COLORS

---an explanation for those who cannot see them

---provided by The One They Misplaced

RED is

The bold and hollow horn beckoning you to rise

The warmth of the sunset on your skin

The strength of saying good-bye to one you know you will never see again

ORANGE is

Breath spiraling through a pipe, a gasp not quite manifesting a whistle

Rough rock beneath your knees

The trust that you will do as you must

YELLOW is

A young girl’s giggle

The tickle of an insect landing on your finger

The flutter in your stomach when the ground disappears beneath your feet

GREEN is

The wooden voice of a double reed

The wind, neither warm nor cold, brushing your cheeks

The desire to look around the next corner, peer into every box, always asking how and why

BLUE is

Raindrops sliding down leaves and plopping into a pond

A soft blanket wrapped around your shoulders

The fierce, protective, frustrated love of a mother

PURPLE is

The chime of metal kissing glass

Standing under a waterfall, arms coated in sleeves of movement

The amusement wrought by solving a puzzle

“This is disgusting.” Xlack Ekymé held a shish-kebabbed pair of putrescent vegetables at arm’s length.

On the grass that ringed Vlavaran Base’s gardens, he sat with four people from his new hrausq. That meant team, he reminded himself. They were supposed to look out for one another. They were Adjuvants, Talented hybrids who defended the weak, a silent voice for those no one saw.

This was not the food of heroes.

He was the only one not eating it. Stevalok had already gobbled most of his two gourds before Xlack even pulled his out of the lunch kit, let alone unwrapped it to find a steaming, smelly duo of gooey blobs on a stick.

“More for me.” Stevalok swiped one of Xlack’s veggies and stuffed it in his own mouth.

Juice spattered his russet cheeks, or at least, that was how Xlack imagined the scene would look if he could see colors. He couldn’t, but he knew Stevalok’s skin was supposed to be a warm brown, not the smooth gray he saw.

Lanox’s cascades of platinum hair blew in the wind from her own frantic wave. “Don’t eat his food!”

“He doesn’t want it.” Stevalok reached for the second one, pointed teeth peeking from his grin.

Lanox blocked him.

“Ya should eat it, Ekymé. It’s going to be a long day, and it’ll only seem longer if ya are hungry,” Rifo admonished, red brows high over mud-green eyes as he gestured with his neatly nibbled meal.

Xlack had seen both colors many times in the memories his new teammates had shared with him, but these bright shades were harder for him to render in his mind’s eye. He tried, though, because he knew that was how the others saw Rifo, how Rifo saw himself, and Xlack wanted to fit in as best he could.

He tried to see Rifo’s jacket as jade, to add the appropriate crimson to his explosion of hair and the amalgam of blues to Entrycii’s bedhead. One of those blues was supposed to match the cerulean of Lanox’s crooked shirt. Dressed in yellow, Stevalok was arguably the most eye-catching.

But did Xlack have to learn colors and eat weird food?

“It has tendrils.”

Sticky incredulity coated his gray skin. All of him was in grayscale, as was typical for those of the planet Napix, a place to which he could never return. Just a few weeks ago, he had been considered elite on that world, an Aylata, a hybrid of Napix and Magni, mandated with protecting the Napix Empire.

But change had swept that empire, and Xlack had chosen to save Navaria Twi, who belonged here in Alliance territory. Her team had taken him in, and he was grateful, but they were also the offspring of chaos—loud, unconventional, and annoying.

“Yer Ier also has tendrils.” Rifo’s squinty gaze flicked to the sheathed weapon on Xlack’s belt. At the moment, it looked like a flat square.

“I wouldn’t eat my Ier either,” Xlack grumbled. “And at least my Ier doesn’t stink.”

“Stink like what?” The chrome splotches traipsing diagonally across Entrycii’s tan skin glistened as he narrowed his eyes, a sure sign he was up to something.

Gaze on his unwanted veggie, Xlack ignored it. “Stink like armpit.”

Stevalok laughed. “You must have some nicely scented pits if they smell like globina.”

Revulsion scrunched Xlack’s face. “See, globina doesn’t even sound appetizing.”

“Do your pits really smell like globina?” Nose twitching, Entrycii inclined closer.

Xlack leaned away, hands creating a barrier. “I thought Knalcals had personal space issues.”

From his opposite side, Stevalok also leaned in.

“Hey! Rifo, help!”

“They’re only trying to get a reaction out of ya.” The image of serenity, Rifo sipped his drink.

“It’s working,” Xlack huffed and scrambled to his feet. He dropped the unwanted shish-kebab, and Stevalok caught it.

“Ooh! A reward.”

The odorous blob was gone in one bite.

Lanox’s slit nostrils flared. “Ya are such a gkapu.”

Xlack pictured Stevalok’s face on the viscous, spherical creature. It tucked in its small skull and stubby legs and rolled across a flower-filled field in pursuit of Entrycii. Just before it smashed him, Xlack swept in to save the day with an oversized grill.

Magni gkapu might have been a disastrous introduction to the Knalcal ecosystem, but when cooked in traditional Napix spices, they were delicious.

Xlack’s mouth watered. “I’m going to walk around some.”

With a post-lunch lazy sigh, Rifo stood. “I’ll go with ya.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

Rifo shrugged. “Neither do I, but that’s what it means to be an amaraq.”

Annoyance settled over Xlack like a blanket of woven thorns. Their hrausq was made up of smaller two-person teams referred to as dyads. One’s assigned partner was labeled an amaraq. Xlack was supposed to fill the vacancy created when Rifo’s amaraq had died.

Wherever one amaraq was, there the other was supposed to be, so went the mantra, but Rifo didn’t trust Xlack, and Xlack suspected Rifo only stuck so close because he wanted to make sure the former Aylata didn’t blow them all up.

“If I said I headed for the bathroom now, you wouldn’t follow me, would you?”

“No, I’d tell ya I’ll be within whispering distance, but try not to need me.” Rifo scratched the back of his spiky head as he plopped, and the fish-shaped pendant on his bracelet caught the light. An Adjuvant emblem. It said he belonged here.

Xlack didn’t have one.

“Lazy lumps of dirt!” Stevalok’s mentor hollered, purpose in her long, quick strides toward the group. No, Xlack did not remember her name. It was enough just to keep straight all nine members of his new hrausq family, let alone the names of their teachers.

“Lazy lumps of dirt have no ears with which to hear you, Master Kukani!” Stevalok shouted back.

“They do when they’re you, tiny clod.” Kukani stopped behind her student and leaned over him to meet his gaze upside-down. Her sans sclera, overlarge eyes held a zeal that reminded Xlack of Fire Aylata. Stevalok’s grin only grew as she chided, “If you’re done eating, the soil isn’t going to till itself.”

No, mechetts did that. Mechanical drones performed the hard labor involved in farming back home, as far as Xlack knew, but here all Adjuvants were expected to take part in food cultivation. It helped them ‘connect with the land’ since they were all at least part foreigner. If they expected the planet to support them, they had to give it at least a little in return.

Stevalok remained motionless, grin both defiant and expectant.

“Well?” Kukani pressed.

“Master, I’m never done eating. Lanox thinks I’m a gkapu, and I think she might be right.”

“Then I’ll put a yoke on you and have you pull a plow. Get up.” Her long fingers wrapped under Stevalok’s arms and lifted him as if he were weightless. Kukani was one of the largest people Xlack had ever seen.

Stevalok easily slipped out of her grasp, flipped into a somersault, and returned to a sitting position a few body lengths away, grin even wider than before.

Rifo pulled Xlack’s attention from their game. “We’d better get going if we want to be back in time for yer meeting with the leaders.”

“Are all five leaders really coming to see him?” Lanox asked. “I mean, Vlavaran is a minor base. I thought they would call him to Mumir.”

Rifo shook his head. “They want to see Twi, too, and she can’t travel right now.”

Insects crawled through Xlack’s gut, chewing away at his insides. It had been a month since he had turned his back on his own and brought Twi here.

“Reckless energy never emerges gracefully and dies easily,” she had told him, sitting on death’s doorstep.

What he had done was reckless, but he wouldn’t let himself regret it. She lived because of it. She would recover, and he would do everything he could to help her, even meet with Adjuvant leaders.

“We’ll be there at your interview,” Stevalok called as Kukani carried him away, “to support you and all.”

“He really means we’ll be there to get out of chores.” With a mischievous grin, Entrycii slinked after his amaraq.

Head wagging, Lanox crossed her arms. “Those two are so immature. Well, come find me after yer interview. I’ll be in the med-center with Twi.”

With a perky finger wave, she rushed off across the field. Wishing he headed in the same direction, Xlack watched her until she was out of sight.

***

“People have a hard time seeing potential,” Rifo lectured as he and Xlack walked through the endless halls of Vlavaran Base.

Some of the passages had been left in their natural cave-like vestige. Some were tiled in bronze and white. This was one of the smallest bases, but Xlack didn’t quite believe it. How did they keep everything hidden if it was so large? Why hide anyway? Aylata didn’t hide. They were respected.

“If ya want the leaders to see ya as an Adjuvant, ya need to stop walking, talking, and dressing like an Aylata.”

“How exactly do I ‘walk like an Aylata’?”

“Yer shoulders are too stiff, like ya forgot to take the hanger out of yer jacket. Try slouching a little and talking like me.”

Xlack adopted a halting lilt. “My. Teachers. Would. Have a. Fit if. I talked. Like ya.”

“Well, that didn’t sound natural at all. I hope old man Pongoi has come up with a good outfit for ya.”

Memories of the tailor taking his measurements last week formed weights around Xlack’s ankles. “Tell me again why I can’t just choose my own outfit.”

“Did ya choose that outfit?”

“Yes, actually.” A long time ago, but he still liked it. It was as familiar as his own skin, and he wouldn’t trade away the convenience of Adapt material. It was not alive, but it almost felt like it was.

