The morrow’s dawn was heralded by a servant’s touch. It was an hour Byuga might never have known of his own accord; he harbored no love for the early rising. In those grey moments, the world offered no vibrations to reach his ears, and nothing moved. It made him feel as though the world were as poised on the precipice of death as he was. Nevertheless, he rose and dressed. His belongings had already been prepared. He felt the creeping chill; it should not have been possible for the cold to penetrate so deep into the manor, and the shiver that took him felt less like weather and more like a premonition. He stood, fumbling with his attire. With each passing day, finding the buttons or discerning the alignment of his shift became a more arduous labor.

  Yet, he dressed. His garments were crafted with deliberate care, their details accentuated so he might still discern them. They were a riot of color—crimson, orange, khaki, and violet. To be truthful, Byuga detested them. At the very least, his sight had only failed him in recent years; as a child playing with others, his infirmity had not yet become a whetstone for their mockery. But now, he was bound for the Shyugan Towers, one of the most formidable reaches of the world, and the uncertainty of how he would be received there filled him with dread.

  He would be alone. He knew this. It was not a new sensation; he had always been solitary. Perhaps even had he seen all and heard all, he would still have walked in isolation. Solitude, he mused, was dispersed only by being understood. Those who remained misunderstood were forever alone. Thus, the broken and the diminished were destined for loneliness—another cog upon the grinding wheels of a world caught in an endless, vicious cycle. Byuga had not seen enough of the world to know what was truly right, but he had survived long enough to recognize what was wrong.

  Once his trunks had been carried below, he descended. He wore a long caftan, a garment of striking design: tree motifs in vibrant green against a crimson field, interspersed with buildings rendered in a myriad of hues. Along with his scrolls, this raiment proclaimed Byuga’s lineage and station. His father must have commissioned it with that specific intent. Byuga had touched every thread, bringing the fabric close to his eyes before the mirror to memorize its patterns.

  Over this, he donned a golden, skirted vest adorned with semi-precious stones that dangled from his shoulders. He descended the stairs of House Jado accompanied by two attendants, his gait short and soft. With every step, he tensed his trailing leg, haunted by the fear of a fall. In such moments, a darker curiosity often gripped him: would his body eventually forfeit its strength entirely? The physicians, the healers, and the monks all sang the same dirge—this blight, whatever it was, would only fester. What then? Perhaps a time would come when he could not walk, when he would collapse, his limbs twisting into useless shapes. A bedridden life. Taom-Dium was not a home; it was a curated tomb.

  He would endure it. Silcles, the great philosopher of Newhome and ancient Veid, spoke of this: the necessity of bearing up. His philosophy fit Byuga like a second skin. “Perhaps we look at this life upside down,” Silcles had posited. “Perhaps misfortune and agony should be met with a smiling countenance. For if there is even a shard of divine power in this world, it is that which thrusts us into calamity. It is a trial to measure our fortitude and worth, to see if we are fit to be taken into their company.” Byuga wished to believe. Yet logic often falls away when one is faced with a flaw as undeniable as a stain upon the skin. He needed to believe in something. Everyone’s days were numbered; if there was something to remind him of that, he was no different from the rest.

  As he reached the foot of the stairs, he saw the gathering. At the very least, his right eye still held some clarity. Nearly a dozen mysho waited, tended by men. At the far end of the vast, sandy courtyard stood the great fortress gate. Once they passed it and the city walls beyond, Byuga would be further from home than he had ever been. He told himself he accepted this with grace. He felt a flicker of resolve; this was the man he ought to be, the posture he ought to strike. But like the depths of a glass-calm sea, which evoke more terror than the hidden bottom of a churning lake, his silence only served to unnerve those around him. It was a shield that served only him.

  Byuga looked upon the mysho. He had learned to ride these magnificent beasts as a child but had not mounted one since his condition worsened. To ride them, one had to hear them. A mysho’s exhaustion was signaled by the rasp in its breath and the cessation of its song. Furthermore, when they sensed a threat, their wings would ruffle and they would emit a vibrating trill. They knew no fear against foes of any size, yet they were timid against threats that crept in silence. A rider who heard these sounds knew when to dismount. He watched them—creatures with four legs, two of which were short, running upon powerful haunches. Though used for travel and sudden skirmishes, the true war-beasts of the Bahysas were the Noble Rhinoceroses. Byuga had seen one only once in his life. The power of a House that possessed more than a dozen of them was something to be feared. For a shimlyndvyen to ride any other mount was considered a slight. He pulled his gaze from the mysho, imagining the greater beasts.

