A legend existed among Scholars even the offscape couldn’t remove from Rowan’s memories. The Scholars were originally founded after the Great War: a malevolent force came forth and darkened the sky of Kativazch. Warriors of old came together, ignoring their differences and nationalities to unite and defeat the threat without name. Though the villain’s name was lost, the names of the heroes went down in history. And of those heroes, none was of greater renown than Morrigan Queen. She was of the chosen race, blessed with enhanced levels of vi, high durability, and reactive skin. Above all else, however, was her famed ability to write bone-based equations: every child is raised learning about Morrigan’s unique ability to manipulate her own body—they called her the one-woman army. Though she and her compatriots saved the entire world of Kativazch during the nameless era, Morrigan’s passing was never recorded in the pantheon of Scholardom.

  Rowan wouldn’t believe it if she wasn’t standing right before him in all her beauty. The scenario wasn’t completely sound, however: though the exact amount of time having passed since the nameless period was often debated by Scholars of high repute, it didn’t make sense for Morrigan Queen to still be alive. It especially didn’t make sense for her to be so young and—no. His mind was wandering and he was staring, which she clearly didn’t like. The principle of Elamine’s Pathway stated that when there wasn’t enough information to draw a sound conclusion, a Scholar ought to work with what is available to continue pushing forward. So, for now, Morrigan Queen was alive and was Rowan’s new friend. She was as spectacular as he would have thought, but the logs and stories told failed to mention her ferocity. Her footwork on the battlefield was a prepossessing sight, but there was so much blood: Rowan would’ve puked by now were he not still recovering from the shock of Morrigan’s appearance.

  More surprising still was her brusqueness, though mayhap she was just angry about the situation Rowan had gotten her into. He couldn’t think about the situation too long before his unmasked ally demanded he secure their escape. Rowan was still a bit shell shocked by everything, but he also wanted to help his new friend.

  “I do not…please don’t go.” Achaia’s whispers came from behind him as she tugged on Rowan’s sleeve.

  Rowan smiled; he’d never had a sibling before: it was a wonderful experience for him thus far.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be right back. Can you do me a favor and watch over our mutual friend, there?”

  Achaia pressed her lips together and gestured for Rowan to lean into her. Rowan took a knee and Achaia cupped her mouth to his ear.

  “She scares me.” Rowan couldn’t help but giggle at Achaia’s attempt to hide the obvious. “Don’t laugh,” she whined, her face flushed with embarrassment.

  “Sorry, fig. Listen, she’s a bit scary, but she won’t hurt you. So can you protect her for me? Then, I'll be right back.” He patted her head, assuming Achaia enjoyed that as much as he enjoyed doing it.

  “Please do.”

  Rowan nodded before noticing Morrigan’s restless look. The blade of bone in her hand deteriorated before his eyes, dust on the wind as she nodded impatiently at him. He stepped out of the arena, ran his fingers along the collar wrapped tightly around his neck, and exhaled with relief as he walked out to the hall of stalls once again. The guards made way for Rowan to climb the ladder into Mogrim’s little hideaway. As he entered the office, Rowan noticed the angles of the arena were still being recorded. People were still watching? Why? Were people starved enough for entertainment to simply sit idly merely for the prospect of more bloodshed? This place made people barbaric. Rowan exhaled a sharp breath and turned his attention to the trader.

  “Well, pup, you did it again: you left me jaw agape.” Mogrim chuckled, clapping in a patronizing manner, though the tremble in his tone told a different story. “The feckin’ Maliker?. Who would’ve thought? Not Ol’ Mog.”

  “Mogrim, let these people go: your guards can’t beat Morrigan Queen and there’s no need for any further bloodshed.”

  Mogrim sighed, looking more tired than he’d previously been.

  “‘Fraid not, pup. See, things have changed now. I just thought I had a valuable body on my hands with the tower situation. But this is different: this is the feckin’ Maliker?. She’s bad news and now everyone in the offscape knows she’s here. Might as well let me put her down here and now.”

  Mogrim pressed a button on his remote and Morrigan’s howls filled the cavern. Rowan sprinted over to the glass, seeing her gripping angrily at her collar.

  “Stop, that’s not going to kill her. You’re just—”

  Morrigan broke the collar off her neck, roaring as she blotted out the space around her, not a single speck of vi within her proximity escaping her hunger. The air became thick and harsh as she sprinted into an arena wall, barreling through it better than the K?dra ever could.

  “Shite, shite, shite.” Mogrim said, racing out the door. “She’ll kill us all.”

  Rowan snatched his cloak and log from Mogrim’s office, threw the cloak on, and pursued him.

  “Let me stop her, please. No more bloodshed.” Rowan gripped Mogrim’s shoulder, searching for some semblance of humanity. Mogrim exhaled and nodded, trying to gather his remaining men just in case.

  Rowan raced down the ladder and saw Morrigan at one of the prison cell doors: it looked like she was about to rip the thing off its hinges.

