The High Road to Tarton would have been easy on Plunket, if it weren't on such an incline. It was gradual, but insistent. There was no downhill. It wasn't as alpine a place as Lurester at the base of the southern mountains, for example, but sufficiently high enough for a cooler climate than Botre Village.

  There was a large forest of mainly coniferous trees just outside the bounds of Tarton. This was the main source of income for the town.

  All around the edges of the tree line were little mounds and divots in the grass. Yakob didn't have to inspect them as he approached - he knew what they were. Tar pits. The townsfolk would use the pine trees of Tarton Wood to cook tar, then barrels would be sold and transported across the Empire of Mauria.

  They only had to worry about the beasts that plagued the forest.

  As Yakob drew nearer to the town, he observed the rising columns of smoke from the chimneys of the brick houses. The streets were wide. Pedestrians, carriages, and riders shared them alike. Every house had slanted, tiled rooves. No thatch here, not like home.

  Yakob had arrived at the perfect time. The Trenmir interview was set for the following day. This allowed him some time to settle and plan before walking into the belly of the beast.

  Yakob directed Plunket to the seedy part of town. Arria's twenty copper chimes was more than he would have packed himself, but it still wasn't much in the grand scheme. He went looking for a familiar tavern: A place by the name of Tar Pit.

  ...

  There was a dingy stable to the side of the Tar Pit. It was dirty and Plunket seemed to take offense at the idea of staying in such a place. Yakob noticed her reticence and decided to tie her to a post by the water trough. She was still close to the stables, but distant enough for others to know this mule was better than the common riff-raff over there.

  He gave her a pat on the neck and pushed his way into the tavern. The saloon-style doors swung open with a creak and Yakob was assaulted by a blast of foul air. The place was aptly named. It was sticky, dark, and stinky. Patrons of the tavern were chatting loudly, chugging from tankards, or hunched over tables and murmuring through alcoholic stupor.

  The tables were close together, so much so that Yakob had to elbow his way through drunken idiots, getting close enough to taste the yeast on their breath. Waiters and waitresses dodged around them nimbly, holding platters of frothy ale above their heads. The tavernkeeper stood behind the bar at the back of the building. That was Yakob's destination.

  Unfortunately, there was a large group of men blocking the way. He couldn't get around them.

  "Excuse me," Yakob said, trying to make his voice heard above raucous laughter. "Hello?"

  One of the waiters slid past, turning his body so that he could squeeze between the oversized bellies. Yakob shuddered at the thought of a similar action.

  "Sorry," he said, "Just trying to get past."

  He was ignored again. Yakob saw that he would just have to steel his resolve and follow the waiter's suit. He gripped his chimes, taking deep breaths. The men were sweaty and loud. He felt the heat from their bodies as their presence seemed to grow and overshadow him. It was all on his head, of course, but his breath became ragged. Shaky.

  Yakob shook his head and slapped his cheeks. He gripped the chimes in his pocket, and focussed on the weight of the amethyst necklace laying coolly under his tunic. He bent his knees, and charged. Yakob thought it might have been too much power, but he quickly realised it wasn't enough. He bounced right off a layer of fat and landed on the sticky floor.

  The man turned to look down on him. His drunken cheer twisted into a scowl as he observed the scrawny boy that seemed to have just attacked him.

  "Here boys," he said to his companions, "Little mouse is lookin' for a fight now, ay?"

  "I'll watch your drink, Skarn!" one of his friends called out. The others laughed at the sarcasm. Yakob didn't think it was funny, but ale seemed to lower people's standards for humour.

  Skarn set his tankard down, spilling the piss over. He rolled up his sleeves. His fingers were stained from working with tar, presumably.

  "No, wait," Yakob said, "I don't want any trouble. I was just trying to get past you."

  Yakob tried to get up. He knew it wasn't good to be on the floor if a fight started.

  Skarn stepped forward and slapped him across the face. His arms were big, and there was a certain power behind the blow. Yakob fell back to the ground. It stung. His eyes watered.

  "Say please," Skarn said.

  Yakob's cheek was flushed. It was difficult to say whether the slap or embarrassment produced the more prominent effect on his colour. Yakob's heart was racing. He looked into Skarn's eyes. He had a lazy one.

