KNITE:

I liked Cluniper. I liked any man who wrestles with fear and weilds its double-edged blade rather than let its weight carve itself into the flesh of their actions with abandon; bravery was a trait I respected begrudgingly, its very nature too sincere to scoff at.

"Who do you serve?" I asked.

The Named held his bow. "The council."

"Who do they serve?"

"You and the other Leaves." Cluniper's hands still fought against the shake of his fear. This only served to show he knew the perils of serving the whims of godlings.

"So it is me you serve."

"And the other Leaves," he said. There it was, his courage, the hand that kept his fear from conquering the entirety of his actions. I smiled. Yes, I decided, I liked Cluniper.

I waved a hand at Kip. "My man ascended long ago, long before the mark of ascension became a permanent brand upon the skin. Now, lead us to the chamber of council and send word ahead of my arrival."

Cluniper rose from his bow, the near imperceptible shake of his hands stilled by the passing of his crucible. He marched ahead in a slow trot. My men and I strolled behind him, through the gate, past the barracks, and into the heart of the Branches, where the once pristine streets and buildings were marred by negligence. Dusk shrouded the seamless slabs of stone that constituted the roads and walkways, our steps trailing the path of our invasion. Trees and plots of grass lined the sides, wild, unclipped, and out of shape because no Roots had come to tend their curated beauty. The window fronts of shops lay dim. Homes sat dormant. A heavy silence suffocated the empty spaces, desolation creeping into them.

"Where are all the residents?" Contri asked.

"Not many remain," Cluniper said. "The Roots have been rooted, and most others have joined the war as stewards of conquered lands or taken residence in other cities."

"The farms?" I enquired.

"Protected."

"By?"

"A contingent of Named."

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

"Who tends to them?"

"There, Roots remain on duty."

"And transport?"

"Another duty we've taken on."

"I take it you've been spread thin."

"We can stretch further yet."

"Are Bainan's levies still in effect?"

"Successes in the frontier have shifted the burden to newer lands and peoples, but the long years of depletion remain. The war continues, and seeing as the other cities of our island are… more capable of resisting if and when circumstances dictate another bout of levies, it is ill-advised to reconstitute the prosperity of yesteryear until prospects have settled."

As with most Branches—as with all lands civilised by the uncivilised minds of those prone to pride and greed and all their siblings—the innards held the loftier reaches. Innermost of all was the council's chamber and the surrounding abodes of the five who held power over the Island's politics, a faded echo of the six towers Merkusian had erected in the capital. The towers where the five resided were swords of blue-streaked, white marble decorated with sapphire windows, their sharp, gleaming points stabbing into the sky. Growing outward, away from the side facing the chamber, were small towns where the current ruling members' favored underlings resided. We headed to one such tower.

Blint was a handsome fellow. Clean in the way a desert might be dry—that is to say, with unwavering, uncaring, and definitive exactitude. He stood regal. Alone. His hooded robe, as spotless as the white of the midday sun, sat rigid across his broad shoulders and fell in a straight line towards his white, creaseless, leather boots. His head lowered ever so slightly when we came into view, but his eyes stayed on mine, refusing to bow.

"Welcome, Father," he said. The respect in Yabiskus's memories was replaced by a certainty Blint had lacked before he was sent to his current seat of authority. "I'd have been better prepared if I had been foretold of your arrival."

My sword took him in the centre of the throat. It slices past the stone of his manhood and out of the back of his neck. Wide eyes watched me. I watched them back until the light blinked out of them, and his hands, which were reaching out to my sword, dropped lifeless to his sides.

He died then. Yes, I killed him. He gave me no choice; his words were ones of mutiny, poorly hidden. And when I say I killed him, I mean his body died. Lucky for him, even Yabiskus had the capacity to offer warning before finality, though being Yabiskus—or, more accurately, since I was wearing the guise of Yabiskus—my warning had to carry almost as much weight as the death it postponed.

Before his soul detached from his body, I slid the sword out, healing the injury as its sharp tip and edge left his flesh. Blint collapsed.

"I commend you for being bold," I said as I cleaned the blade off on his ruined robe. "I imagine it has served you well in your role as a councilman, the role I had bestowed upon you, but perhaps your audacity has encroached into territories that ought to be ruled by prudence."

Blint pushed himself up on one hand, the other rubbing at his throat. He stood. His eyes never left the blood he'd spilled on the ground. In keeping with who I wanted to be seen as, I nodded sagely, projecting pride in both his obedience and my having given it to him.

"Excuse my miscalculation, Father," he said.

"Excuse?"

Blint flinched. "I misspoke. I meant to convey my determination to correct myself moving forward."

"Take us to the chamber. I mean to have words with you and your fellow councilmen."

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