  “Hey, Morrigan,” Rowan called out, waving his arms, but she was unresponsive.

  Rowan exhaled in frustration. Why was she always so difficult? She hardly spoke to him before, now she was all of a sudden speaking the natural tongue, barking orders and threatening anything with a pulse. Law, the only time she wasn’t seemingly picking fights was when—

  “The finger harp,” Rowan said, smiling at his idea.

  He pulled it out and began strumming. He wasn’t sure exactly what to play, but the same song was already ringing out of the instrument. The finger harp was proving to be worth its weight in shembals as Morrigan’s snarls and growls came to a softer exhale. He wanted to tell her she was okay, but she was already careening toward the ground as he put away his finger harp.

  “Hey.” Rowan called out, racing over to her. “Are you okay? Can you hear me?”

  Her voice was barely audible as Rowan knelt down to her and put his ear to her chest, wanting to make sure her heart was still beating.

  “Hungry,” Morrigan whispered.

  Rowan breathed a sigh of relief and knelt beside her, noticing Achaia and Mogrim wandering over from their respective directions.

  “Me guards are gone, pup: they took the damned airship and buggered off. Your damned Maliker? scared them off. Collars ain’t gonna be enough to keep you all in line.”

  “So don’t,” Rowan said. “Release the collars, beg for forgiveness, and work together with the people here to survive in the offscape.”

  Mogrim chuckled. “Again with that gobshite, pup. They ain’t gonna make peace with me. Not after the things I’ve done.”

  “No, they likely won’t, and they probably shouldn’t. You’ve committed the kind of crimes that lead to exile or imprisonment. Still, you have an opportunity, here.” Rowan waved a hand, gesturing to the cells behind him. “These people need an honest-to-Law chance and the offscape doesn’t afford such a thing—you know it and I know it. In your mind, you had to do these despicable things to establish some semblance of safety out here. I disagree, but it’s too late to rewrite that. It’s not too late to change what comes next, though.”

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  Mogrim muttered and grumbled, getting louder before shouting at Rowan. “Why do you care, pup? What the feck’s in it for you? All this pageantry, all this rubbish, and for what? Camera’s still rolling out there.” Mogrim pointed to the arena, his face awash with emotion. “Go on, give them a speech.”

  “Your daughter, Mogrim.”

  “Careful, pup.”

  “I don’t think she’d be very proud of the man you are, right now.”

  “You shut it, you shut it right now. You think I chose this? This is all there is: there is no going back. You don’t think I tried? You think me first thought was to let things escalate to this point?” Mogrim wailed, tears running down his face. Achaia walked between them and Mogrim was ready to bark at her once again, expecting her usual subservience. But she walked to Rowan’s side instead, holding his hand assuringly. The old man chuckled and looked up at the ceiling of the cavern. “When did it happen? When did things get so out of hand?” Mogrim said, seemingly asking Law itself.

  Rowan, unsure of what to say, extended his hand. Instead of a reciprocating hand, he felt a remote fall into his palm. Rowan thumbed the remote curiously; the screens, the cells, likely all of the scholar technology beneath their feet: it was linked to everything in this damned labyrinth. Typically, Rowan would be insatiably curious about the mechanisms of the device, but not this time. He opened up its back compartment, found the imprinted vi, and began siphoning it. The action in and of itself felt so simple, good even, but it wasn’t just the remote’s vi being drawn in. The remote was indeed connected to all the vi-related mechanisms in the labyrinth, and all the vi was feeding into Rowan’s body like a cup catching a waterfall. Rowan felt his body weakening, screaming for him to halt the process, but the floodgates were open and he couldn’t stop them.

  “Are you alright?” Achaia asked, concerned as Rowan fell to a knee.

  “Ridinr?.” Morrigan lurched forward and staggered over to Rowan.

  She placed a hand on his shoulder holding him tight enough to likely leave a bruise as she coerced the vi around them. Rowan grit his teeth as he tried to pay attention to what she was doing: the symbolage was familiar enough, and the relief that followed solidified his estimation of her actions.

  “Transfer equation?” Rowan panted, his body releasing the pent-up vi. “I thought it could only be used to relinquish vi, not take it?”

  “You think too much and act too little.” Morrigan huffed, basking in the bevy of vi flowing into her. For the first time since she could last recall, she felt quite full.

  Sounds of cells creaking open filled the cavern as people slowly spilled out, confused by the action having taken place. Once the cells had unlocked, it only took one curious person to start the trend and empty out the prison. The sheepish mob gathered around Rowan et. al, muttering with concerns and questions.

  “Good day, everyone. My name—”

  “What’s going on?” One prisoner squeaked out.

  Rowan chuckled nervously. “Right, I was just about to—”

  “The cells are opened. Are we free to go?” Another chimed in, stirring the crowd.

  “Well, I wouldn’t recommend—”

  “It’s Mogrim,” one prisoner shouted in fear, creating a wave of concern.

