The harrowing sting of the salve faded into a distant yet traumatic memory, though the discomfort that addled his body and mind persisted. The protection cast over the stolen Raven’s Guide had saved him from being skewered by the sentinel, yet the radiating force had broken several ribs. It was an ailment, thankfully, easily remedied by the discrete services of the healers in the King’s employ.

  They’ll count themselves lucky to see me again so quickly. He laughed at the thought, then immediately regretted it. He winced and grabbed his side.

  There was no need to check whether the caretaker survived whatever poison the sentinels had emitted; the grating sounds of his snoring were clear enough. Risens made his silent exit from the wreckage of the workroom in the vault. With the first rays of sunlight peeking through the vaulted glass dome high overhead, he knew the streets would soon be teeming with activity as the citizens went about starting their days.

  With the injury to his ribs, he opted against leaping between the rooftops, instead choosing the back door that exited out into the lesser-used street. In the early light of the day, he found no difficulty crossing unmolested, disappearing into the shadows of an alley.

  Forced by the disappearance of the castle’s original, his quest to secure a copy of the Raven’s Guide had nearly been disastrous. The choices made and the disregard for security had left his life hanging in the balance. Had the caretaker chosen to alert the city guard instead of supervising the sentinels, Risens had no question that the King would have been alerted. Though he had the latitude to carry out his task as he saw fit, this transgression would be another difficult one to explain. The connection between eliminating the courtesan and the book was weak at best.

  Shaking off his thoughts of doubt, he continued his trek through the city, making his way toward Broad Quarter. Thankfully, Adalhard’s, set in Learners Row, was relatively close to his ultimate destination—though it was not without its own challenges. This section of the city, though initially a single street containing the library and a few quiet guilds, was now spread out, covering a far greater footprint than most of the districts. It was the vibrant home to many of the realm’s higher learning institutions, centered around the Cirque of Academia. The large circular courtyard formed the focal point for the area, surrounded by the elaborate gated entrances to the various institutions of learning. Routinely filled with the questioning minds of the learners and the watchful eyes of private guards and soldiers, he knew he would do well to avoid the area, especially in the daylight.

  The expansive campuses that ringed the area were home to students from all corners of the realm. All radiated a distinct air of privilege as none were without cost, and few scholarships were available to those without means. The Healers Institute was as much a garden as it was the large square building that dominated the space. Medicinal herbs and plants of all types grew in the carefully arranged beds, well-maintained and pruned by the students and faculty as they practiced the craft of healing. There was nowhere on the campus that didn’t smell eerily similar to the excruciatingly painful salve he’d just applied. The Healers Gate leading to its grounds was elaborately carved from white stone. The fluted columns were wreathed in verdant vines, and the flowers of many plants were utilized in their potions, salves, and elixirs. At the nexus, a grand, perfectly symmetrical cross mimicked the Brand of their order. The Shrine of the Healer sat idly just inside the impressive gate.

  Conveniently located on either side of the Healers Institute were the Artisan Academy and the League for Martial Studies. Both supplied their fair share of patients that the healers would need for practice. The Artisan Academy was perpetually filled with the percussive sounds of mallet against wood and hammer against iron. There was an acrid odor to the air even when the furnaces weren’t belching out clouds of smoke. The lingering aromas of freshly milled wood and char were present even when the breeze blew. There were shrines dedicated to the various craftsmen scattered throughout the campus, including woodworkers, smiths, glassblowers, jewelry makers, and those whose deft hands worked with textiles. Brands were awarded to those who demonstrated proficiency, although none would leave as more than apprentices, their tutelage continuing for years under the scrutinizing eyes of a master.

  The Artisan Gateway was constructed of wood and stone, inlaid with iron bands that supported the structure. From the zenith, a wooden sign depicting images of a hammer and a saw, crossed in the middle, swung gently in the breeze.