Rifo tossed him a dubious look. “Why did ya choose something so…complicated? I mean, seriously, how long does it take ya to even put on yer shoes?”

“Less time than it takes you to wake up.”

Only five straps secured each of Xlack’s boots, but the way they crisscrossed, he admitted it did look like more. His jacket followed a similar pattern, straps woven around his right side, but he could prepare for the day three times over in the time it took Rifo to emerge from his half-dream world.

If spoken to while in such a state, Rifo might respond, usually incoherently, and if anyone happened too near, they might receive a punch and the excuse, “There was a gkapu on yer face!”

“And what’s with the loose strings hanging from yer sleeves?”

Xlack grimaced. “Have you ever tried to tie something on your own wrists?”

“Point taken, but don’t they get in the way? Or do ya use them to tie up the bad guys ya catch?”

Xlack snapped his arm, and the laces in discussion whipped the back of the critic’s neck.

Rifo’s fingers consoled his stinging skin. “Ow! That seems petty.”

“I’m getting a new outfit today anyway. Stop picking on my old one.” He tried to say it with a smile but felt the corners of his lips tremble and fall as Rifo stepped up to a nondescript door and pressed the chime on the frame.

As the tailor’s voice bid them inside, Xlack’s heart tried to flee without him. The room smelled of fabric, glue, and dye.

“I think I’ll put him in black and green,” Pongoi had said as he measured.

Rifo had complained that those were his own colors, and Xlack had been grateful for the objection. He wasn’t comfortable wearing colors, but he couldn’t explain why. He knew why, but he didn’t think it was a reason with which Rifo would agree. It showed he still thought like an Aylata, and the whole point of this wardrobe change was to prove the opposite.

But he was an Aylata.

This felt like trying to pretend to be something else. Someone else.

Pongoi led him to a small, screened off space with a garment bag hanging from a hook. “That look on yer face says ya think I’ll give ya Lanox’s hand-me-downs.”

Xlack tried to laugh along, but that possibility hadn’t occurred to him, and now it was a stubborn doubt protruding from the back of his mind like a deadly arrow.

Pongoi left him alone behind the screen, and Xlack slowly opened the bag. A bud of relief blossomed when the fabric appeared in grayscale.

Of course it does. I wouldn’t be able to see if it was colored or not.

If I don’t know, does it matter?

He pulled off his shirt, skin prickling in the conditioned air, and slipped the new one over his head. It smelled of chemicals with no traces of home.

It fit exactly like his old one, black and snug with sleeves hooking over his thumbs, but its high collar lacked the insignia of his home territory. So did the shirt lying crumpled at his feet—the pin was safely hidden back in the hrausq room—but this one lacked the marks of ever having worn that proud symbol of where he belonged.

Where he had belonged.

He paused as he secured his belt. Again, these pants fit much the same as his old ones, but the outer seam of the right thigh was monochrome and blank, devoid of clan pattern.

Ekymé the Great had picked up the ruins of the infant Napix Empire and built something powerful out of it. The impression of stacked squares Xlack had always worn represented that, said he was part of that line. He had that greatness in him.

His leg felt bare without it, a guilty reminder he had betrayed his heritage and his family.

He threw the rest on quickly and stepped out from behind the screen.

Rifo’s disappointed gaze slid to Pongoi. “He still looks like an Aylata. It’s black and gray.”

Relief swelled into a whole garden, and Xlack just wanted to lie in the middle of it.

“Not entirely.”

Paradise shriveled. Xlack couldn’t move, a statue slowly crumbling away.

Pongoi’s fingers flicked toward the reflective wall beside them. “Look in the mirror and tell me what ya think.”

Languid as the sinking sun, Xlack swiveled.

“There is no black in this outfit,” the tailor explained. “It is the darkest shade of blue, same as Twi’s hair.”

“Which looks black ninety-nine percent of the time unless the light hits it just right,” Rifo grumbled.

Xlack’s gaze ran along his double. He couldn’t tell the pants were blue, and apparently neither could Rifo.

It’s fine. It’ll be fine.

The mirror didn’t show the blankness of his pant leg. The light gray jacket’s lower hem hovered even with his knees, split up the front and flared to allow plenty of room for movement.

“His hair and even his skin are gray,” Pongoi observed. “Any color I add has to be subtle or risk overwhelming him.”

Xlack saw the double-meaning of ‘overwhelm,’ in that, whether Pongoi meant it or not. If they told him his pants were the color of a ruby or a sunset, he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t tear them off and run through the halls half-naked.

That would be a great impression to greet the leaders with.

Rifo shook his head. “I see the labyrinthine boots are the same.”

“They were my inspiration.” Pongoi swept a showcasing gesture along Xlack’s arm. “Note their influence in the crisscrosses on the jacket’s sleeves.”

Rifo chuckled. “At least he’ll still be prepared if he needs to tie someone up.”

Xlack’s gaze traced the wide straps. “You volunteering to be my first victim?”

Pongoi cleared his throat and rocked on his heels. “I haven’t heard yer verdict.”

Xlack’s reflection was a stranger, but wasn’t that what he wanted? Who was he becoming? Who was he supposed to become?

“I like it.” Truth. And also a lie.

Continued in Chapter 2: Not a Puppet

Thank you for reading!

It seemed like of lie of omission for the door to be so plain—average size, no ornamentation, not even a label touting what room it shrouded. Even without a sign, Xlack knew some of what awaited him through this doorway: He would stand before the Adjuvant leaders, and they would decide his future.

“Just be yerself,” Rifo admonished, “because if that’s not good enough, well, then ya shouldn’t be here anyway, right?”

“Thanks.” The word escaped as an anxious sigh followed by a breath for courage as Xlack slid the door aside and stepped into the room. Rifo trailed him, Stevalok and Entrycii shadowing a few paces behind. The latter pair placed themselves on either side of the frame and sat, attentive and respectful. Xlack had never seen them so genuinely serious.

I’ve only known them a month.

Twi and Rifo had coached him in the basics of Adjuvant hierarchy and culture, as had Entrycii and Stevalok, though he found most of what these latter two said to be purposefully inaccurate. He wished Twi were here standing with him, but after that one outing where she found him by the ravine, Dr. Qcoice confined her to the med-center. The leaders would speak with her separately.

As he had been told, there were five of them. They sat behind the only furniture, a raised, curved desk that lined the back wall. It was brushed metal like the rest of the room.

Worry and suspicion wafted from a Knalcal woman nearly invisible in the far corner, draped in layers of cloaks and completely hidden. In the opposite corner, he recognized Qcoice’s robust frame in her doctor’s scrubs, overlarge, vertical-slit eyes focused on him.

Next to her sat Mystis, entirely too amused by all this. The hood of her voluminous cloak was pushed back, revealing the bright scarf that held her unruly, snow-colored hair, no shadow obscuring her dark skin lined by time or the gleam in her stippled irises.

Playing Mystis’ opposite in nearly every way, a middle-aged Tala man who resembled Rifo filled the seat closest to the hidden woman. In the center posed another Tala, the oldest besides Mystis. This one, Myr, exuded calm, and Xlack focused on him, hoping that tranquility would be contagious.

Silent, Myr stared back.

“Do you want to be an Adjuvant?” Qcoice began.

Before Xlack could answer, Mystis chuckled. “That is obvious, isn’t it?”

“Even so, we have to hear him say it,” her opposite growled.

“Please, Terkis,” Mystis scoffed, “his answers will be much more entertaining if I ask the questions.”

Rifo winced, and Xlack instantly knew an interrogation by Mystis was something to be avoided. Yet, what could he say to stop it?

“I want to be an Adjuvant,” he chirped. The two Tala among the leaders would spot the duplicity that escaped with the declaration. He did want to be an Adjuvant, and yet he didn’t.

Too late to take it back now.

His eyes flitted along the row, this time skipping over the center man. That one’s charcoal gaze was too heavy, like rain trying to soak him.

They all waited for Myr to speak, and insects joined the unseen deluge on Xlack’s skin, trying to bore between his cells. Rifo sent him a sideways, inquisitive glance, and Xlack realized his own breaths were a bit harder than necessary.

It’s because of Myr’s stare.

All of it was, the feeling that he was drowning, a city under siege.

He met the old man’s gaze and pushed back. The attack didn’t lessen, but a grin appeared on the leader’s face, and finally, he spoke.

“We will each ask him a question. Qcoice, yers has already been answered. Terkis?”

“What do ya hope to gain from this?” The resentment burning that question nearly bowled Xlack over.

He shot back, “Life.”

“Ya mean to kill us, then?”

Annoying double meanings.

“No! I mean to make a life here for myself, not to take lives. I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“Not true,” Terkis huffed.

“But I want to be here. I want to be useful.”

Glee shined in Mystis’ eyes, and Xlack turned back to Myr. His stare had grown even heavier, and Xlack pushed against it again, gaze falling into a crooked glare, a facial tick his uncle had often advised him to lose.

He wasn’t here to impress his uncle, to be a proper Mind Aylata pouring fear into the hearts of any who dared oppose him. Maybe it was alright if one eye narrowed further than the other.

“Stella,” Myr cued.

The hidden woman’s voice was like syrup: thick, smooth, and too sweet. “If so ordered, would you kill Rifo?”

Rifo frowned but remained soundless, a speck of curiosity in the look he trained on his prospective amaraq.

Xlack forced himself not to gape at her. “Who…who are we saying gave this hypothetical order?”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“It’s completely relevant!”

One of her layers fluttered. Did she wave a hand somewhere in there? “Twi, then.”

“Twi what? Twi gave me the order, or some nobody ordered I kill her?”

“Either.” Another possible hand wave. Or perhaps someone else was in there with her.

A muscle in Xlack’s jaw twitched, and he tried to loosen it, to keep his face neutral. “Twi would have a reason, an irrefutable one.”