  "What for?"

  "You hurt me, mouse. You gotta say sorry. Then say please if you wanna get up."

  "I'm sorry," Yakob said immediately, swallowing his pride, "I didn't mean to hurt you."

  Skarn held a hand to his ear, waiting for the second part of his demand.

  Yakob shook his head and tried to stand. That was too far.

  Skarn tried to slap him again, in the same spot. He was slow. Yakob dodged it easily and got onto his feet. Skarn's eyes lit with the fury of a man swatting flies that he just couldn't catch.

  "Trickshy lil' mouse," his voice slurred.

  "I really am sorry," Yakob tried negotiation once more. His pleas fell on deaf ears.

  Skarn approached with menace. His hands were balled into fists. Yakob had wounded his pride. There was no way out of this situation. Yakob bent his knees and raised his arms like he used to do when he fought with Amos as a boy.

  Skarn crashed forward like a tidal wave. He was directionless, swinging wildly, stumbling. Yakob danced to the side and pushed him, sending the bigger man into another group's table. Skarn fell onto it and spilled their drinks. They looked at Skarn, sprawled, then up at Yakob.

  The second group of men started chanting. "Fight. Fight. Fight." They pushed Skarn off their table and towards Yakob. The rest of the Tar Pit patrons joined the chant. Tables were quickly shoved to the side and a circular space was cleared. Yakob was ringed in with Skarn.

  He could win this.

  Probably.

  Skarn roared like a wild animal. He tore his shirt off. It didn't rip cleanly, hanging on by a few threads. He was an unimpressive man - fat and hairy. Yakob was intimidated nonetheless.

  Skarn lumbered forward, taking care not to fall this time. He didn't want to look silly in front of all these people. Yakob retreated as much as he could, until his back was to the line of people forming the circle. They shouted and jeered at him to fight, stop being a coward, be a man. One of them shoved him forward, sending him tumbling into Skarn's reach.

  Skarn took the unfair advantage with glee. He struck downwards at Yakob's face with a meaty fist. It connected with a crunch. Yakob was on the floor again. Blood. Pain. Tears. He curled into a ball.

  "Get up!" Skarn kicked him. The wind rushed out of his lungs. Yakob stayed where he was, the insults piling on top of him from the sidelines.

  Skarn was impatient. He picked Yakob up and set him on his feet. Then he slapped him. It was humiliating.

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  Yakob could make him slip. He could blind him with his magic. He could throw acid from nothing, he could fill his lungs with water, draw the blood from his veins through his skin. No one would know it was him if he was subtle...

  But no. He was here to join the Trenmir. He couldn't risk exposing himself, not in a place like this. Not yet.

  From blurred vision, Yakob studied Skarn's face. He committed it to memory. He would be back. Later. Stronger.

  He drew saliva into his mouth with that horrid retching noise, and elected to spit in Skarn's face. The globule landed in his eye. Skarn simply wiped it away, his lazy eye focussed on Yakob.

  "Now you've done it."

  Skarn pushed Yakob back, sending him off balance. He strode forward, sobered by the insult. With that powerful arm, he sent an uppercut into Yakob's jaw. His teeth slammed into each other, and he swallowed something sharp. He started coughing, bloody.

  Skarn redoubled his efforts. He wound up for another strike, ready to send Yakob into sweet unconsciousness.

  It never came.

  The crowd dispersed noiselessly, ashamed. Skarn was pulled away. Yakob was left on the ground. He was bloodied and crying.

  "He's learned his lesson, lad," said a rasping voice, "Now here's yours. Get out."

  Skarn tried to protest, tried to get his friends to help him. No one wanted to stand up to the husky newcomer. Yakob heard Skarn stomp away. His heavy footsteps receded, accompanied by low grumbles. The saloon doors at the front of the fine establishment swung open and shut. The Tar Pit returned to business as usual, willing to forget the transgression of a disappointing fight.

  A kind face appeared in Yakob's vision. It was the tavernkeeper that Yakob had been trying to reach before Skarn's... intervention. Makes sense why no one argued with him. No one, especially not drunkards, are willing to argue with the man pouring drinks.