  Then, amidst the company, he spotted Bodhi. The aged librarian approached, and the Jado prince lifted his hands in joy.

  "Are you coming as well?"

  "I am, little prince." Bodhi smiled. "May the lash of Balbun protect you from metal, and my hands and mind shield you from ignorance and despair." When Bodhi lowered his hands, Byuga felt an impulse to embrace him, but he restrained himself before the crowd. Especially as he was bound for Shyugan, he could not show such frailty. Instead, he raised his right hand, holding his arm so the elbow sat over his heart and his palm faced his face, then placed his left hand upon his right wrist. Among the Bahysas, this was the highest sign of gratitude and sincerity. Bodhi returned the gesture, though Byuga could not be certain if it was merely out of courtesy or a shared depth of feeling.

  At a sharp movement, he looked toward Balbun, who approached them. "Are you prepared, shimelyun?"

  "I am."

  Byuga was helped onto his mysho. Balbun moved to slide Byuga’s feet into the stirrup-pouches, but the prince insisted on doing it himself. As he did, his eyes searched the manor for his father. Shimlyn Ilya was nowhere to be seen. Yet, Byuga knew he was watching. He felt the weight of his father’s gaze. Because of this, he waved his hand to the empty windows. He was already broken, already flawed; what did it matter if they thought him mad as well? He imagined his father waving back, or perhaps weeping in the shadows of a window-nook, whispering a silent farewell.

  At Balbun’s signal, the party—consisting of two servants, four shimlyndvyens, Balbun, and Bodhi—set their myshos into a slow, rhythmic walk. They passed through the city. Byuga watched his surroundings, his head darting back and forth so he could see as much as possible with his one good eye. He must have looked a frantic sight.

  The scent of smoke wreathed them. He could smell the tang of sheared or molten iron, the scent of decay, mold, and stone. The Macatosh Wars had turned the Northern realms into a Great Engine. The war had ended, but the production of blades, chemicals, and mortars continued unabated. Now, that industry was turned toward construction, infrastructure, and economic greed. The fires of industry raged everywhere. Bodhi had spoken of this transformation as the "Metal-Lust." Even the Great Velorgol Empire and the majestic Sovkin cities were slowly succumbing to this industrial metamorphosis. Soon, perhaps, the whole world would march to the beat of gunpowder and steam. Bodhi had even predicted a day when every man would carry a rifle—machines that, despite their current volatility, would grant common levies the power to topple armies.

  They halted at the city gates. Gaigon could no longer be contained by the hill upon which it was founded nor the walls that ringed it; it spilled out into the plains of linden and pine. Bahysaris was growing. After Veid and Tahmar, they were the quickest to embrace the new technologies. Soon, they would be the vanguards. If there was one thing of the outer world that truly piqued Byuga’s interest, it was these innovations—these singular machines.

  He tensed as the gates groaned open. He had never ventured beyond this point—not truly. He had never stood more than twenty paces past this threshold. But now, their path would take them through the great houses of the North, into its cities, through its natural wonders, and into its most perilous reaches. Their destination was Gaigen—the first and greatest of the Shyugan Towers. It was the fortress where his uncle and all the Shyugans of history resided. Byuga had seen descriptions of the "Black Tower." He felt a secret joy that he would see what it truly looked like before his eyes failed him forever.

  As they crossed the threshold, his world expanded. The road ahead split into three. To the west, a straight path stretched toward the shores of the Febehulen Ocean, vanishing into the forests as it climbed toward the mountains. The path to the left led south to the cities of the Mashidas. They, however, turned to the right. Byuga gazed out over the lush plains—valleys that looked like the inside of a shifting basin—and the scattered pools of water. A cold wind bit at them. It would only grow colder. As they moved north, leaving behind the eastern branch of the Shilum-baas Mountains—the Place Where Gods are Born—the tundras would begin. Eventually, not even a pine or a naked seriz tree would survive. Beyond that, according to Bodhi, lay the frozen pastures of the glaciers. After two days of riding through that wasteland, they would reach Gaigen: the Black Tower. There, Byuga would meet his uncle and begin his year of voluntary captivity.