“Your answer is yes, then. If Twi ordered you to kill Rifo, you would do it?”

Xlack clenched his fists. “I trust Twi.”

Stella raised her head, and though the shadow of her cowl still concealed her face, her speckled eyes caught the light, resembling a pair of distant galaxies. “Do you trust me?”

No, but what answer did she want? He wandered her eerie gaze. She did not have Mind Talents, but still her eyes promised power.

“He doesn’t know ya, Master.” Rifo stepped forward. “So, no, he doesn’t trust ya yet.”

Mystis laughed. “Dear Stella, this is how you ask a question like that.” She tossed Xlack the sleeping handle of a laser knife. “That kanaber comes with a choice: Kill Rifo or kill yourself.”

“You mean hypothetically, right?”

“No, little Aylata. I want to test your real loyalties, not your hypothetical ones.”

Xlack remembered the week his Protector mentor had made him attend common school and a lecture he had heard there about job interview skills. The teacher had emphasized to nervous students that no matter how badly it went, a job interview wasn’t likely to kill you.

That teacher had never met Mystis.

A question slipped into his mind, silent to any but him. ‘Are ya going to outright reject her order?’

Xlack turned slightly toward Rifo, noting he had retreated a few paces. Entrycii and Stevalok slid between them.

‘I think blatant defiance is the opposite of the answer she’s looking for.’

A half-grin tugged on Rifo’s lips. ‘Do ya trust me?’

‘I’m trying to.’

‘Then stab yerself.’

Xlack sent back incredulity.

‘If ya trust me, then do it. It’s not only an answer from ya she wants.’

Xlack’s eyes slid to the weapon in his hand as it flipped around, blade end nearest his pinky. ‘You’d better have some plan.’

The kanaber snapped on. The blade’s glow flashed ominously off the buckles on Xlack’s new sleeves as it raced toward him.

It was yanked away, stolen by Entrycii’s Kinetics. Rifo and Stevalok leapt on Xlack, pinning him, arms wrenched behind his back.

Eyes locked on Mystis, Rifo called, “Good enough, Master?”

“Rifo, you ruined my fun,” she pouted, but a smile belied the rebuke in her tone.

“Then, Master Myr, I believe it is yer turn.”

As Entrycii and Stevalok returned to their stations by the door, Xlack stood slowly, surreptitiously testing his right shoulder. Stevalok had wrenched it harder than necessary.

Myr’s grin resembled that of an elitbeast just before it pounced. “My question is more of a test.”

After Mystis’ ‘question,’ that was the last thing Xlack wanted to hear. “It doesn’t involve weapons or anybody diving onto me, does it?”

“From a certain point of view.”

Xlack scowled, sinking into a ready stance.

“I want to see how ya communicate, how ya explain yerself and what ya hope to be, even when the answer is far from simple. Are ya a civilized asset or an idiotic buffoon? The test is this: Explain ’netic Talents.”

Xlack blinked and straightened. That didn’t seem so hard. His studies had been thorough concerning the sciences behind his Talents.

“How specific do you want me to be? How much should I assume you know?”

“Assume we know athra.”

What was athra? A legend? A science?

If I ask that, he really will assume I’m an idiotic buffoon.

Xlack nodded, bluffing comprehension as his mind raced to find where to start.

‘Athra is the opposite of everything,’ Rifo supplied.

So, nothing, then.

In most Napix languages, ‘nothing’ was absolute, hence the proverb, “Nothing is nothing except the concept of nothing.” Even in the deepest corners of the universe, there was still a speck of light or a drop of energy.

Xlack found his starting point.

He grinned. “Let’s presume you still understand basic words and ideas. What is space?”

“Where the stars hang out.”

Xlack threw Rifo a chiding look. “The opposite of mass. Space reacts to mass. This reaction is what holds atoms together, what tethers moons to their planets, planets to their stars, and so on. We call this reaction gravity.

“Think of space like a stretchy fabric.” He pulled an emergency-shelter pack from his pocket and opened it, releasing a length of cloth nearly his own height. It hovered at his Kinetic command. “Place something on that fabric, and it dips.” His closed Ier dropped onto the sheet to reinforce the point.

Seeing where he headed, Rifo tossed him a couple combusters, chrome spheres of varied weight.

Demonstrating with these props, Xlack continued, “If you roll other objects past the first, their trajectory is altered by the heavier item. How much their trajectory is affected depends upon their relative mass and velocity. The heavier the original object, the deeper the dip, and the greater the effect on other objects.”

To Entrycii, Stevalok whispered, “So, the more massive you are, the more attractive you’ll be.”

Entrycii guffawed. “But you’ll attract the slowest ones first.”

Xlack ignored them. “For the most part, you cannot see your influence because you’re so close to a massive planet whose gravity is much greater than yours. You’re insignificant. But we know an object’s attraction can overcome that difference. Magnets, for instance.

“Magnets can also repel, like creating a bump in the space-fabric.” He pushed up on the sunken Ier, and the combusters rolled away from it. “Kinetic Talents are the ability to adapt your influence. Sometimes you pull. Sometimes you push, and with practice, you can control it consciously.”

Stevalok faked a yawn. “Anyone else bored yet?”

Nails curled into his palms, Xlack stepped back toward him, tongue held, but barely. Maybe Stevalok would find it less boring if he were part of the presentation.

Behind him, his hand unfurled, arm extending. Though Stevalok’s attire was made of stubborn Adapt, he relied on Entrycii’s influence for some of his acrobatic feats, so highly malleable threads were woven in. These heeded Xlack’s call despite Stevalok’s scrambled attempt to stay put.

“Hey! Let me go!”

The representation of space-fabric draped over him, and Xlack pretended not to hear his muffled rant.

“Those with Kinetic Talents can also feel this space-fabric, like seeing ripples in a pond, or”—he flicked the struggling Stevalok, and a cloud of black dust wafted to the floor—“like being caught in a net.”

A web remained, enmeshing Stevalok’s limbs. Attached to an invisible frame, they didn’t allow him much movement, and the more he fought, the more tangled they became, pulling his arms higher and further apart.

“I’m not a puppet. Get these strings off me!” A few threads coalesced over Stevalok’s mouth and wove a gag. “Rifo, help!”

“No, I think I want to see where he’s going with this.”

Xlack plucked one of the cords, and it hummed, varying in pitch as Stevalok thrashed. “Every move you make affects the web, and any movement made by another will tug on you. Try to push something too big, and, if your shove is strong enough, you will move instead.”

“Nice,” Entrycii praised, plodding closer, “but we’re not all tied up like Stevalok.” He strummed the strings, and one by one, they snapped and slithered free to dance around him like bubbles in a boiling pot. “My influence could be stronger than yours, even if I’m not bigger than you. Care to explain how it is we ‘move’ exactly?”

Xlack stole back influence over some of the threads and re-coiled them around Stevalok. “What does life require?”

“That’s an open-ended question,” Rifo mumbled, but a rare gust of seriousness swirled around Entrycii.

“Primarily? Energy.”

More strings wriggled free of his amaraq, seemingly cut by a sharp gaze.

Xlack nodded and released his hold on the stolen threads. “This energy gives your influence a pulse unique to you but categorically identifying, like DNA. No two individuals have the same code, yet one’s species can easily be discerned by it. We adjust this pulse—or life-signature—in our cells to affect stable objects in our vicinity, things without a life of their own.”

Challenge prowled in Entrycii’s stare. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not. It takes incredible skill, dexterity, and practice to control multiple cells in a precise way. That’s why we most often command with our hands. Our cores are denser, potentially stronger, but fingers have greater finesse.” He released Stevalok and swiped at some of Entrycii’s wafting strings. They wove around his fingers, forming a net that spelled out his last word.

Dropping to his hands and knees, Stevalok spit out the remnants of his gag. “You mean working a delicate task with your core cells would feel like trying to paint with a brush shoved into your navel?”

Xlack paused, gaze sliding over Mystis, Qcoice, and the other woman. His mother would have reprimanded him for mentioning navels within the hearing of ladies, but none of them seemed bothered.

“Yes, Stevalok. That does sound like it would be difficult.” He turned back to the leaders. “Was that explanation good enough?”

There was more he could say. The topic was familiar, something he had trained in and for and enjoyed. Myr, at least, smiled, and the persistent push on Xlack’s mind had vanished.

Was it too much to hope that this had gone well?

Continued in Chapter 3: Priceless and Breakable

Thank you for reading!

“Master Mystis was too quiet,” Rifo commented as they entered the soft-walled exercise room of the med-center. “That’s never a good sign.”

Xlack gulped. He thought she had participated plenty.

“Yeah, well, I’m disappointed.” Stevalok slouched, footsteps exaggerated. “After all that talk about ’netic Talents, I was sure Ekymé was going to have to battle Entrycii. Or Master Mystis. That would have been awesome.”

“Maybe they’re saving that for round two,” Entrycii suggested.

Xlack didn’t see what would be so awesome about him battling an old woman. Then such thoughts were tossed aside as they rounded a curtain and Twi came into view. With Lanox ready to catch her, she clung to a tether attached to the ceiling. Sweat glistened on her brow as she tried to walk a straight line.

His heart both leapt and flopped. This was the one he had chosen to save, and here she stood, proving how strong she was, a work of art that was more than just her outward beauty.

She wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him—that statement had a double edge. If he had acted the proper Aylata, she would not have had this chance to recover from her lacerated back and shattered ankle. She would have been dead. Yet, if she had never met him, would she have been on Napix in the first place?

“Okay, time for more salve,” Lanox chimed and helped her lie on her front on a hovering stretcher.

Twi’s slender eyes were scrunched shut, breaths smooth but heavy. Her fists tangled in the sheet as Lanox peeled away part of the med-center toga—a beyond complicated wrapping that gave relatively easy access to her back.