  His moustache was waxed into a stylish curl, black and full-bodied. It was the only coloured hair he had. Everything else had been ravaged by time and left with motley silver, grey, and white.

  "Petr," he introduced himself with a booming voice, declaring his presence to those around. "Proud proprietor of the Tar Pit. Pourer of piss, and none the poorer for it!"

  He extended a large hand to Yakob, offering to help him off the floor. Yakob took it with a grunt. He was unsteady on his feet, and almost fell right back over. Petr placed a hand on his shoulder, holding him steady.

  "I'm Yakob," Yakob said, then belched. His innards threatened bile to follow.

  "Ha! You're a brave boy, getting into brawls with bigger bruisers."

  "Wasn't trying to fight. Just wanted a room, but he was in my way."

  "Truly! Tired traveller, do you try for a temporary stay in Tarton?"

  "...Yes?"

  "Terrific!" Petr clapped his hands and led the way to the bar. The patrons of the Tar Pit parted around him like a school of fish around a shark.

  "Wait one moment," Yakob said, his brain still reeling from Skarn's blows, "Do you always speak in alliteration?"

  Petr rounded the counter, ignoring a woman pleading for ale. At Yakob's question, his face dropped from casual glee to stern and serious.

  "I was cursed to always confuse the common folk. My comments to be continually comprehended only by those possessing higher cognitive capabilities."

  "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."

  "Dastardly Drai."

  "Yeah, haha..." Yakob's heart skipped a beat, so he tried changing subjects. "So, about that room?"

  ...

  Yakob ended up paying two copper chimes for a single night's stay. Petr claimed the room was discounted as compensation for the 'sorry situation with Skarn', but Yakob had been here before. He knew it was completely standard rate.

  Yakob sneezed as soon as the door to his room opened. There was a thin layer of (hopefully) dust over the room. When he did manage to sleep, it was fitful and sweaty. The stiff mattress didn't assuage his nerves over engaging with the Trenmir.

  He had arrived just a day before try-outs. Now was his last chance to turn back. He held Arria's amethyst necklace and considered it. Considered a life with her. Normalcy.

  But he could never be normal, not since visiting the Heavenly Palace. He loved Arria, but this was the best way to protect her. This was the only option that gave the Avidia Institute an operational edge. It was for the greater good.

  It was with notions of the supreme good filling his mind that Yakob marched into the Trenmir barracks.

  The exterior of the building was unassuming. It bore the same orange tiled roof and stone-stucco walls as the rest of Tarton. Evil hides within mundanity, so they say.

  As Yakob entered, pushing his way through the doors, he was hit with a blast of noise greater even than that of the Tar Pit. It seemed there were a hundred or more men and women milling about the open common room. They wore varied clothing and spoke with a range of accents. It was chaos.

  At the back of the room was a raised platform - a stage with a podium. Affixed to the front of the podium was the symbol of the Trenmir's Tomb Order: A potion bottle underlined by crossed arms, and a simplified skull in the centre.

  Someone shoved Yakob to the side and stepped in front of him. A person with broad shoulders and a large belly, reeking slightly of beer. Skarn sneered at Yakob over his shoulder, not even gracing him with a confrontation. Yakob let it go. Later.

  Black drapery behind the stage was disturbed, spewing forth two ghastly figures. The first was a woman with no eyes. Her sockets were mutilated and meaty, pulsating. Behind her was a man with a porcelain mask covering half his face.

  They both wore crisp, black uniforms with the Tomb Order patch sewn onto their shoulders. Beneath each of their patches was a black corded thread twisted into a knot. This denoted them as Putresco: The lowest rank in the Alchemist Orders, but real Alchemists nonetheless. Dangerous.

  Yakob stiffened, forgetting Skarn entirely. He wasn't the only one. A hush fell over the crowd. Everyone turned to face the two Alchemists.

  The woman stepped forward. "I am Putresco Tertia," she said with a smooth voice, then indicated her partner. "This is Putresco Darian.

  "We will be in charge of the onboarding process for this year's Tomb Order try-outs. Many of you will be unfit. If you feel you may fail any of the following tests, leave now and save us all some time."

  Tertia proceeded to list off several tests. She 'read' from a sheet of paper, here eye sockets bulging and shrinking with the rhythm of a person scanning a page.

