Grant had hoped that once his sheets and blankets were on the clothesline, the Notification would have just given up. Recognized that he was an inn boy, that he had better things to do, like washing and scrubbing and pouring ale. It could have been his imagination, but if anything, it only blinked faster. Perhaps the Empire’s greatest deterrent to desertion wasn’t the threat of death, but the incessant flickering, prodding, and reminding to visit a recruitment center. The timer ticked like a scab wanting to be picked at, counting down the hours left to present himself or swing from the gallows.

  He looked down at his pruned fingers and cracked palms, felt the sting of soap in the countless nicks. Another nasty reminder. The laundry was finished, now, probably cleaner than it’d ever been. He’d actually enjoyed it that morning, the brief return to normal after the night he’d had. Now nothing was keeping him from heading into town.

  The sky was a dull gray, overcast with the clouds and gloom that seemed to blanket Iori nine days out of ten, but the early signs of morning were all around him. A woman from a neighboring house was beating her sheets with a paddle, and the stray dogs and cats were creeping through the alleys, looking for any bones or discarded leftovers.

  The merchants would be dragging their carts in right about now, reserving the best spot they could find, arguments on the verge of breaking out. Day laborers would be trudging through towards the mines and fields, dull looks in their eyes as the reality of another full work week set in.

  And Mr. Nerelot would be at his forge. He would know exactly what to do. He would make everything right again.

  Grant swallowed, made the final turn into the square, and nearly stumbled over his own feet.

  Instead of the orderly chaos he was used to, it was mayhem.

  Uniformed soldiers barked orders at the city guard, who had constructed a wooden blockade on the main road. Four men waved away all non-foot traffic, and carts and wagons stood helpless in a gridlock, their drivers craning their necks to the side to investigate the source of the holdup. Those at the back tried to push forward, while those at the front tried to push back. Runners ran down the line relaying the message, but more continued piling up, regardless of their efforts.

  The mayor stood outside the town hall, a two-story building of stained brick that dominated the west side of the square. His face twisted further with every word as he shouted at a uniformed officer, who only returned his gaze impassively. Grant was well out of earshot, but he had a few guesses about what was being said.

  Those let through the barrier wandered by every bit as confused as Grant was. They gawked, careful not to stare too closely at the soldiers. A brave few, mostly the elderly, asked for details, but the guards immediately urged them to go about their business. The people in Iori were simple folk—laborers, sailors passing through, and some merchants and minor nobles. Whatever was happening was going to be talked about for months.

  Entrances to the town square were barricaded only during festivals, and every resident was delivered proper notice well in advance. In the event of an emergency, they could also be closed off, but that did not explain the presence of soldiers.

  Grant’s heart tightened as realization set in. A twice-in-a-century selection just happened some 35 years early, and mere hours later, a bunch of army higher-ups showed up to take command?

  They were looking for him. And people like him.

  He had to get to Mr. Nerelot. The man would be at his forge across the town square, probably already at work. He could reach the shop in minutes. Dan’s father would have answers to all his questions.

  He would know what to do, and then so would Grant.

  But every time he tried to put a foot forward, a nagging feeling pulled him back. He shook his head. It wasn’t right. Grant had long ago learned to trust his gut, and so he waited for it to pass as he took deep, calming breaths.

  It persisted.

  He looked over the square again. Soldiers shouted orders. Laborers trudged through. The mayor argued. A horse whinnied. Shopkeepers stood on porches, shielding their eyes from the morning sun with their hands as they investigated the commotion.

  Grant’s gaze stopped on a man at the top of the tailor shop’s stairs.

  His left hand rested in his pocket while a pipe sat on his right. He was making a clear and deliberate attempt to appear nonchalant as he leaned against the railing—like he belonged just as much as any other person in the square that day.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  The problem was he didn’t. He made as much sense being in Iori’s town square as Emperor Genus would have.

  His hair was clean-cut and styled immaculately, but unlike Dan, he used a great deal of product on it. His clothes were impeccable, every stitch identical, every inch of fabric immaculate, leaving no questions about their cost. The owner of the shop whose stairs he stood on had neither the material nor the skill to tailor them himself. He wouldn’t have been in Iori if he had.

  But above his hair, his clothes, and his demeanor, what stood out most was his pipe, which shone with the unmistakable color of ivory.

  Plenty of wealthy people lived in Iori, but none of them would loiter on the steps of a shop first thing in the morning, smoking a pipe that cost more than the average house in the city.