This seemed like an intrusion with the four new arrivals crowding around, and Xlack thought she might tell them to go away, but Twi remained silent.

“Here, hold this.” Lanox thrust the cloth into his grip.

It was still attached to the rest of Twi’s toga, twisting around her side and disappearing beneath her. He felt awkward, eyes falling to her bare shoulder blades, the slightest shadows on an expanse of moonlight skin. She flinched as Lanox touched her, rubbing balm into the network of silvery scars on her lower back.

“Ya need to hold still. Here.” Lanox grabbed his hands and placed them against Twi’s shoulders. “Now don’t move.”

This was more than awkward. He swallowed. Agitation rattled Rifo as if at any moment he would push Xlack away from her, but he didn’t, and Xlack had to admit he didn’t want to switch places.

He moved his fingers to flatten his hold. Her skin was chilled, a little damp, and so very soft, as smooth as her sweet scent. The fragrance toyed with his thoughts like a drug, combining with the feel of her to make his vision both blurry and achingly clear at the same time.

She’s not a Sereh, he tried to remind himself. She’s not my kind.

He could repeat that as much as he wanted. It didn’t matter. He had already fallen for her. Hard. He wanted to have his hands on her bare back because he chose to put them there, not because Lanox had positioned him like some mannequin. And he wanted her to want him to touch her, not to just tolerate it.

He needed a distraction. Lanox’s massaging hands were not a good distraction.

“Um…” He cleared his throat. “What’s in the ointment?”

“The salve is made from Lettaplexal ‘healers’ and little bits and stuff,” Lanox answered.

Stevalok rolled his eyes, sharp teeth peeking over his lower lip. “That sounds real scientific.”

She shrugged and dripped a few more globs onto Twi’s back. It had a stinging aroma, like menthol. “Lettaplexal is good for ya.”

Xlack snorted. “That sounds like saying vegetables are good for you.”

“Well”—Lanox threw a pointed look at Stevalok—“the only reason ya feed a gkapu is so ya can eat it later.”

“I taste horrible,” Stevalok shot back. His smile resembled a saw, and Xlack wondered if he ever cut himself with his own teeth. Maybe that was how he knew how terrible he tasted.

Rifo elbowed him playfully. “Scientifically proven this, have ya?”

Standing a few paces back, Entrycii raised his hand. “I vouch for him. He tastes awful.”

Rifo’s eyebrows rose. “Ya know this how?”

In a slow, deliberate motion, Entrycii folded his arms. “One day when we were six, he ambled over, picked up my hand, and chomped down for no reason.”

“I’ve told you my reason.” Stevalok spread his palms as if offended, but his smile remained, arrowhead incisors gleaming. “I had just gotten my first adult tooth, and I wanted to test how sharp it was. Plus, your skin is the same color as that kau ti drink you like so much, and I’d been wondering for a while if you tasted like it.”

Xlack laughed. “Well, they say Zalerit is tasty.” To their appalled looks, he added, “Not that I’ve ever eaten a Zalerit. Neither has anyone I know.”

“Then who told ya they were tasty?” Lanox blinked at him, head tilted and pale curls swaying.

He looked at the floor. “It’s just a saying.”

Rifo sighed. “Not an appropriate one.”

Where was the line? Entrycii and Stevalok had been talking about tasting people, and Zalerits were barely people anyway. He wished he hadn’t said anything.

His eyes slid back to his hands on Twi’s shoulders, and his frown deepened. What was that discoloration on his right index finger?

“So,” Rifo continued, “I assume ya bit him back, Entrycii.”

“Of course. On the ear, and he squeaked. It would have been funny had my hand not hurt so bad. It had to get sewn up, and that’s how I got this scar.” He twisted his left hand to show off the silver crescent between his thumb and forefinger.

Lanox squinted at it, mouth twisted and slit-nostrils flared. “Ya told me an Aberrant gave ya that scar.”

“At the time, that sounded a lot more valorous than my own amaraq biting me.”

“He does taste a little like kau ti, by the way,” Stevalok added.

Xlack barely heard them. Was the color spreading? It looked like darkness crawling through his veins, blossoming like flames.

“Lanox, I need to move my hands.”

“Silly, ya could have let go at any time.”

Tearing away, he pulled back his sleeve to expose that yes, the discoloration had spread over his hand and wrist. Horror was a blazing whirlwind inside his chest. The ashes of his organs rained through his gut and to his toes, each speck tipped with a thousand needles.

Rifo looked at him, features narrowed in concern. “Ekymé, what’s wrong?”

“My hand.”

“What about it?”

“Look! Can’t you see that?”

But none of them could.

***

“Stop gaping at yer hands before I declare ya insane,” Rifo reprimanded before telling Xlack to pace another patrol through the north wings of this musty museum.

This wasn’t even their mission. Xlack had hoped tagging along with Entrycii and Stevalok on guard duty would provide a distraction and the discoloration would go away. It didn’t work. It stained both his hands now, twining up his arms and nearly to his shoulders.

No one else could see it.

He tried not to think about it, to concentrate on the mission. Some artifacts were on loan from the Knalcal palace to this local Vlavaran museum, and there was a possibility they would attract Aberrant—a very slight possibility, so this was a low-ranker mission and boring.

As if to remind him the blot still grew, a warm, slimy sensation dripped up his arms, and his gaze returned to his shaded hand gliding along the rail. On the other side of it, a fountain gurgled, mimicking a hundred whispers. Ending at the first floor, the cascade angled in a pyramid with its top somewhere in the darkness above his head. It didn’t seem that far from the edge of this fourth story loft. Could he reach out and wash this stain away?

“The bucket will fall like this,” Entrycii whispered. “I can’t wait to see Zeln’s—” He stopped and looked up as Xlack approached.

Right, Entrycii vowed to get Zeln back for those flames he painted.

He still saw traces of the graffiti on Entrycii’s cheeks. Could whatever was wrong with Xlack’s skin now be similar? Was this just another prank?

“Zeln deserves it,” Xlack greeted, abandoning the rail. “I won’t say anything to ruin whatever you’re coming up with.”

Entrycii’s skepticism didn’t lessen. It felt like static, like a never-ending gust filled with snowflakes. “Rifo would, always trying to play the responsible older brother.”

“I’m bored,” Stevalok announced. A wicked grin appeared as he stretched.

Entrycii turned to him. “No, you’re smelly.”

“And stunningly handsome, but also bored. I can be more than one adjective at a time because I’m good like that.” His grin grew wider, blanched teeth a bright contrast to his dark skin. “We should have a sparring match.”

“In a museum?” Xlack’s face fell into its crooked squint. “Do you realize how many priceless and breakable things are within the distance I could throw you?”

“Like your fragile ego, too worried to find out you can’t throw me at all?”

“Come on, Stevalok.” Entrycii rolled his eyes, but his stance shifted, shoulders loosening, ready for movement. “Either one of us could throw your sorry butt into next week whenever we wanted.”

“Go ahead and try. It’ll turn out just like the time my dearest granny threw Ekymé’s mama across the room and through a window.”

“That never happened.” Xlack lowered his center and bounced on his heels. “Do you know what the consequences would be for throwing a Grand Lady through a window?”

“Why don’t you show me?”

Maybe knocking some sense into him wouldn’t hurt, if only to wipe that stupid smirk off Stevalok’s face.

Xlack charged.

Stevalok deflected the first blow. A knee connected with his jaw, but he moved with the impact, grin wider than ever as he bent backward and kicked.

With a grunt, Xlack fell into a fast roll, dragging Stevalok with him, and they smashed through the rail at the edge of the loft.

Stevalok hit the pyramid and tumbled down its wet tiers. Xlack’s feet attracted to the wall between levels, and he stood on the vertical surface, watching Stevalok’s deserved demise.

“En garde.”

A rain of swords dropped over the ruined rail, Entrycii amid them. He landed on the wall and faced Xlack, a pair of rapiers in his hands.

Xlack snatched another blade out of the air. “Where did you get swords?”

“We’re in a museum.”

Entrycii lunged, and Xlack’s broad blade swept the first rapier aside. Its clang sounded like a growl. He ducked under the second foil and somersaulted, an ankle hooking around Entrycii’s foot as he passed. Entrycii flew into a backflip, and the pyramid’s cascade extended to meet his feet, hardening into a lacy platform.

No longer content with being spectators, the other blades attacked Xlack. He batted them away, shoving their aim wide as he wove through them, eyes darting from one point to the next. They curved, coming at him from all sides. How could Entrycii control so many at once?

They were relentless, unending, overwhelming, and their master swam through them as if weightless, aimed at Xlack like a torpedo.

With a battle cry, Stevalok landed on Xlack’s shoulder and parried Entrycii’s rapiers with a very ancient-looking spear.

It was all Xlack could do not to tumble off the wall. A foot and a hand stretched out and reoriented his stance to account for the extra weight. His higher leg bent, knee gripping the granite surface as he slid forward so Stevalok could drive Entrycii back.

His sword arm was pinned to his side, but he kept up with their foe’s lithe footwork. Entrycii moved like dancing wind, but Stevalok met his every strike with that antique spear. The soft metal dented further with each blow.

One of the rapiers flipped free and stalled, blade pointing at Xlack. It shot forward. He threw a hand up, Kinetic influence like a million fingers pushing against the weapon. It stopped just short of his palm and hovered as if frozen in time. He blinked at it, gaze cutting to Entrycii.

“That could have killed me!”

Entrycii exchanged one more strike and retreated beyond Stevalok’s range. “You stopped it.” He smirked. “Round two will be harder. Ready?”

All the hovering swords swiveled toward Xlack.

“Admit your inevitable defeat, vile villain!” Stevalok leapt on Entrycii.