  “But there aren’t any guards.”

  “This is a trick, I know it.”

  “We should just go back to our cells.”

  “I don’t ever want to go back.” The crowd whipped into a frenzy, talking over themselves and eclipsing Rowan’s voice entirely.

  Public speaking was always such an uphill battle for Rowan. He already had a quieter voice than most and he lacked the charisma to keep a crowd engaged. His father was great at such a thing, using sheer gravitas and authority to keep a group in check. But Rowan? He could barely keep a single person’s attention, so a crowd was out of the question. And why would it ever be otherwise? When it came to such things, he was worthless. Worthless. Worthless. Worthl—

  “Mada. Shut your cursed mouths.” Morrigan shouted above all others, bringing the crowd to a hush.

  Rowan looked to her at his side; of course Morrigan Queen could handle a crowd. Mayhap Rowan could just tell her what he wanted to say and she’d handle it.

  “Speak.” Morrigan hissed in his ear, her hand on his shoulder with authority.

  “Me? No, I-I’m no good at this sort of thing. I think you—”

  “Ridinr?: what did I just say?”

  He thinks too much? But what was the alternative? To just act? A terrifying notion. Still, her grip on his shoulder—while a bit tighter than his skin would prefer—urged him forward.

  “Um,” Rowan paused, clearing his throat. “My name is Rowan Hightower. I’m a Scholar and I’ve come to the offscape…” He couldn’t recall why.

  “Oaki. Keep going,” Morrigan hissed in annoyance.

  “Anyway, you all are prisoners no longer. Your collars have been deactivated and you’re free to go, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “Why would we stay?”

  “And why is he still here?”

  The crowd kicked up another raucous string of questions and comments, hushing again when Morrigan growled in annoyance. Rowan let out another nervous laugh and tried to continue.

  “I don’t know how many of you have been out there, like have actually braved the wastes of the offscape—it’s not a hospitable landscape. There are dangerous anomalies and, without preparation, you’d be in danger.”

  “You would not last a night, fools,” Morrigan scoffed.

  “Um, but if you stayed here—”

  “How will we survive? There’s no food here.”

  “Mogrim’s thugs gathered the food, right? I don’t see them around anymore.”

  “Right,” Rowan interjected, not looking to get them started up again. “There isn’t any food here for a long-term settlement, but there’s enough to last a month or so, by my estimations. Mogrim likely has a contact in…Arca was it?” Rowan turned to Mogrim, to which he nodded with disinterest. “So, it’s not unfeasible to think that you could simply continue that exchange for—”

  Mogrim laughed, making Rowan take pause. “You haven’t a clue how this all works, pup. That exchange you mentioned? Right, it’s slave labor for food. We’re keeping that going, are we? You think these piss stains out here give a feck about shembals? No, that’s just to keep Ol’ Mog sane. So what do we do? Draw straws once a week?”

  “Why is he still even here?”

  “Why didn’t you kill him, Scholar?”

  Rowan stammered, trying to regain control of the people. “Well, no we don’t have to—”

  “And why isn’t she dead too?” A finger from the crown pokes out toward Achaia, who withdraws behind Rowan accordingly.

  Rowan put a hand out, shielding Achaia behind him. “No, she’s a victim too. I won’t—”

  A prisoner stepped forward in Rowan’s direction, to which Morrigan shoved her on her rear.

  “Fools, all of you,” Morrigan said, her nose twitching in irritation.

  “Wait,” Rowan said, trying to stop her from losing her temper.

  “Isn’t it everything you dreamed, pup? They’re so thankful.” Mogrim cackled as the crowd grew restive and angry.

  Morrigan cracked her knuckles, preparing to quell the entire crowd. Rowan looked around, trying to find the answer to the problems before him when a new voice cut through the crowd—more of a sound, really. Aariv, hacking and coughing over the crowd, stepped forward. Rowan reached to help him, but Morrigan immediately swatted his arm away. Rowan wanted to ask her why she’d do that, but everything was happening so quickly—before he could focus on her, Aariv drew his attention again, leaking jet black ichor from every visible orifice. He was gargling the dark fluid, his tone desperate and fearful as a long, flat appendage shot out of his mouth.

  Rowan watched in horror as time itself seemed to halt at the spectacle before his eyes. Another flat hand jutted out of Aariv’s mouth—his wordless garbles of panic ceasing. The appendages drew in any surrounding light, visible only by the globules of vi bobbing around them. Rowan shuddered as the shaded arms bent downward, gripping the sides of Aariv’s face. Aariv made a sound akin to retching as the creature pushed against his jaw, slowly and decisively hoisting itself from his mouth. Aariv collapsed to the ground, the creature stepping out of him like one might gently slip out of a pair of sandals. It was there on the tip of Rowan’s tongue, his body urging him not to say it, not to speak the creature into existence. Yet here it was before his eyes, right from a legend or myth.

  “Skin-snatcher…”