  The try-outs would be held in three sections: Physical, Mental, and Magical. Each of the tests would fall within one of these three categories. Yakob felt he might fail the Physical section, but he knew there were civilian positions to take that didn't require physical action.

  It was possible Tertia was posturing to weed out those without ambition or drive. It seemed to work, as a few people left with heads hung low. Not many, but Yakob expected the rest of the people remaining to fail in some capacity regardless. Especially Skarn, considering Mental tests may not be his strongest suit.

  "Right," Tertia said, folding the paper and returning it to her pocket, "Let's get on with it, then."

  Tertia exited stage and Darian followed wordlessly. Members of the Tomb Order that were not initiated as Alchemists - the Civilian Corps - filtered into the room and ushered the attendees down a set of stairs. It was slow going, but when everyone reached the bottom, they were assigned a room. Each person was isolated, which Yakob was happy for. He didn't want to try lifting weights with others watching.

  Yakob's room was cold and stony. The grey walls were oppressive. It was small, and contained a table, and a set of weights. There was also a wiry man wearing thin glasses, holding a bundle of papers. The man set the papers down on the desk and indicated the weights. "Physical first. Remove your clothes please."

  Yakob did as he was told. The wiry man took measurements - height, weight, muscle mass. His face belied no emotion on the results. He seemed quite indifferent.

  Yakob proceeded to follow the man's clipped instructions. He lifted weights in order until he failed. He ran around the room until he couldn't any longer. He did jumping jacks until he fell over. The wiry man scribbled in a notepad each time Yakob failed.

  Shortly, they moved onto the Mental tests. Yakob's arithmetic and language skills were superb. His knowledge of history was more than sufficient to write essays at length. His understanding of modern science and technology was middling, but satisfactory.

  The wiry man was forced to stop Yakob from answering questions as he had used all the paper provided and started writing in the margins. He pushed his spectacles up his nose and made another note on his pad, nodding.

  Finally came the Magical section of tests. Tertia was most elusive when describing these to the group. Yakob felt his heart flutter - the unknown was so exciting!

  The wiry, bespectacled overseer left the room briefly and returned with a grey slab. Yakob remained sitting the whole time, waiting. The man placed the slab in front of Yakob and gave him a simple instruction: "Fill it."

  Yakob looked down at the slab, eager to complete whatever test they had prepared. It appeared to be slate - thin and breakable. Etched onto its surface with deep marks were two runes. The first was a rectangle with the top line missing, shifted down to the centre, and the second was a straight line with a dot on its right side. Yakob recognised them immediately.

  Lok and Yeh. The runes for 'Take' and 'Mana'.

  Yakob looked up to the wiry man inquiringly, but was met only with the frigid stare of an assessor. He knew how to activate these runes, how to fill them with mana. The effect they produced was a sort of mana battery.

  It wouldn't be suspicious for him to fill the runes with his mana, and there was no way they could trace the signature of it to him as a Drai due to his eclipse modifier.

  But would it be suspicious for a farm boy to have such in depth knowledge of rune technology? Yes, anyone could use them, but their effectiveness was amplified when used by Drai or Alchemists. Completing this test could expose him as a Drai. Failing to complete the test could spell failure for the mission; failure to infiltrate the Trenmir.

  This is exactly the kind of test meant to reveal Drai in a place they aren't meant to be. Or was it a way of finding potential Alchemists with high mana output?

  It was a test built on ignorance. That power only came from one place.

  Yakob resented that more than the risk.

  He held his hand out on top of the mana battery and closed his eyes. He felt the invisible power - the force inside every being that sustains them, the strength of the soul - his mana leak from the callouses and pores in his hand.

  The runes began to glow, slowly at first. The light reflected off of Yakob's overseer's glasses, hiding his expression. Then, Yakob let his mana flow freely. He was missing a quarter of his total stores from the other day, but a Drai's mana reserve is greater than any regular person's - a symptom of the gift. The runes began to fill quickly, until they were overflowing. Then, the light inside them that represented the mana come corporeal extended above the slate, protruding in the fashion of a pillar.

  The wiry man gasped and ran out of Yakob's isolated room. From inside, he heard the door shut softly. The lock clicked.

  Yakob was stuck.