Kinetic strings snapped, and the blades plummeted as Entrycii’s feet slid along the wall. Stevalok swung, full weight wrenching down and around before he let go and flew back to Xlack. Entrycii tumbled, arms flailing. His elbows found stone and managed to direct his fall in a spiral around a column.

He disappeared in shadow.

Stevalok gestured dramatically with his misshapen spear. “Follow him, Noble Steed!”

“I’m not a pack animal.”

“You’re a party pooper.” Stevalok swung the spear, and Xlack blocked it with the broadsword.

“Quiet.” Something wasn’t right. Their ‘responsible older brother’ should have been back by now. “Where’s Rifo?”

“Calling in the party pooper reinforcements?”

“I’m serious.”

A shot rang out, a near-silent ping and a flash of light. Xlack chopped it. The sword shattered, but it altered the darter’s trajectory just enough. A hole appeared in the granite beside his foot.

Adjuvants didn’t carry shooters. In the Alliance, no one did except military personnel. And Aberrant.

A cacophony of exploding glass filled the space. Xlack and Stevalok raced back to the artifacts. Entrycii was already there, surrounded by five visible Aberrant.

The display case lay in thousands of shimmering pieces.

Continued in Chapter 4: Pretending to Be Something

Thank you for reading!

“Hello, Three-Two-Ones.”

“Sounds like someone’s learning to count backward.” Half a dozen long needles slid from Stevalok’s sleeves and locked into place between his fingers. “Maybe he’ll be able to start at five next time.”

Xlack didn’t get it. Lanox had told him not to mention Hrausq Three-Two-One anymore. It was apparently an insult.

Stevalok resembled a drill as he dove into the crowd. Chaos broke out.

How many were there? Eight, at least, but they moved like fish in a pond, darting every which way and impossible to count. Xlack felt like a tasty bread crumb dropped into that pond, easy prey for the fish.

Two jumped on him, needles in hand like Stevalok. Dwintas, Rifo had told him the sharp sticks were called. They had a penchant for exploding.

Xlack’s Kinetics shoved the weapons away but couldn’t do the same to the hands that clung to him. More charged, and shackled like this, he couldn’t dodge.

His temperature soared. Fire lapped at the edges of his sleeves, and the Aberrant scrambled back. He leapt to his feet to meet a punch from Stevalok.

“Idiot! No flames!”

“Why?”

“Just don’t!”

Back-to-back and surrounded, he wanted reasons, not stupid rules. Did Stevalok think he would accidently catch something on fire, or did it have to do with the glazed, trance-like look in Entrycii’s eyes?

A crunch called his attention as Rifo was deposited on the carpet, body limp and eyes closed.

An Aberrant stood over him, face speckled with silver-scaled Knalcal birthmarks and scars. They left little room for the facsimile of a mask burned into his skin. “Let’s make a trade.” A kanaber snapped on, hum rising in pitch as the laser blade fell.

Xlack reached toward it, but he was too far to overcome the Knalcal’s influence.

The knife hovered a hairsbreadth above Rifo’s throat, and the Knalcal Aberrant nodded at Xlack. “Master Rogii wants that Aylata. If you Three-Two-Ones want your buddy back in one piece, you’ll knock that one out and hand him over to us.”

Xlack’s heart became a stone, loading down his ready stance. Feet apart, his knees bent. He needed them to spring, to get him close to that Knalcal before anyone could move. But if that kanaber fell on Rifo…

‘Can you move?’

Rifo’s reply was as quiet as an insect’s wing. ‘Trust yer team.’

‘That doesn’t answer—’

Solid weight landed on Xlack’s shoulders, an arm wrapping around his neck and squeezing.

He stumbled. “Stevalok, what—”

“Sorry, but we’ve known Rifo longer. It’s a seniority thing.” Then a softer breath in his ear: “Two more steps and fall, got it?”

Xlack glanced back at Entrycii. Some hybrid of grimace and smirk twisted his teammate’s sharp features, silver-crescent freckles gleaming.

Apparently trusting the team equals volunteering to be the pawn and punching bag.

After three hobbled paces, he dropped. His hand slid beneath the Aberrant’s, taking charge of the kanaber as Stevalok launched off Xlack’s back, foot crashing into their foe’s face. Rifo lashed out, flowing into a spinning move that took down the next two closest Aberrant and earned him possession of the knife.

Chaos resumed.

Xlack’s heart raced, adrenaline gushing as he fought. They didn’t want to kill him, he noted, but their intent toward his hrausq members was beyond deadly.

They wouldn’t go down without a fight. In addition to the kanaber, Rifo held a metal circle. His fingers swiped across its surface, and it answered its master’s command, extending into a handle he could grip. Searing tendrils sprouted from either end, and though Xlack couldn’t see their pure-hued light, he felt their power cycling in tandem with Rifo’s life-signature. They called to his Kinetic senses in low, sinister voices.

A Magni Aqkashi.

Rifo slipped between two opponents, and the pair fell. Three took their place, but he remained one step ahead. He could read intentions, something Xlack had experienced first-hand when his mission to recover the crew of the Isike had put them at odds. When the skill wasn’t being used against him, Xlack had to marvel at the beauty of it.

But gawking at his teammates was slowing him down.

Xlack caught an Aberrant in his stare, and before he could impart a sleep suggestion, Stevalok was there. A swift jab of a dwinta’s skinny point to the neck, and the man fell unconscious. Both Adjuvants moved on.

Entrycii was the next to come to his aid, three Aberrant caught between forcefields thrown from either side. A thunderous report sounded as the gossamer shields collided, and their victims collapsed, ears bleeding.

An enemy lunged at Entrycii from behind, but Rifo dove in, parrying another Aqkashi. A slash of the kanaber rendered his opponent unable to stand but not mortally wounded.

Another melted from the shadows, tendrilled staff raised to stab down into Rifo, but this one fell to Xlack’s sleep suggestion as Stevalok tackled an Aberrant at his back.

He knew the word ‘teamwork,’ of course, but the longer he danced in this chaos, the more he came to understand it. He was outnumbered but not alone. He didn’t have to defeat them all. He need only slow them so his team could step ahead. He could trust his hrausq to take advantage of every move he made, and he could do the same for them.

Leaving the unconscious behind, the Aberrant retreated, and Rifo said to let them go. Xlack didn’t agree—they would just return—but he didn’t argue.

“We’ll take the wounded back to base,” Rifo announced, meaning he and Xlack would. Entrycii and Stevalok would continue their guard duty.

But the treasure they were supposed to protect had enraptured Xlack’s attention. He stared at the semi-spherical jewel, eyes lost in its waves of leaf-etched silver. His legs wouldn’t move to carry him after Rifo.

“I can’t look away from it.” His knees folded, stabbed by the sea of glass-like plastic shards as he reached for the broach.

Rifo caught his wrist. “Most Magni feel the same. That’s why the Adjuvants’ founder stole it from the Aberrant and gave it to the Knalcal queen.”

It called to him, an irrefutable command to touch it, hold it. It brought to mind an old legend of Lakol Lake. There were said to be whispers calling Magni in. Desperate victims had dove deeper and deeper, drawn to that voice until they drowned.

If that was ever true at all, it was long ago. Xlack and his friend Ject had lived in Lakol and never encountered anything that led them to their drowned deaths.

Yet, the lake glowed inexplicably, and whispers could render water luminous. Ject had found this property intriguing and had left radiant vases around until a Zalerit in their mentor’s household had commented on their colors: “What a striking vermillion, Ravi Sirvette,” and, “A lovely azure.”

Nostalgia gave birth to homesickness, a tepid, sour feeling dripping down Xlack’s throat. It sizzled as it cascaded through his gut.

Is Ject even alive?

He shook his head to dispel the thought. This was his family now. He couldn’t let the past overcome him with unanswered questions and what ifs, not when there were tasks waiting to be done.

He knelt to help Rifo bind their Aberrant prisoners. When they went back to base, he would go see Twi. She would tell him this was where he belonged, that he had made the right choice.

Hands covered his eyes. “Guess who.”

Twi. She had snuck up on him. Disconcerting, but his heart fluttered nonetheless.

He spun to face her. “Aren’t you supposed to stay in the med-center?”

“Technically.” A coy smile teased her lips. “You seemed to be having such fun in my absence, I felt left out. Are you disappointed I’m here?”

A stupid grin pulled rebelliously at his face. “Never.”

“Ekymé,” Rifo called, “who are ya talking to?”

“Twi.”

Rifo raised an eyebrow.

“Shh!” Twi breathed, hiding behind Xlack. “Don’t tell Rifo I’m here. He’ll make me go back.”

“Maybe you should go back,” Xlack whispered, arms sliding behind him and wrapping around her. “How did you even get here? You can barely walk.”

“That’s a secret,” Twi cooed, just as she had back on the Isike. She grabbed his hand, fingers tracing the discoloration’s jagged lines. “What’s this?”

Surprise kicked him, and his pulse doubled. “You can see it?”

“It’s neon pink.”

He frowned, worry evolving into panic, but he managed to keep his voice steady. “That’s a form of red?”

She nodded, expression teasing. Pink was a shade of red—what infantile knowledge.

Red, a real color. Streaks of red grew across his skin. Wearing colors was one thing, but this was beyond that.

Palms on either side of his face, Twi made him look at her. The silver and chrysolite ocean of her eyes drowned only some of his horror. Chrysolite—the only color visible to Napix sight, the ethereal green-gold that marked everything of Magni.

“It’s punishment,” he whispered, “for pretending to be something I’m not.”

Her head tilted. “You believe you don’t belong here with us?”

“I don’t know.” Tears burned his eyes and squeezed his voice. He hated them, hated that he couldn’t hide them, especially from her.

She’ll think I’m weak. I am, but I’m not supposed to be. I can’t let anyone see it.

Her breath crashed against his cheeks, warm in contrast to the chill of her hands. “Do you think you should have left me to die in that cave?”

