A full bell had passed by the time Grant returned to the town square. The guards and soldiers had restored relative order, the carts and carriages all escaped the jam. In his absence, the crowd had multiplied in size, and it flowed through the square like sap trickling down the side of a tree. It seemed the entire town was out now, and nobody knew what for.

  It was perfect. More bodies meant more people to Identify, which meant a lower chance of being found. More bodies meant more places to duck behind, and if it came to it, more people to duck under. Grant took real pride in only a few things. One of them was getting away from those who didn’t want to be gotten away from.

  Not that it was anything to be proud of. Just useful at times.

  And there was another he could add to his short list today. He looked absolutely hideous. He had put on the most stained and torn combination of slacks and a tunic he could find. Mr. Fletcher’s old clothes, probably older than Grant. They were speckled with black mold and stank of curdled milk.

  He completed his disguise with an old cloak over the trimmed mophead for hair. His scalp sweated, itching like he had hair mites. And while he might have, the reflection in the inn’s crown glass window showed a completely unfamiliar figure. Instead of a cane, Grant held a walking stick, which he gripped tightly between both hands, pressed into his armpit. He even decided to go barefoot for effect, though he was starting to regret that, as his soles stung and throbbed from the cobbled path. Close up, he looked positively ridiculous. From a distance, he might pass for an old, crippled beggar.

  Or at least he hoped so.

  Now for the hard part, he thought.

  He peeked out again. The same man was in the same spot, patiently scanning the crowd. Grant absently wondered how many of the selected he had found since they dragged the woman away. How many lives would be ruined today, how many would be sent to their deaths.

  It was as good a time as any.

  He took a breath, hunched over, stared down, and began slowly shuffling like a crab. Front foot forward, lean on your stick, drag the back foot. His heart pounded, and sweat poured from his brow. He trembled with effort on each pull.

  You’re just another beggar. No sudden movements. He pretended to take a brief break, just as the old woman had, resisting an urge to stretch his back, another to scratch his head. A day laborer almost bumped into him but deftly weaved past without sparing a second glance. It’s working, he thought to himself, feeling a twitch crawl up his leg. He ignored it. I just need to keep going.

  The tickle became a cramp. He continued his unsteady shuffle, letting his knee buckle a bit. I can’t believe this is working! Don’t slow down. Take another break, maybe. He winced as he stepped on something sharp, but he pushed through. The Forge was only steps away now. Almost!

  ***

  Rott

  The sign language they used in the Evenonian military confused the hell out of Rott, it did. Put a spear in his hands and give him something to thrust it at, that’s what he’d do for them, and nobody would have a complaint to say about how well he did it.

  Of course, you had to do what the mission called for, and skewering a bunch of bright-eyed boys and girls wasn’t what he was here for. They’d have plenty of that coming in the next few months, they would. He just happened to be on leave in Iori when the call came through that the Campaign went and showed up early, and that he had better get his ass in uniform and to the nearest station, or else someone was going to have something to say about it.

  Rott shook his head. 15 years. The Goddess must’ve dropped her hair in her soup to give them 15 shitting years before the next one. Some poor bastards probably lost their pops to the Fifth, and now they’re being sent into the Sixth themselves. Either things were getting real serious, or someone made a cosmic screwup.

  Igas threw signs at him way too fast. Again. Rott shrugged and raised his palms, the universal gesture for What the hell are you getting at, go slower. He only caught “white.” He was even proud of that one, he was. The noble shit wrinkled his nose at him, as if he hadn’t been told four damn times to go slower.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  He spelled out the next word, excruciatingly slow, mocking Rott with an open mouth, as if he was a toddler.

  M-O-P-H-E-A-D

  Rott paused. Mophead? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?

  He turned around, where sure enough, he found a mophead. Or rather, a mophead sitting on top of a kid’s head, poking out from under a shawl like a bunch of carrot tops sticking out a satchel, the dangling yarn swinging back and forward. The kid held a walking stick and shuffled sideways, pulling his back leg behind him like a lame. Rott stared, slack-jawed, as a man who’d just took an elbow to the chin, as the poor bastard inched his way through the square.

  “Lad, what the hell are you doing?”

  ***

  Grant limped forward, dragging his left foot behind him. He left a small smear of blood with each step, winced as his soles peeled off the stone every time he pulled them up. But he was almost there. Two more steps. Goddess, please, just two more step—

  A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. Grant stared at the ground, legs aching, head starting to pound. He waited there a moment, gritting his teeth, hoping it was just a mistake, waiting for the man to let go. He tried to think of something he could say, maybe just keep going like he hadn’t felt him, but the grip was strong.

