’t over-exaggerate… The attack was aimed to decapitate.”

I rolled my eyes so hard my head followed in the motion. “That’s not much of a difference, sir.”

The Orc, massive, even by Orc standards, blew out a sigh that could have taken a hat off someone's head. He shifted the axe to stand head down as he leaned on the but like a gentleman with a cane. Then again, he was a high-class gentleman. At the time, he was a bit out of place with an axe in hand and dressed in premium slacks and mud-covered hiking boots. But he was a Mystagogue, an instructor at Aegis Academy of the Grimmalk. He was even retired from the secret sect I was brought into, the Sect of the Dark Hunter. He took me to his countryside estate for the summer since I had no home to go to. I looked back at the massive three-story manor of stone, complete with a tower set as a cornerstone of the estate building. 

This was the kind of home I had dreamed of as a child. I couldn't help but think, ‘Look at me now. Almost sixteen years of age and my life has been as mad as Kassidan’s Parade, and I’ve wound up living in a fancy manor and getting to be trained to be an adventurer of the highest tier. And what did it cost? Only the death of my father, the burning of my home, and the betrayal of my uncle as well as my very first romantic interest.’  The thought was ripe with venom.

“Ahem.” Came a mock cough from Thrasher to catch my attention. When I turned back to face the off-duty Mystagogue, he continued his lecture, still leaning on his Great Axe like a cane. “You should know better than to daydream. I know your uncle taught you that.”

I shot the “You mean when the Wild Elf bastard, Thallos, brought me to the academy and got me indoctrinated into the Sect of the Dark Hunter only to brainwash me into being a double agent for his sick organization? You mean when he trained me by actively injuring me, stabbing, shooting, hacking, and crushing me to have me healed and have it all done over again?” In a fit of fury, I ripped my sweat-drenched t-shirt from my torso to expose the horror that was my body. My already alien skin, an olive bronze tan laced through with threads of ivory white, was covered from the shoulders down in dozens of overlapping scars in a range of shapes. Each and every scar was intentionally left to be remembered as a failure that needed to be corrected, and they covered my body in a macabre patchwork of raised pink stripes and patches over the marble stone pattern of the skin that covered them.

My breath was harsh and rough as I glared at the calm gentleman.”Iver, did you take your medication today?” That was all he asked, completely unphased by my tantrum. That shook me out of my rage.

“N-no.” I stammered, embarrassed. Near the end of my entry year at the academy, I had been diagnosed with a number of mental illnesses and was prescribed a very precise cocktail of medication to keep me level-headed. Without the medication, I was prone to fits of rage and periods of severe depression, among… other reactions. 

Thrasher shouldered his axe, nodded to my Vekenna, and said, “Let’s take a break. I’ll fix you a mug of herbal tea while you go dose.”

I stooped and yanked the Dwarven broad Shortsword from the sod and picked up the rag that was once a shirt. I tucked the rag under an arm and made my way to follow the Orcish gentleman while I examined my training blade. The dull edge of the metal blade would have mashed cheese rather than cut it. The so-called edge had notches gouged from it, and its face was dented, dinged, and strained with the age of the ill-treated blade.

As I held the blade up against the sun, I called out a question to the patient master. “I’m sorry, Myst- Mister Thrasher, but why am I using a worthless training blade while you come at me with a bladed axe?”

He turned his head and called over his shoulder, “You’re using a training sword, boy, because you are training. You have yet to earn the right to come at me with a lethal weapon.”

“But, sir, wasn’t that the point of all of the training last year? By the academy standards, I have earned the right to wield a lethal weapon. So why not here too?”

Thrasher stopped at the doorstep of the manor and gave a heavy sigh before turning to face me and lowering his axe back into a cane use again. “Iver, I would have felt comfortable with that ruling for almost any other student that graduated to the Sect of the Crimson Blade or the Silent Heart. But Iver, you were trained by Thallos. You said it yourself. The way he trained you was appalling even by the Sect of the Dark Hunter standards. He raised and trained you as you would raise and train a prized fighting dog for the blood pits. You were supposed to be trained by a patient mentor who understood your limits and knew how to push them safely. Thallos abused you to the point of physical and psychological trauma that a standard master would have you banned from any form of combat. But I know the measure of you, Mister Maverick, and I know you can surpass these hurdles, but first, we need to teach you control, both physical and mental.” He stepped aside from the door and gestured toward it with a nod of his head. “But for now, the first step is taking your medication as prescribed and centering yourself with some rest and some tea.”