  A massive pair of swords, their tips buried into the stone of the courtyard, formed the uprights of The Warriors Gate. The curving arm of a bow served as the top, with an elaborately designed shield as the centerpiece. Inside the gates, the vast lawns were partitioned to separate the various types of weaponry being used. The hazardous training for melee weapons took place in the section closest to the gate, with the dormitory and indoor classrooms located in the middle. The archery butts were separated, carefully staged at the far rear, reducing the chances of collateral damage during the early months of training. The instruction here was limited and unbinding, though it was typically utilized by those with the means to afford the tuition, with an eye on officer training. Like the other academies, several shrines scattered across the ground awarded Brands to those deemed worthy. Students leaving here, should they desire to continue this path, would either find their way into private employment or in continuing service to the kingdom, furthering their training at the military complex beyond the city wall to the west.

  To the side of the Academy, the Bursar Portal stood out from the others in its plain construction. It was angular and stone, though no rune denoted its purpose. As its name implied, much of the training was centered around mercantile and financial functions, though in reality, it was the catchall for those pursuing careers that did not involve the blade, the hammer, or the needle.

  Although there was an air of favor surrounding each of the institutions, the final one among them was extreme. The last of the gates was the only one to which access was strictly controlled. The doors, a rich, deep mahogany, sparkled as if they had been freshly lacquered. Each rivet was polished to a glistening shine. A pair of finely appointed guards stood at attention, manning their posts in shifts that spanned all hours of the day and night.

  Risens grimaced as his thoughts turned to the aptly named Nobles Gate that guarded the entrance into The Excelsior. Few, save for the wealthy, had experienced its wonders, making most unsure of its true purpose. None were granted access without the privilege of birth and gold. Regardless of skills learned or applied, one would still leave the campus with the same self-worth. They would return to their mansions, their estates, their lifestyles, to the same position in which they’d arrived. He wondered how many among their number he would one day hunt as traitors to the King.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  He stuck to the shadowed alleys, giving the institutions—and the inevitable bustle of the Cirque—as wide a berth as possible. The throbbing in his chest maintained a manageable level, though it forced him to shift his commonly used tactics. He avoided the alleys and paths that required vaulting or climbing as the added pain was an unnecessary torture. If a fight were to be joined, he knew his speed and the devastating lethality of his skills would suffer, yet he was still confident in his abilities. Currently, it was his ability to remain undetected that was the most important.

  Pausing in the shadows of a back-alley intersection, Risens touched the mask that covered his face. The curiosity of the battle with the sentinels had yet to clear as his fingers traced the engraved lines and swirls. The gas that the pair had released had now withered with their age. The elder caretaker dropped unconscious in a matter of breaths, yet he, Risens, had remained conscious and alert. Could this have been an effect of the Shadows Shroud, and if it could prevent the effects of airborne gases and poisons, what else could it do? He could scour through the Raven’s Guide for answers to the mysterious Brand, yet he had no indication of where to research the mask.

  In all of his studies, he’d never heard mention of its appearance or purpose.

  Fendri’s sudden, unexpected reaction to the drawing of the mask’s final symbol was curious. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that the man was hiding something. Their relationship, however, was built upon a lifetime of loathing and would likely prove challenging to overcome.

  His careful gaze tracked along the darkened alley to the street beyond. The city had come to life with the rising of the sun. Either alone or in small groups, citizens crossed his view through the small opening. Though most dressed in earthy browns, his blackened attire was not entirely out of the norm for the city streets. Purposefully chosen, it worked to hide the blood that covered it, though the gashes and torn fabric where the blades of the sentinels had pummeled his chest and torso were suspicious.

  The mask will be a dead giveaway.

  His internal countdown had been distracted during the unexpected fight within the Bank of Tomes. Concentrating, he was relieved to find that sufficient time had indeed passed. The initial flash of the first symbol in the corner of his vision was a welcome sight.