“No.”

“Then you belong with us. You don’t have to pretend to be an Adjuvant because to me you already are one.”

The sentiment wrapped around him like a soft blanket, and he hugged her closer. “Thank you.”

“Adjuvants work as a team.”

He felt the words as a gentle breeze just before her lips pecked his cheek.

“We’ll find this solution together. Entrycii,” she called, and Xlack held her tighter. He didn’t want to share her.

Confusion overtook that jealousy as the Knalcal heeded her summons. Or part of him did. Entrycii sauntered toward them, but a second Entrycii stayed behind, collecting pieces of the display case.

Xlack’s frown deepened. “How are you doing that?”

The further Entrycii shot him an annoyed look. “I’m using my ’netics to fix the case. After your lecture earlier, you shouldn’t need any more explanation, but I could use your help.”

The closer one shrugged. “Doing what, walking? You’ve really led a sheltered life, haven’t you?”

Xlack retreated, towing Twi with him. “No, seriously, what are you doing?”

“Ignoring you so I can concentrate.” The Entrycii at the case sighed. “Stevalok, would you go make him be quiet?”

Stevalok plodded over, countenance slipping from chiding to stern to concerned. “Twi’s here? Ekymé, why are your hands pink?”

Twi slid out of Xlack’s grasp, hand extended toward the Lettaplexal. “He needs your help.”

He accepted her invitation, dark fingers sliding across her pale palm, confusion bright in his eyes like a moon’s reflection on a rippling pond. “I don’t understand how—”

Twi’s grasp tightened. A kanaber snapped on in her other hand and struck. Stevalok didn’t have time to flinch.

He screamed, an agonized, heart-wrenching sound. Doubling over, he cradled his severed wrist to his chest, on his knees, choking on his pain.

“It’ll grow back,” Twi excused to Xlack’s aghast look as she presented the disembodied hand. “Lettaplexal is good for you, right?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Sidestepping her, he dropped alongside Stevalok and slid a comforting arm around his hunched shoulders. Pain was a sandstorm’s coarse embrace, a buffeting, stinging howl scraping Xlack’s senses.

“What’s going on?” Rifo raced toward them, as did the further Entrycii, while the nearer one stood behind Twi as a shocked statue.

With a crack, he moved. A silver circle appeared in his hand, fingers rubbing its surface to evoke the Aqkashi’s tendrils.

Xlack started to stand, a shout bubbling in his throat, but he was too slow. The weapon pierced Twi’s shoulders, and eight twisted strands emerged from her front, hissing as her blood evaporated.

Just as quickly, they disappeared, returning to their handle, and she fell forward.

The other Entrycii crashed through the first, and they were one again, stumbling over Twi in his haste to reach his amaraq’s side.

Xlack couldn’t move. He was now the statue, rigid and heavy.

Get up, Twi. It’s not real. It can’t be.

But there she lay, and Stevalok shuddered in his embrace, refusing to show Rifo his missing hand, cries hoarse and ragged.

Twi didn’t move, just beyond Xlack’s reach, gaze empty, not breathing, life-signature gone.

Words were beyond him, her last sentence echoing in his head.

Lettaplexal is good for you.

He crawled toward her, dragging Stevalok with him. Tugging the Lettaplexal’s bleeding arm away from his bosom, he extended it toward Twi.

Like that would accomplish anything. She was dead, beyond his help, and now Stevalok’s blood stained his hands, and Xlack was sure he could see its red.

Red. One of the three colors specifically mentioned in the legend that told of color’s evil.

What was red supposed to look like, anyway?

“Red is the warmth of sunset on yer skin,” Rifo had explained recently, “the strength of saying good-bye to one ya know ya will never see again.”

Xlack understood that now in a way he wished he didn’t.

“Where’s this blood coming from?” Rifo called, med-kit in hand. Though he was right there, Xlack barely heard him, as if hills, oceans, and worlds separated them.

He slouched over Stevalok and fell headlong into the void.

Continued in Chapter 5: The Lie You Tell Yourself

Thank you for reading!

The astringent smells of the med-center were the first to break through the darkness, long before sight or sound. Touch was next, reporting Xlack lay on a soft mattress, a thin, starchy sheet draped over all but his head. Sound drifted back next, as if returning on the tide.

“Let me go!” he heard in the distance amid a scuffle and running footsteps.

His eyes snapped open, and he sat up, head and heart pounding, mind racing. Twi? Where was Twi? And Stevalok?

His hands and sleeves had been scrubbed clean, but he could still smell the Lettaplexal’s blood, a heady blend of iron, mud, sugar, and the essence that was Stevalok—a mostly bitter scent, like wine.

A wave of this odor hit him just before Stevalok landed on him, fists tangling in Xlack’s lapels. “You cut off my hand!”

“It was only a nightmare,” Entrycii corrected, stopping at the foot of the bed.

“Scum-for-brains should keep his nightmares to himself!”

“A nightmare?” Xlack repeated, noting that Stevalok had both hands twisted in his jacket. Hands. “It wasn’t real.” Which meant Twi…

“You still made me live through it! My hand! And Twi with the kanaber! And Entrycii killing her! He should have killed you!”

Xlack covered his face with his palms. “I wasn’t scripting any of it.”

“But you managed to escape unscathed. I can’t ever forget that scene now,” Stevalok growled, shaking him. “How it felt.”

Xlack met his wide eyes, mind only half-present as he stretched his senses in search of Twi. She should have been somewhere near within this med-center, but the crowd of signatures blended in a dull roar and prodded at his headache.

Beyond Stevalok, the room was small and empty, light eking through a curtain that served as the door. In the corridor, Rifo leaned against the wall, the dutiful amaraq, never far.

Xlack retreated to his immediate surroundings and gathered the strings of Stevalok’s emotions. “I could make you forget.”

“No, thank you.” Stevalok threw him down. “I don’t want you messing with my head.”

Xlack’s gaze zeroed in on his teammate’s hands. The left was bandaged, the one he had seen severed, but that hadn’t actually been.

“Twi wasn’t there, was she?”

“Of course not,” Entrycii confirmed. “She can barely walk.”

“Which makes you insane,” Stevalok added.

Xlack bit the inside of his cheek, but it did nothing to quell the unease coiling inside his chest. “How did you really get hurt?”

“I think ya know,” Rifo said, shoving through the curtain. “Yer Mind Talents are frighteningly strong. Ya must be aware suggestions can kill.”

Xlack gulped. “Yes.”

“Then ya already understand the concept. Ya made Stevalok believe he’d received a grave injury, believe it so deeply, that despite all evidence to the contrary, his body believed it, too, and over-responded, creating a semblance of the injury in the process.”

“I lost a lot of blood,” Stevalok griped, arms crossed. “I almost died.”

Rifo sighed. “Stevalok, what did yer sutae tell ya about exaggerating?”

“That it’s my greatest asset.”

Entrycii let out a bark of laughter.

“What, you don’t believe me?”

Entrycii shrugged. “Last week, you claimed your insatiable pessimism was your greatest asset.”

“I can have more than one greatest asset!”

Xlack ignored their argument, eyes locked on his amaraq. “Am I insane, Rifo?”

A mote of pity rippled through the Tala’s scrutinizing stare, and a few beats passed before he replied, “No. I think that nightmare was partially due to yer proximity to the artifact. It’s known to cause strange behavior in Magni and reacts strongest to Mind Talents.”

“And the other partially?”

Rifo grinned. “Sometimes when I guess correctly, I’m told to keep my mouth shut. I didn’t come over here to answer yer questions. Stevalok, Master Qcoice is looking for ya.” He caught Stevalok’s ear and towed him toward the door.

“Ow! Don’t treat me like I’m five!”

“When ya were five, ya were a lot easier to carry.”

Stevalok’s protests and Entrycii’s jabs as he followed bounced through the halls. Nothing kept Xlack here, no restraints, no tubes, no monitors, not even Rifo to tell him what to do, but he didn’t move, listening to his own heart batter his ribs.

His uncle had tried to teach him to kill with suggestions, first on small animals, once on a Zalerit. Xlack had refused, but now he wondered. His Talents were dangerous, but if he didn’t master every aspect of them, even their darkest sides, was it inevitable that he would hurt others when he didn’t mean to?

There’s something very wrong with me.

Rifo had blamed it on the artifact, but Xlack stared at his hands. Their pale red glowed like a rising sun. The color had appeared before he ever stepped foot in that museum.

Rifo knows the real answer, and he’s not worried about it.

He wished he could trust that, but doubt slithered up his spine. To worry, Rifo first had to care.

Homesickness boiled in his chest and throat, and though Xlack closed his eyes, hot tears seeped through his lashes. His father would know what was going on and how to fix it. If Xlack could only talk to him…

Did his father even want to talk to him after what Xlack had done? If Xlack could just explain, he would understand why Twi had to be saved.

As if his thoughts summoned her, Twi’s signature glided against his senses, smooth and fast as a river diving over a cliff. Her hobbled steps rang against the hall’s tiles, and Xlack raced to meet her.

She returned his smile and stumbled, but he was there, arms around her, careful of her wounded back. With her near and safe, joy’s wings unfurled.

“I’m not broken. I can stand on my own.”

Despite her claims, every step was pained. Her muscles shook, threatening another collapse, and Xlack held her tighter.

She felt real, more tangible than the phantom Twi he had seen die, but suspicion paced in his mind anyway. How could he know? And if this was the real Twi, what if he pulled her into another nightmare and she suffered like Stevalok had?

“It didn’t leave you unscathed,” she remarked as he lifted her to sit on the end of the med-bed, arms reluctant to release her even if she would be fine now without his support. He sat next to her.

“I saw you die,” he whispered, forehead on her shoulder, and despite how often they had told him in the past weeks that Knalcals fiercely guarded their personal space, she didn’t shove him away. She leaned toward him, even.