Without another word, I sprang through the doorway and hustled upstairs to my room. “If I knew you still had that much energy, I should have had you fetch the firewood before coming in.” Thrasher called up to me as I went. “I won’t make the same mistake twice, boy.”

I’d give the odds of him holding up to that threat 60%. The 40% chance was that his soft heart would give me a break because I’m broken. 

Yeah, that’s how I thought of myself. Broken. I still think the same way most days. At that time in the past, I hated the thought. Every time I thought the word in relation to myself, even the word in my mind was spat with enough vitriol to shame any viper.

The inside of the manor was decorated with dark wood panels, footboards, and banisters, all carved with depictions of lions and eagles wherever they would fit. The wallpaper was a warm red that always reminded me of a wine, with stripes of rouge that summoned thoughts of grape vineyards to my mind. But at that time, I noticed none of it as I stewed in my own self-loathing venom.

I stepped into my room, dropped my once shirt to the floor, and tossed my training blade onto the bed before finally letting out a sigh of defeat. Hating myself for my condition won’t change a thing. Like the Mystagogue said, I needed control, and I felt it was more sourly needed in my mind than in my body.

I dropped onto the edge of my bed and pulled a metal case from my nightstand drawer. The case was a seamless dark gray metal, six inches deep, by a foot wide, by eight inches tall. I slid my left wrist over the top, the Bio Identification Chip (B.I.C) in my wrist, unlocking the case with a green light and a soft click. I peeled the lid back to reveal a hypojection mount, also known as a hypo-jector, and rows of vials filled with a glowing opalescent fluid that swirled and shifted. The hypo-jector and vials were set into Black Rack material, a micro-hexagonal formed surface designed to mold to hold any shaped item. Also in the Black Rack material was a box of disposable needle tips.

Each vial held three doses. One dose each morning. I had already used the entire first layer of five vials. Even after three weeks of doses, the idea of taking medication was strange. It seemed like I was never going to get used to injecting myself, and always having to change injection sites only made it worse. But that was a minor inconvenience compared to what it was like when the medication took effect. It was strange having my emotions toned down. While I was more patient, thoughtful, and focused while medicated, it was uncomfortable having life become faded. Colors were less vivid, smells were less potent, and tastes were less full. The world became smothered, the same as my emotions.

 I hated these side effects so much that I questioned using the medication daily. Some days I even skipped doses when I knew I was going to be doing a lot of mental acrobatics with my crafting. That day I had skipped intentionally because I was planning on having a late night working on my tactical gauntlet. But the Mystagogue would know if I went unmedicated.

I pulled free the hypo-jector, slotted a vial of medication into it, and uncapped the needle that, to me, looked several sizes larger than necessary. With my eyes squeezed shut, I leaned my head to the left as far as it could go and aimed the needle at my neck. I took a slow and deep inhale as I braised myself for what came next. I jabbed the needle into the meat of my neck fast and hard as I blew my breath fast and just as hard. I squeezed the injection trigger grip with white knuckles. As I felt the flow of injection stop, I heard the click confirming the same. I slowly pulled the needle free with a hiss of pain. 

I double-checked the fluid level of the vial in the hypo-jector before ejecting the used needle tip and installing a new one with the cap still on. With the addition of regular injections to my daily routine, the Mystagogue gave me an old XXXL whisky bottle to dispose of used needle tips since they were classified as biohazardous waste. Apparently, those that dealt with regular medical injections referred to containers used for this purpose are called sharps containers. The bottle he gave me was large enough it wouldn’t fill for a long while.

I slotted the device back into the case with a reflexive sneer on my face. After closing the case and hearing the sealing click, I slipped the case back into place in the nightstand. I took a few moments to wash my upper body and face with a damp cloth before selecting a fresh shirt from my dresser.

I pulled on my new shirt, careful of my horns that back then were short but pointed, as I made my way down the stairs and into the kitchen. The kitchen was an expansive room lined wall to wall with the latest cooking appliances and a massive island countertop in the center. Every bit of new technology gleamed like new, but that was because they were never used. The only corner of the kitchen that felt lived into was near the back. An old wood-burning stove against one wall with the other side of the corner was occupied by a just-as-old gas oven. A black kettle, worn with age, piped a tune from atop the light stove as I stepped into the room. 