  For nearly a week, they trekked through forest-clad plains and deep valleys. Though Byuga could not discern the details, he was acutely aware of the beauty—the hidden paradises, the corners of the world that felt untouched, the rivers that flowed with vibrant life. One of the few sounds he remembered from his youth was the song of birds. Now, as they moved through these woods and creek beds, he imagined their warbling, trying to reconstruct the sound of the wind against his skin in his mind.

  But it was not all wonder. Byuga was unaccustomed to the rigors of the wild. When possible, they stayed as guests in village houses or took shelter in roadside inns, but such luxuries were rare. Two nights out of three, they were forced to camp in the open. This was a far cry from the goose-down mattresses and pillows the Jado prince knew. He had to contend with insects, the damp mist of morning on his face, and a thousand other discomforts. He had known, before setting out, that there would be neither comfort nor peace, but he had not yet found the inner steel to truly reconcile himself to it.

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  Finally, in the second or third week of their journey, Byuga noticed a dark shape in the distance while they were making camp. The Shilum-baas Mountains were split into two ranges by the Shyugan Towers; the eastern range was called the Nyanmar Mountains. They were at the foot of these peaks. Pointing toward a silhouette that sat atop a great hill with its back to the mountain, he questioned Bodhi and Balbun.

  "The Taong Academy," Bodhi wrote upon a slate. Then, lifting his chin, he continued with his hands. "It belongs to House Shopur, the wisest lineage of the North. They are descended from Shan-Shumur, the God of Wisdom and Foresight. That silhouette you see is an observatory and a library."

  "Can we stop there?"

  "Ask Balbun."

  "No," Balbun signaled as soon as he approached. "It is too far from our path. If we go, you will want to linger—I know this. Your uncle expects us. He will worry if we are delayed." Byuga nearly pleaded, but the shimlyndvyen remained unmoved. Dejected, Byuga stood at the edge of the rise where they camped, staring at the dark shape and the labyrinthine shadows stretching beneath it. A city at the foot of the mountains, secluded from the world, and a gargantuan library... He saw pyramid-like structures rising from the city, tiers tapering upward like Bahysa lanterns, reminiscent of ancient towers.

  When they set out the next morning, his gaze lingered on the city. He wished he could see the details—to truly understand it from this distance with clear eyes. Instead, as his mysho entered the treeline, the city vanished behind a veil of branches.

  By the end of the following week, the trees began to thin and the cold grew razor-sharp. Byuga wished his sense of touch had vanished before his hearing; then, at least, he would not feel the bite of the frost. But he had no mastery over his failings. As they passed from forest to grassy plains and rocky barrens, he watched the Nyanmar Mountains. They rose majestically, their peaks piercing the clouds whenever the trees allowed a glimpse. There was something different about the land they had traversed for the last two days—something more vibrant. Even in its coldness, it felt not frozen, but solemn. He watched everything he could see with desperate interest. He wondered what he would do when his eyes finally went dark. He could kill himself; that would be the simplest, most logical path. He should do it before his skin and joints grew numb, before he lost the very capability to end his own suffering.

  He felt Balbun’s hand upon his chest. He hadn't noticed the man stopping his mount. Byuga turned his head and looked ahead. Atop a rocky hill sat a vast city of hemispherical, round houses covered in grass. There were no walls, no fortifications. Nestled at the bend of a river, the place looked profoundly peaceful.

  "We shall camp here," Balbun said, then turned to repeat it aloud to the group—or so Byuga assumed.

  "Why?" Byuga asked, approaching him with his hands.

  "This is Shanchaung," Bodhi said, pulling alongside them. "Balbun must be wary of them." The shimlyndvyen spoke to the librarian, then looked back at Byuga.

  "They do not leave their city. Many are enchanters. They are peculiar. One never knows their intent."