“It was a nightmare. It wasn’t real.”

“Stevalok’s pain was real.” His gaze fell on his hand, still bruised with that discoloration, tainted against the backdrop of Twi’s fair arm.

Her skin resembled stone, but it responded to his touch, pliant and prickling. It felt like skimming a lake full of lightning. His thumb drew a spiral, then turned it into the insignia of his home region, an abstract lamp he traced again and again.

“Chin up, Ekymé. Look at me.”

He complied.

“You cannot believe I would ever be the Twi from that nightmare, that I would attack Stevalok for no reason.”

His shoulders scrunched closer to his ears. “Your reason was Lettaplexal is good for you.”

“Then would I have had you swallow his hand like some vitamin?”

“Disgusting,” Xlack breathed, attention on the wry slant of her lips.

“When I have a nightmare, Lanox tells me to rewrite the ending once I’ve awoken. So, how would you rather the dream have gone?”

Sitting with her like this, faces less than a hand’s width apart, he had a very vivid picture of how he wanted the story to go.

She tilted closer, breath warm against his ear. “I don’t think you’ve quite escaped from the dream yet.”

No. No, please be real.

“If I could write the ending, I’d save you again, because I always will.” With the promise, he pressed a kiss to her temple. Her silver Knalcal markings were like ice, abnormally cold even considering her temperature was far lower than most Napix.

She leaned away. “You shouldn’t do that.”

“Why?”

“Because I am Tala and Knalcal, and I have enough conflict in me.”

Did that sound like he had a chance? She was so very close, heart tamping in rhythm with his. That meant something, right?

They had kissed before, but it had been a ruse no matter how much he wished it wasn’t. She had done it only to convince their audience she was someone she was not.

Or had she? Maybe, like Xlack, she had started with that intention, but she had enjoyed it, and she didn’t want to admit it.

Why? Did she fear what others would think?

“No one’s watching,” he whispered. “Do you know the legends of love’s kiss? How it can heal anything?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You mention it because of that discoloration no one else can see?”

“Yeah. Want to see if love’s kiss will get rid of it?”

Her mouth twisted in a grin. He stayed still, heart skipping as she moved, but as the space between them diminished, she wedged his hand in front of his face, and her lips brushed his palm.

“Is the color gone?” Her steely gaze met his through the hollows between his fingers, crackling with amusement.

“No, try again.” He stole his hand back and brushed her plaits behind her shoulder. “The highest concentration is on my lips.”

It could be true. He couldn’t see his own face.

She held a vertical index finger between them. “Maybe I’m not your true love.”

“We won’t know until you try.”

She scooted away, and her back spasmed in protest, pain sharp and angry like the call of a predatory bird. They both winced, but Xlack refused to let his flinch relinquish his hold. Her fingers tangled in his sleeves. She needed something to cling to, and he would not abandon her.

After several seconds, she let go, but her voice was hollow and weak. “I have another theory as to the source of and solution to your imagined discoloration. Have you heard the phrase, ‘Live in a stranger’s skin’?”

No, but it sounded invasive. He shook his head, ashen curls rustling in a way he had never liked but had learned to ignore.

“It means to try to see things from another’s point of view, to learn to be someone you are not.”

He eyes narrowed, per usual, one a little more than the other. “To wear their skin and pretend to be them, like a disguise?”

“In a way. You are an Aylata, but that is not something you can be here. So, what are you? What will you be? You fear the answer to that, but nightmares don’t tell, they show. That is what your discoloration is: your mind saying it has no idea what you are becoming.”

His frown deepened. “To get rid of it…?”

“Figure out what you’re comfortable being. That will let you be you and will allow you to not only escape from the nightmare, but conquer it so it can’t come back.”

“Perceptive, isn’t she?” a voice mocked. Xlack’s own voice, but he hadn’t said anything.

Gaze darting to every corner of the dark room, he slid off the med-bed and stood in front of Twi. “Show yourself!”

A too-familiar form flashed in the doorway—a tendrilled staff like an Aqkashi but longer and thicker. An Ier, signature weapon of the Aylata.

It hummed like a distant gale as it devoured the air, its glow highlighting a figure that looked more like Xlack than he currently did. Identical face, hair, physique, but this one wore the clothes of an Aylata, the very outfit he had carefully folded into a bag and left in the hrausq room. The Ekymé clan pattern was displayed proudly on his right pant leg, the Tsira insignia on his collar.

The double grew a cocky grin, the kind Xlack always gave right before he deliberately annoyed someone. “Recognize me?”

Fear slithered through Xlack’s gut. Was he watching through someone else’s eyes, stuck within a stranger’s skin like Twi had said?

No, this was his body. His hands, though discolored, had his scars. They pulsed with his life-signature, but so did the figure in the doorway.

“What’s wrong?” Twi questioned as Xlack scooped her up, an arm beneath her knees and another bracing her shoulders.

“We might have to run.”

“From what?”

“From…”

She can’t see it. He’s real only within my mind. This is the beginning of another nightmare, and I can’t pull her into it.

Her inquiring gaze scoured his face, and his eyes caught hers, bottomless, silver seas dropping to the depths of her soul.

“Sleep, Twi.”

Her mind was reflective, and most suggestions were lost in its maze of mirrors. Yet, this time she fell limp in his arms, head lolling against his chest. Either her medication made her more susceptible or his desperation made the suggestion that much stronger. Perhaps it was some combination of the two, but Xlack was grateful. He would protect her, even if it was from himself.

He shifted his weight, searching for an exit and ready to sprint, but how could he run from his own mind?

“Clever.” The apparition in the doorway chuckled.

“You aren’t real.”

“Oh, I’m very real. I am the lie you tell yourself, the façade you put on so others won’t see your doubt, fear, or regret.”

“And I can see you because…?”

“I’m here to destroy this sniveling version of us that is you, holding me back. So come.” He flicked the ghostly Ier, holding it level with his shoulder, sharp tendrils pointed at his opponent.

“If you become me, then I’ll become a lie,” Xlack shot back.

“Without you, I’ll become exactly what you need to be”—the doppelgänger shrugged—“but you won’t be you. I said come.”

With this second summons, pain fell in Xlack’s mind like a rain of stinging needles. Darkness clouded everything, clarity’s flashes like lightning, too bright and too brief. Stumbling under the onslaught, he found a mote of comfort in Twi’s weight in his arms, a root tying him to reality, solidifying his determination. What had she said he needed?

The clone was too close, translucent Ier swinging.

Xlack ducked. “You can’t hurt me.”

The double laughed, striking again, and the monsoon in his mind grew fiercer. “Because you declare me not real? Don’t you know the power of your own Mind Talents?”

“I can’t use my Mind Talents on myself.” Xlack dodged as the ghost flowed through a well-practiced routine of attacks. “You are me. You can’t use Mind Talents on me.”

“Then it would be wise for you to ask whose trap you’re caught in.”

Xlack paused, recalling one of his mentors’ favorite mantras.

Your subconscious always knows more than you do.

The Ier shot forward, endpoints level with his eyes, a straight thrust as swift as thought. His view lagged, watching in slow motion. He couldn’t move.

“Fight back.” An order. It wasn’t said loudly, but it held all the gravity of a star.

A tendrilled staff appeared in his grasp, smaller than the Ier it blocked. Everything stilled.

Twi had disappeared. Xlack faintly felt her in his arms still, but he couldn’t see her. Instead, he held a crimson Aqkashi, eyes wide and drowning in its light.

He saw it for himself, not filtered through someone else’s memory. Red. The color was bold, like the thrill of arguing with his teachers or leaping off a roof. It was loud—the roar of an engine; the feel of brambles scraping one’s skin while racing through the woods; the warm, dangerous scent of flames—demanding acknowledgement of its existence. Undeniable. Unignorable in its blatant beauty.

It was awesome.

Twi pushed him. She hadn’t simply accepted the sleep suggestion. She had formed some connection, allowing her to stand alongside him in his mind and hold an umbrella against the storm.

He took her shove and spun around another slash of the Ier, sweeping the Aqkashi low. Twi whirled in the opposite direction, and the red staff divided in two, both weapons somehow still whole as she swung high.

Two sets of ruby tendrils sundered his double, and the doppelgänger vanished.

As the vision faded, Twi stood across from Xlack. This projection of her mind was uninjured and lithe as ever, a half smile quirking her lips.

“If my therapy has taught me anything, it’s that one’s mind, one’s will, is one’s most powerful component.” Her words dulled to a mere gasp, quieter than the whisper of the wind. “There’s a reason I believe in you, Xlack Ekymé.”

Continued in Chapter 6: What Do We Believe In

Thank you for reading!

Xlack almost couldn’t believe it. The discoloration was gone, and his skin returned to its gray pallor.

Even if he did have new reverence for the color red, he was grateful. He would change to fit his new role, yes. He would step out of his comfort zone, but that didn’t mean he had to give up everything that made him who he was.

He fully expected the leaders to analyze and tear apart this new-found confidence, just as he expected all five of them to be present at this second interview they had summoned him to in the same room as before. Instead, the door opened to reveal only Mystis and Myr.

Mystis sat cross-legged on the desk. “Anything clever to say in your defense?”

Xlack glared at Myr. “It was your suggestion, wasn’t it?”

“Straightforward confrontation. How jejune,” Mystis crooned. “What has become of subtlety?”

Ignoring her, Xlack kept his gaze on the other leader. Like sunshine to a plant, it nourished the old man’s grin.

Myr’s voice was a soft, warm breeze full of amusement and affection, like a grandfather humoring a toddler. “Recollect my words when it was my turn to question ya.”

He couldn’t call up the exchange verbatim, but he recalled Myr mentioning his question was a test to see how Xlack communicated and what he hoped to be, ‘even when the answer is far from simple.’ And he definitely remembered the part where Myr had labeled him a possible ‘idiotic buffoon.’