With practiced haste and grace, the massive Orc pulled the kettle from the flame as he produced a teacup from a cabinet. He was already moving to beat me to my spot on the counter where I ate my meals when I waved for him to stop. He gave me an expectant look, and my response was to glance at the cup in his hand. The Mystagogue adjusted his stance with a silent ‘ah’ passing his lips. He turned back to the cabinets to replace the cup and pull a clay mug for me.

“The mug, not the cup.” he said with the ease of habit as he filled my mug for me before turning to the oven.

“I drink tea from a cup when I’m a noble. I drink rum by the tankard when I’m a brigand. But when I’m home, it's tea from a mug.” I replied, almost on reflex.

“Well, boy, I do hope that the manor can feel like a home to you. But you know it can’t be forever.” Thrasher rumbled his wisdom and warning as he pulled something free from the stove. The device was so small in comparison he couldn’t fit two hands into the space within. But one-handed, the Mystagogue pulled free to lay a rack of ribs upon the table. My gaze jumped from the Orc to the ribs in plain confusion.

In answer, the large gentleman gave a tectonic level of a shrug as he said, “The hunter down the hill got lucky with two catches on his last trip. He was offering meat for a reasonable price, and I thought it might be a nice change for you from canned soups.”

I pointed a defensive finger at the master as I accused, “You were the one that said I would be allowed to cook what would make the least mess. Everything I tried, you said was a disaster. You secluded me to making canned soup.”

“While this is true and may have seemed harsh, part of it was to prevent spoiling you needlessly. If you're going to be an adventurer, that means a lot of meals from cans, bags, or REMs (Ready to Eat Meals) when you can’t catch anything.”

I honestly didn’t care why I was getting something so good at that moment. I had only had the master’s barbeque once before when he slow-smoked brisket and served it with homemade sauce. After the slop that was served at the academy, nearly any other food would be a step up, but Thrasher’s cooking was nothing short of the divine when he took the rare occasion to cook.

But this was just another lesson. One I should have learned much sooner but failed to remember for most of my adventuring career. The lesson; don’t get distracted by gifts or rewards. Everything has a price, and normally the prettier the prize, the dirtier the job. 

The Mystagogue encouraged me to eat. He said I was going to need my strength. As much as I enjoyed the beginning of the meal, the medication took effect halfway through the meal, and the flavor faded. I still ate as much as I could without overfilling. I wasn’t going to let that meal go to waste.

I finished my meal and my tea in quick order, licking the sauce from my fingertips as I tried to keep my thoughts clear. I leaned back on my heels and arched my back, left arm stretched high, right hand holding my left elbow.

“You ready?” The Mystagogue asked.

Rather than answer his question, I turned to him and asked my own question. “This was because my next academic year starts next week, didn’t you?”

He raised a single heavy brow. “What would make you say that?”

“I’m not stupid, master. If last year was a trial by fire, then this year is from the frying pan and into the dragon’s flame. You forgot that I spent a lot of time with Rose last year before she fled with Thallos, and she was a year ahead of me. From the level of slate to tier one. Moving forward, murder at the academy will only become more common. Training in all fields will only intensify, and I have it worse than most. You're trying to give me something fond to look back on, right?”

Thrasher turned to reach for the door that led from the kitchen to the back garden, waving for me to follow with his free hand. “You think of it in that manner. Personally, I find random acts of kindness to be some of the most cherished moments in the lives of those who face strife. You chose your path. A trail of hardship unmatched by any other sect.” 

I followed him through the door back out into the overcast day. We passed through organized plots of assorted vegetables and into his garden of flowers. The area was a canvas covered with a hundred colors in a thousand shades, and it all felt… less. The massive man stopped by a spread of snapdragon flowers and plucked a flower free from the stalk to examine it as he continued to speak.  

 “You are about to start a period of your life you may very well regret. Five standard sects in the Order, each with their own roles in the goal to better the world. Warriors, mages, spies, engineers, and assassins. Each sect has a specialized study and training regiment to turn each student into a precision tool.” He turned his gaze from the flower between his fingers to pin with a stare that carried the weight of years of hard-earned wisdom. “And you, boy, being the mad child you are, decided to join the hidden sect. The very group that is trained to perform any role from any other sect. The sect that is often stuck with the darkest and dirtiest of the work of the order.”