  "We could not stop at Taong. I wish to see this place," Byuga said.

  "No." Balbun’s hand-signs were absolute, vibrating with a rare certainty. "You are in my charge. I do not fear to admit it—even I am wary of them. We will not stay within. They may have seen us already. We shall camp here, by the roadside."

  The young Bahysa had no choice but to obey. He dismounted, noticing that even the myshos seemed different—calmer, subdued. Once the beasts were tethered and the camp was struck, Byuga sat by the fire, warming his hands. He loved the fire. Not just for its heat, but for the sight of it. It felt more alive than anything else—like the true form of the soul. He thought of the Eternal Flame, the one the Mashidas were said to guard—the only thing left of their divine realms. He wondered what it looked like and asked Bodhi as the old man sat beside him.

  "It is merely a great fire," Bodhi signaled. "Nothing special. It is not as magical as you imagine."

  "How can it be divine then?"

  "It isn't." Bodhi lowered his hands and took Byuga’s hand for a moment. Then, releasing it, he spoke again, his mouth twitching slightly as he formed the words. "Nothing truly divine or magical is ever in plain sight. Such things are always hidden in the most unexpected places. One who is a god does not need to prove they are a god. The Mashidas are but Bahysa, and their fire is but fire."

  Byuga drifted to sleep with that thought, but as had been the case for weeks, the events at the training grounds the day before his departure haunted his mind. What had happened? How had he done it? Could he do it again? For a fleeting moment, he had seen everything, touched everything, felt everything. He had sensed his entire surroundings simultaneously. He did not know how. It hadn't been an act of will. But it was the first spark of hope he’d felt since his illness had begun to steal his world. If he could do it again, he would. He didn't care if it was sorcery. Let the Perlam Guardians take him. He could go to the monks—he was bound for them eventually anyway. If he were lucky, he might be sent to one of the two Perlam fortresses in the North, and from there, to a school of magic. It would be the greatest thing that could befall him.

  As he was on the verge of deep sleep, he heard a whistle. He was stunned; he didn't understand at first. He thought the sound was a sensation, a touch of the breeze. But as he realized it was a true sound, he sat up and looked around. Everyone was asleep. Standing directly across from him was a large bird. It had shimmering feathers that resembled scales and stood nearly the height of a man. Before his very eyes, it hopped down from its perch and shifted into a tiger. As the beast approached with heavy, silent steps, Byuga opened his mouth to cry out, but then he felt a second voice inside his head. Only then did he realize it wasn't a sound at all, but something far stranger. It was like an echo, a resonance, a memory. Do not, the voice said, conveying the command through feelings and associations—perceptions that did not originate in his own mind. Byuga was startled to realize how much this felt like what he had done at the training ground. Somehow, he knew it was the tiger speaking. It told him to come, then turned and walked away from the camp. Byuga glanced at the shimlyndvyens on watch. They did not seem to see him. He stood and tried to navigate the darkness, his failing eyes struggling against the gloom. He followed the tiger toward the city on the rocky hill.

  Soon, he was walking between the round, grass-roofed houses. The city folk must have been asleep. He noticed that the river water was diverted to every house via personal mills and carved wooden channels; every home had its own unique tree. The tiger whispered to his mind a few times to keep him from being distracted, but in a place of such natural wonder and order, focus was impossible. Finally, Byuga felt a flicker of annoyance and pushed the voice out of his mind. He didn't know how he did it, but the tiger paused, looked back at him with an expression of feline surprise, and then continued.

  They arrived at a larger, domed building with stone doors that were as thin as parchment. The tiger shed its beastly form, rising and shifting into a Bahysa woman. Her hair was incredibly long. She looked disheveled yet entirely natural and fluid. Byuga didn't know what to say; only now did the reality of how strange and terrifying this was begin to sink in.

  The doors opened, and the woman entered. Her walk was more like a panther's than a Bahysa's—every muscle tensing and releasing with controlled, liquid grace, free yet deliberate. Byuga followed with heavy steps, praying he wouldn't trip. The interior was bright. The floor was not flat; it was a lattice of stones piled over a hollow. Below, he could see massive roots and a small, trickling brook. Fearful of the gaps, he kept his eyes down. Things hung from the walls, though he could not make them out. He followed the tiger-woman to the center, where a sort of altar stood. Three other figures waited. One wore a horned, bohemian crown. He stood still, turning a misty gaze toward Byuga.