“The whole thing was your test?” Xlack guessed. “The lecture on Kinetic Talents was just to distract me so you could slip inside my mind.”

“Indeed,” Myr confessed. “My test was to see not only how ya fit in or fought, but why. Stating yer loyalty is one thing. I wanted to watch ya show it.”

Because as Mystis had earlier said, they tested his real loyalties, not his hypothetical ones.

Back on the Isike, Xlack had told Twi he didn’t have hypothetical discussions mostly because he hadn’t wanted to talk about the ‘what if’ she had brought up. Now he would have preferred a series of ‘what ifs’ over thinking he had lost his sanity, seeing Twi die, Stevalok injured.

“Did I pass?”

Mystis chuckled. “The test was a chance to prove yourself an asset or a buffoon. Which do you think you acted like?”

He would prefer to say ‘asset,’ but his conscience prickled, pointing out his flaws. He had panicked over an imaginary skin condition, allowed Stevalok to goad him into a petty battle while they were supposed to be vigilant, and broke a few priceless museum items along the way. Stevalok had been injured because of him.

“The answer is ‘both,’ Xlack Ekymé,” Myr said, elbows on the counter and hands folded beneath his jaw, “as it is for most of us. Ya are a bit of a buffoon, but yer admirable qualities are just as bright.”

They didn’t expect him to be perfect? What a strange concept. He was a prodigy, born for greatness.

It was a relief.

“You exhibit astounding loyalty to Twi,” Mystis commented, chin resting in her hand, “even when Myr strove to make you question her. Even when she performed as she never would, you excused her. I’m not saying that is right or wise, but it certainly is interesting.” A frightening glint flashed in her eyes, and Xlack retreated a pace.

Then a revelation in that statement hit him.

“Master Myr choreographed the nightmares? How could you hurt Stevalok like that?”

Myr sighed. “Stevalok was not permanently harmed.”

“But he was,” Xlack insisted. “He was mentally scarred. He can’t forget.”

“Can’t?” Mystis leaned so far forward, she would have fallen if not for her Kinetic hold. “Did you not offer him a solution? And he declined. That is choice, not inability, little Aylata.”

Xlack clenched his fists. “He can’t forget on his own. That is inability.”

“That is why we so value teamwork.” Mystis giggled. “The inability in question here is not the possibility of him forgetting, but his reluctance to trust you.”

“Though I do owe Stevalok an apology,” Myr admitted. “Note that most of those illusions were conjured by yer own subconscious. I only gave these pieces a slight shove here and there, yet I did not fully understand the strength and depth of yer Mind Talents. They are a little different from ours.”

Xlack had noticed this last to some extent. The Talents of the Alliance Magni, though similar to an Aylata’s, were not identical.

“You mean, if I were Tala, I wouldn’t have pulled Stevalok into the nightmare?”

Myr shook his head. “It would have been less likely. A Tala’s Talents primarily function internally, affected by external stimuli. Compare Tala to tiny creatures venturing through a forest. Even a blade of grass becomes an obstacle they must work around. Whereas ya are a giant bumbling through, expecting even trees to bow to yer whim.”

That sounded insulting. Xlack opened his mouth to defend himself, but Myr spoke over him.

“Yet I believe this to be an asset. I believe it was this outward nature of yer Talents that allowed Twi to escape the clutches of insanity despite her Ier wound. Ya were her anchor.”

“Just as she was my anchor when I faced myself,” Xlack realized, awe turning the thought into an audible whisper.

Myr smiled. “She recognized me and helped ya push me from yer mind so ya could regain control. There is something I would like to show ya, if ya would accept a memory flash from me.”

Was Myr trying to get back in his head? If that were his goal, would he have asked permission? There had been no aggravating push as there had been before. And Xlack was more on guard now, more alert to Myr’s presence. Xlack didn’t think he would have difficulty tossing him out if the Tala overstayed his welcome.

Xlack nodded and accepted the flash.

The med-center, with its high contrast of light and shadows. Twi sits upright, regal despite her med-toga, confidence bloating every word.

“Master, you’re the one who harried me to find a new hrausq member, and I’ve found one like no other,” she tells a woman with straight, caramel hair stiff just above her shoulders, skin shaded like a faint shadow, and galactic, lavender eyes.

A part of you knows her, Stella, the most recent addition to the leaders, the woman who rarely leaves her face unconcealed. Surprise bubbles in another part of you. She seems very young for a leader, not even old enough to be mother to a nineteen-year-old like Twi.

“He’s too unique,” Stella argues. “Pick one less preposterous.”

“Master, we are all preposterous. I choose Ekymé because I believe in him, not in a façade or a label, but in who he is. He needs us, and we need him.”

The scene faded, and Xlack found he couldn’t breathe. His heart swelled at Twi’s assurance, leaving no room for his lungs.

“Twi’s trust is not paltry,” Myr declared. “It is the most persuasive argument advocating for ya to stay, though some of us feel it is also a strong argument against ya.”

Xlack didn’t see how, but he remained motionless. If they rejected him, where would he go? He didn’t like what he had seen thus far of the Aberrant. While these Adjuvant leaders disturbed him a little—and Mystis more than a little—his friendship with Twi could glaze over that.

“I want to be an Adjuvant.” This time, he meant it, head held high and gaze locked on Myr’s.

“I know, but what if that is impossible?”

“It’s said Aylata live in defiance of the word impossible.” There was a loop in that logic, Xlack saw after he said it. Mystis caught it, as told by the mischievousness in her smirk, and he knew she would bring it around to bite him.

“Adjuvants, then, live in defiance of the word preposterous.” She grinned, reveling in the surprise that splashed through Xlack.

“We refuse to accept fate as dictated by our worlds’ natives or the Aberrant,” Myr concurred. “They cannot see what we can from our position, standing between a world and its destruction. And we think ya can, standing there with us.”

“Does that mean you’ll let me stay? You’ll accept me as an Adjuvant?” Xlack asked. Disbelief made him lightheaded.

“It means ya have a lot of work ahead of ya,” Myr defined. “Go see yer hrausq leader. She has something for ya.”

***

Twi waited for him, making a valiant, stubborn effort to greet him while standing of her own power. Xlack wanted to rush forward and hold her, but the pride in her eyes warned him she would consider that demeaning.

Instead, Lanox squeezed him in the tightest hug he had ever received.

“Welcome to the family, big brother!” she cooed.

“Lanox,” Xlack croaked, a plea for her to release him as Twi tried to step forward and stumbled. With Lanox still clinging to him, he dove to catch her, as did Rifo, and they all fell in a tangled group hug.

“Look, everyone’s piling on Rifo! Count me in!” Stevalok called as he and his amaraq stepped through the doorway. He dove on the group.

“A tangle of overly-affectionate Tala. How uncouth,” Entrycii denounced with a note of superiority, arms crossed.

Stevalok laughed. “Somebody’s been practicing his vocabulary words.”

“I heard it from Mystis. I’m fairly certain it means uncivilized.”

Lanox jabbed with her elbows to clear a path for her words. “But isn’t the point of civilization to be able to get along well in a group?”

“Can’t. Breathe,” Rifo gasped.

Xlack couldn’t see him, though he felt the Tala’s heart against his back. Xlack’s gaze was on Twi, her face a finger’s width from his. Pain resided in her grimace, but so did mirth. She was glad to be here with her hrausq family.

Before Xlack could find any words, Stevalok and Twi were hauled away by Dr. Qcoice.

“Twi can barely stand, and you leapt on her!” The giant Lettaplexal doctor held Stevalok aloft by the front of his jacket.

“I was leaping on Rifo,” Stevalok defended, “and Twi happened to be there, too.”

Qcoice deposited Twi on the med-bed and exited the room, still holding Stevalok.

“Wait, Master, where are we going? Entrycii, help!”

“Rifo, ya make a great pillow,” Lanox sang, and offense bubbled from him.

“Would ya get off me already?”

Xlack had already done so, reaching Twi just as she attained a sitting position. “Master Myr said you had something for me.”

“A riddle,” she assented, voice strained. Xlack wanted to go throttle Stevalok. “If I believe in you, and you believe in me, what do we believe in?”

After a moment’s consideration, Xlack answered, “Us.”

“Correct.” With a nod, she held up her right fist, fingers unfurling to let a pendant drop.

A metallic heptagon stopped in front of Xlack’s face, dangling from a thin chain. An Adjuvant emblem, fish-shaped, same as Rifo’s.

“Each member of a hrausq believes in every member. We all believe in us, and we’re stronger for it, a team, a family.”

Xlack stood, unable to move, a portrait painted by the deft hands of joy and incredulity.

“Doesn’t it hurt to stare at it cross-eyed like that?” Lanox snatched the pendant and Xlack’s arm, loosely looping the chain around his wrist several times before securing the tiny clasp.

Eyes still glued to the emblem, he mumbled, “Thanks…little sister.” He didn’t have any siblings, not really, certainly no one like this crazy crew.

Maybe he used a too-specific Napix word for the address. Confusion overtook Lanox’s countenance. He definitely had his work cut out for him, trying to fit in here, but he wouldn’t trade it.

Hadn’t he already traded everything for this?

~END~

Thank you so much for reading Stranger Skin, the second companion novella of the RALI series!

The events of this story take place within between book 1, Renegade and book 2, Alliance. If you haven’t already, check Renegade out. If you’ve already done that, the tale continues in Alliance, but don’t miss the other series companion novella, Measure of a Messenger. It takes place within the timeframe of book 1.

Renegade link: https://theprose.com/book/1466/renegade-rali-bk-1

Measure of a Messenger link: https://theprose.com/book/1650/measure-of-a-messenger-a-rali-novella

Alliance link: https://theprose.com/book/1714/alliance-rali-bk-2