I tried to brush off his comment and weighted stare with a wave of my hand. “I guess I’m just a masochist. Why become a warrior, mage, spy, engineer, or assassin when I could become all of them wrapped up in one scarred package?” I joked, but my humor came out hollow and shaky. Was that because of the meds?

The Mystagogue didn’t even smirk at my lame joke. “Boy, you chose to walk a path that demands heavy sacrifice. Don’t think so lightly of the days ahead.”

I shot the master a deadpan look. “I’m sorry, Master Thrasher, but there’s not much left for me to sacrifice. I’ve never known my mother. My father was butchered in front of me by my uncle. I lost my home. Because of my species, I face daily discrimination whenever I’m in any city or town because I have ‘devil's blood’. The first girl I have ever had feelings for betrayed me and fled with my slither-spined uncle. I can barely call my thoughts my own with or without medication. And let's not forget the topic of my last year at the academy, consisting of routine and constant abuse from the very same uncle who has done everything in his power to ruin and/or control me. What more do I have to lose, master?”

Thrasher’s face read of concern and sympathy as he rubbed his chin in thought. “There’s no need to be so bleak, boy. I will not argue that your life has been hard, but you still have good in it. You still have your friends Nennel Darrdane and Ferris Stillwind, correct?”

I bobbed my head with a tilt in acknowledgment of the truth of the statement.

“And that about that Gnomish girl Tessa?”

I winced at that. Tessa’s state was a soar subject.

“I would also like to think that I am not such a terrible person. Bringing you to my summer home and training you as I have.”

I gave him a nod of acquiescence. “You’re not wrong, master. But I doubt I’ll be seeing any of my friends much this coming year. I have been slotted with in-field training with Mystagogue Navor this year. And from what little I’ve seen of the lady, she seems on par with Thallos when it comes to a sadistic streak.”

Thrasher gave an amused huff. “I won’t deny that lady Terra has been known for… unorthodox training, and she has a temper. But she is good people. I’m sure that if I spoke with her, I could set your friends to join you for your training. Mz. Darrdane and Mr.Stillwind are both Mastloks, after all.”

To clarify, in the Hermetic Order of the Aegis, a Mastlok is someone that is a member of two or more sects. Because of the distasteful role of the Sect of the Dark Hunter, both the sect and my part in it were kept secret from most. But since I was training to be able to fill any role from any sect, I was called a mastlok as a cover. I was put down in the unclassified papers as a member of the Burning Hand, the Crimson Blade, and the Blackened Crown sects.

“What does their role as Mastloks have to do with Mystagogue Navor and my field training?” I asked as I followed Thrasher as he stepped out of the garden and passed into the woods behind his house.

“Remind me again which sects they are a part of.”

“Well, Nel is with the Sightless Eye and Crimson Blade.”

“So, both a spy and a warrior.” he called back.

“And Ferris is with Silent Heart and Crimson Blade.”

“Making him an assassin and a warrior. Now, do you remember what we talked about when I called you into my office at the end of your first quarter as a slate?”

My brow wrinkled in thought. “I’m sorry, sir, but we talked about quite a bit. The score vectors… Those were used from that point on for the rest of the year. I remember that I barely got passing scores on the vectors and grades at the time.”

“I’m specifically referring to Mastloks and their role in the order.” he clarified.

“Wweelll…” I drew out that word as I jarred my brain for memories of that day. “You said that it was a hard path to take, that it required cutting back on mundane classes to make room for the training of both sects. You also said that there was no turning back once starting down that path.”

“If you remember, my boy, I had explained that each sect has information that they keep separate from the other sects for security purposes. I had explained that Mastloks were a security weakness, so they are put through more rigorous training to limit the likelihood of one of them being captured and divulging classified information. Field training in active threat zones has been known to be a training method for Mastloks for generations. Mystagogue Navor likely won’t be happy keeping an eye on several trainees at once, but I’m confident I can convince her.”

“Whow, whow. I’m sorry, master, but can you back up a few steps.” I made a slowing motion with my hands as my brain tried to keep up with the topics at hand. “Are you saying my field training is going to be in an active threat zone? As in, my life will be in real danger?” I could hear the anxiety rising in my voice as just the thought of that kind of situation would normally pull me into a panic attack, but the medication minimized the rising anxiety.