  And why was he so interested in a bunch of unwashed peasants? Nobles’ interests included themselves, money, playing their stupid tavern games, scowling at commoners, themselves, spending money, faking laughs at their friends’ stories, and of course themselves, and the man was unconcerned with any of that. If anything, he was watching them, searching their features, trying to identify—

  Grant froze. Identify.

  His boots slipped trying to find purchase on the wet pavement, his feet kicking back as his body toppled forward, his hands grasping at the side of the house. He barely kept his balance as he ducked back into the alley and pressed his back against the damp wall, gasping for breath and holding his chest.

  He peeked around the corner to find the man still scanning the crowds. Grant wouldn’t pretend to know everything about how Identify worked, especially since the one time he cast it ended with him on the floor with Mana Depletion. But there was only one reason a man would be standing on the stairs of a closed shop, casting it on every person in town.

  The man’s head stopped moving. He pulled his hand out of his pocket and made a rapid series of gestures below his waist. Grant’s eyes followed the direction of his gaze, where he found an enormous soldier striding, pointing at a young woman’s back. The man on the tailor shop’s staircase nodded, almost imperceptibly, and the soldier grabbed her by the arm.

  She jumped and looked up, horror painted on her face. The soldier talked, and her head bobbed up and down. He said something else, and her lips moved in response. Then, he pointed toward a white building. Her eyes darted to the sides for a few moments and, with quiet resignation, she slumped her shoulders, then followed him through its doors.

  Onlookers watched and whispered to each other.

  Grant swallowed a mouthful of spit. She must have been selected. Just like him, she went to bed last night like any other day, and woke up in agony. Just like him, she received the Notification with congratulations followed by threats of capital punishment. Now, she would be sent to fight in a war on a distant world, and she didn’t have the least bit of choice in the matter.

  He closed his eyes, looking for another route. There were hundreds of alleys and side streets in Iori, and he knew every one of them. But even with a detour, there was no escaping the fact that he would have to cross the main road to get to the forge.

  If the man Identified him, he would be dragged straight to a recruitment center, just as the woman had been. He had to get to Dan’s father first.

  He risked another peek.

  Turn. Stop. Stare. Two seconds.

  There were hundreds of people in the square by now. Assuming there were 300, with about a second between casts, it would take the man 15 minutes to Identify everyone. Grant could cross the square in under two minutes, and so if he could avoid standing out, there was a relatively low chance he would be Identified, pointed out, and scooped up by a soldier or the city guard.

  It was an uncomfortable thing to wager his freedom on, but he moved forward anyway.

  Just look natural. You’re a laborer headed to work. You’re a normal, clueless, slightly frightened 18-year-old man, who just wants to survive the day.

  He took a single step before scampering back to his hiding spot, pressing his back into the wooden wall again.

  You’re an idiot. The soldier had already Identified many of the townsfolk. And only those between the ages of 18 and 30 would be selected, meaning he wouldn’t Identify anyone clearly out of that age range. And this didn’t even address the possibility of there being other former Campaigners on the lookout as well.

  His odds dwindled with every realization.

  Think. He looked for a solution.

  If not through, then over? He tilted his head back. The tiled rooftops were steeply sloped and slick from the rainfall. Even if he could scale the side of a house, which based on his below-average Agility seemed unlikely, one wrong step and he would come tumbling down, probably straight into the soldier’s arms, knowing his luck. He dismissed the idea, reprimanding himself for even giving it consideration.

  Under? Iori was one of the few cities in the north that had a sewer system. He was sure he could find a way into the tunnels that sat underneath his feet, but could he navigate them? He set the idea aside as a last resort.

  Other ideas flashed through Grant’s head, and he discarded them as quickly as they came to mind.

  A diversion, maybe? With what?

  Hide under a cart? They’re not being let through.

  Wait for the man to go relieve himself? What, like they’d just leave the streets open during that time?

  The longer he thought about it, the more the prospect of just giving himself up seemed to fit. Grant rubbed his eyes.

  “No,” he muttered, wringing his hands in frustration. “There has to be a way.”

  Peering out from behind the wall again, he found the answer walking—or rather, limping—right in front of him. An elderly woman wore a tattered shawl over her head. Her back hunched so far forward that it was almost parallel with the ground, and she leaned heavily on a cane. Clack, step, step. Clack, step, step. She stopped for a moment to catch her breath. Clack, step, step.

  Grant reassessed his strategy. Being seen wasn’t the problem. It wasn’t something he could avoid in such a crowded place either. Being Identified was. He cracked a smile. They were looking for young men and women. He would just have to be something else.