  In a weak, breathy voice, he grunted. “Hmmm?”

  “It’s a bit early for the fall costume festival, isn’t it?” The voice was deep. Commanding. Not from Iori, which made it all the worse.

  Grant risked a look from under his cloak. A heavyset man with pock-marked skin returned his gaze. He wore a navy overcoat, not the beige gambeson of the guard, and there was no sword sheath on his belt. With scarred, massive hands like his, Grant wondered if the man was used to deflecting spear thrusts with his fists. His brown eyes were severe, but contained a hint of amusement, as though he was in on the joke but couldn’t tell anyone else about it.

  “A bountiful harvest to you?” Grant tried.

  The man smiled without humor.

  ***

  Twenty minutes later, Grant sat alone at a table in a windowless room. The smooth walls were a pale white, and a ceiling-mounted Mana crystal dimly lit the room. He stared up in wonder. Almost all homes and businesses in Iori relied on candlelight, lanterns, and natural sunlight. Mana crystals were rare.

  The door opened, and the pock-marked man entered, holding a drink in each hand and a stack of papers under his armpit. He gently set the cups on the table, settled into the chair opposite Grant, and began sifting through the forms, licking his fingertips every few pages. Eventually he found the one he was looking for and set the others aside.

  “Ah, there we go. Coffee or tea?”

  “Tea, I guess?” said Grant. He’d never had coffee. Or tea for that matter.

  “Yeah. I didn’t peg you as a coffee drinker.” He slid a cup across the table and then took a long draw of the black liquid in his, exhaling with delight. “Don’t start or you’ll never stop is my advice, it is.”

  Grant nodded silently. It wasn’t like he could afford coffee. Or tea for that matter.

  The soldier ran his index finger from the top of the form to the bottom. “There we go. Name?”

  “Grant Leeman.”

  “Age?”

  “18.”

  He grimaced. “Unlucky one, ain’t you? Occupation?”

  “Inn worker, I guess? I work at Fletcher’s Inn. Do you know it?”

  “No. Have you checked your Attributes yet?”

  “No,” Grant lied. He paused for a moment. Why did he say that? “Sorry. Yes.”

  If the man was bothered by his lapse in judgment, he didn’t show it. “What are they?”

  Grant recited them. The man winced at his Strength, but didn’t say anything about it. When Grant said his Perception was 22, he put the paper on the table and leaned forward, as though he hadn’t heard him right. “Did you just say your Perception was 22?”

  “Yes. Is that high?”

  “Mmmm,” replied the man noncommittally, making another note. “Can you tell me why you tried to sneak through the square in that awful disguise?”

  Grant was slightly offended at the insult of his disguise, but he wasn’t about to say so. “My friend Dan has a father.” He paused. Of course he had a father. “Uh, his name’s Edem Nerelot. I mean, his father’s name is. His name is Dan Nerelot. He is a former Campaigner—his father, I mean, and he owns a forge in the town square. I figured I’d ask him for advice before going to the recruitment center. On my way over this morning, I noticed the soldier Identifying everyone, and I thought he wouldn’t bother with an old beggar.”

  The only sound in the room was his pencil scratching against his paper. “How could you tell he was Identifying everyone?”

  Grant explained his out-of-place clothes, pipe, and the flashes of light behind his eyes. The man listened impassively while writing more. When his hand stopped, he began reading over the notes he had taken.

  The silence stretched. After what felt like minutes passed, Grant lost his patience and asked what had been on his mind since the hand landed on his shoulder.

  “Are you going to hang me?” His eyes burned as tears began to well.

  Don’t cry, chided the voice. He doesn’t care.

  The man stopped writing and looked back at Grant. He furrowed his brow. “For what?”

  Grant could only stare back, lip quivering. “I… I tried…”

  “Wearing a poor disguise and pretending to be lame isn’t a crime,” the man interrupted. “By my estimation, you still have some six hours to present yourself at the recruitment center.”

  Tears rolled down Grant’s chin. An onslaught of relief, fear, frustration and exhaustion rose from his belly, and he choked back a sob. Before he knew it, his head was on the table, and was crying openly. This is mortifying.

  For the second time that day, a hand fell on his shoulder. “You’ll be fine, son.”

  Grant sobbed harder.