  The man approached and offered a greeting. There was a truly singular expression in his eyes—like a wild beast observing its prey with curiosity, or a cat trying to decipher something that had piqued its interest. Byuga tried to return the greeting, and the man smiled. He gestured to the altar, then made a motion for lying down. The Jado prince felt a surge of fear. Thoughts of sacrifice and violation raced through his mind. Sensing his hesitation, the man pointed to his own forehead. He wished to enter Byuga’s mind, just as the woman had. Byuga bowed his head in consent.

  "Byuga." Another sensation, another touch echoed in his mind. The man knew his father. This man was of the lineage of Chaf-Chiaun. He understood things—he saw memories, felt emotions, caught the drift of Byuga’s thoughts. He had wondered when Byuga would come. He had not come sooner. There was a rising sun, the man signaled, but it was hidden behind many mountains, much mist, and deep snow. It was a long time until dawn. Yet, a twilight had been seen. Was this twilight Byuga?

  The man’s intent was not malicious. Byuga realized he wanted to help. The man was seeing things—distant things. Byuga couldn't make sense of it all, but he was astonished. He saw how everything was interconnected. Past, future, present, and beyond—all were woven together. Stars gave birth to one another, and the seemingly endless dark held everything in its embrace. The workings of the cosmos were not independent of the workings of this world; they were like colors bleeding into one another. When Byuga tried to see his own place within this tapestry, he became lost. Not lost in the world, but lost within himself. He could not understand what was being shown to him, but he could sense that his place within it was significant. He wondered how that could be. He saw nothing that bound him to the world.

  Then, the man spoke to him—with emotions and associations. He spoke of a power within Byuga. A power he did not know he possessed. He spoke of how this power might save everything against a rapidly approaching apocalypse. It was a prophecy, or something akin to it. Byuga severed the connection, just as he had with the woman. The man was equally startled by this. Byuga looked at them; they spoke amongst themselves, but he could not hear their words.

  Then, the man began to speak in sign language. Byuga was surprised and followed his hands. "A time will come," the man signaled, "when winter shall fall upon you, and the eye of the storm will be fixed on you." Seeing Byuga’s confusion and furrowed brow, the man raised a hand. "You will understand when the time comes, not before." When Byuga remained silent, he continued. "When that moment arrives, let yourself go. See not one thing, but everything. Learn to see not with your eyes, but with your heart. There is great power within you."

  Though Byuga did not grasp the meaning, he hoped he would when the time came. "Thank you," he signaled.

  "I have saved myself as well," the Shimlyn said, a faint smile playing on his lips as his hands continued the dance. "What befalls you shall strike our faces as well. In the end, the fate of one often binds us all."

  Though he struggled to comprehend the gravity of it, Byuga felt he was being pulled into a grand adventure. For the first time, there was excitement in his life, and he was happy. He didn't truly believe in such things, of course. Omens and fortunes were little more than primitive copies of the institutionalized superstitions of the southern seers. Yet, the hope and thrill of it made him glad. He felt caught in a current. One did not need to believe to be happy or to hope. Belief was acceptance; hope was waiting with trust.

  The tiger-woman gestured toward the door. "We shall send you back to your companions," the Shimlyn signaled. "They will not wake, and unless you speak of it, they shall know nothing of this meeting." He raised his hand again, and Byuga turned to leave. Just before he stepped out, a faint echo resonated in his mind.

  "Your father loves you, Byuga. More than anything..."

  Byuga spun around, looking at the man in shock, but the man said nothing more. He simply continued to smile. For a reason he could not name, Byuga felt he would see this man again. As he stepped out the door, he sensed the woman beside him dropping low, and when he turned to his left, he saw she had become a tiger once more. As the murmur of the Shemlin River filled his ears, he walked with heavy, deliberate steps, never taking his eyes off the tiger at his side.

  The words he had "heard" remained suspended in his heart.