  Injured or not, tattered clothing or not, he was adept at traveling undetected. With a sigh, the lance of pain from his broken ribs struck him with the same ferocity as his previous laugh. He swore to take only shallow breaths from here on out, then strode casually into the busy avenue beyond.

  Keeping his head down and his arms folded discreetly over his chest, he crossed through the Learners Row without interruption. His calculating stare watched every passing citizen, every inattentive soldier. None paid him any mind as they went about their business.

  The countdown in his vision had brightened significantly as he ducked off the wide avenue before entering Broad Quarter. The lives of the city’s citizens followed entirely predictable patterns. During the early mornings, workers, merchants, and pedestrians alike would flood the streets, keeping their sleepy eyes down, focused on the duties or tasks at hand.

  The denizens of the Broad, on the other hand, were anything but predictable.

  They were the downtrodden, the despised, the wretched, the abandoned of the city. Oftentimes, he had found they were the most genuine of all. They hid nothing, bearing their secrets for all to see, whether for good or ill. Thankfully, this morning, it seemed that he preceded the arrival of most. Others likely were not yet awake, still battling the demons that tormented their nights. The few he did encounter, as was their norm, avoided him like the plague. It seemed that even in the haze of their minds, they understood he was not one to be trifled with.

  Ducking again into a shadowed alley, he felt his heart rate increase at the sight of the darkened gate to the Raven’s Court through the haze of morning’s dim light. He felt the uncomfortable presence of eyes watching him as he stalked silently beneath the archway. The stony glare of the shrine followed him as he approached.

  Risens stopped a pace before the small, dark, uneven stain on the cracked tile. He had been beckoned here, called by the booming voice that rattled within his mind. It had deemed him capable, though his mind was overflowing with questions. It demanded answers.

  “Hello,” he called into the mustiness of the Raven’s Court. “I have returned as requested.”

  The words felt peculiar upon his lips, calling out to the darkness of the shrine. As if he’d acquired a touch of the malady affecting many of those who frequented Broad Quarter’s sketchiest parts from merely passing through its streets. Perhaps in their minds, they too heard a similar voice.

  Risens stood motionless, listening for a reply. The long-forgotten shrine offered nothing. He felt the anger within him grow with every beat of his heart; with every flash of the countdown of the Shadows Shroud in his vision.

  His mind reeled, replaying his previous visit before the Raven-Man. As it had been so many times before, it was an empty, abandoned relic, home to a shrine that would never grant him the honor of a Brand.

  Yet it had.

  It had branded him with a mark he’d never seen. Graced him with a mask, a power he barely understood. It had spoken to him, a deafening voice that thundered in his ear. It had called him back, only to greet him again with silence.

  Shuffling forward a step, he bowed his head, reaching his hand toward the shrine.

  This shrine is yours no longer. Capable, yet still a fledgling. Pursuing a fool’s errand when orders demand obedience.

  Anger swelled in Risens as the unseen voice reprimanded him for his actions. Though the power and command were palpable, the words were still disembodied, ringing in his head, not bound to a tangible speaker.

  “A fool’s errand it was not,” he snapped. “I seek answers when none were provided, as my life has been put in jeopardy.”

  Risens’ following words faltered before they could formulate in his throat. He was rocked back on his heels by a force without warning. His right forearm, just above his wrist, exploded with pain as if it had been torn apart by raking blades. Though his sleeve remained intact, he could see a sudden wetness spread as blood soaked through the fibers. The voice that screamed in his mind crushed him to the ground.

  Potential and promise are wasted by expectations of the weak. True power is not given, but earned. Struggle, pain, and adaptation will lead to salvation. Heed this lesson well. Do not fail.

  As quickly as the voice had hammered against the inside of his skull, while the pressure pinned him to the ground, it subsided. He gasped for breath as if the air, having been sucked from the court and his lungs, rushed back in.

  The stinging pain that radiated from whatever had bloodied his arm shifted. Cursing through the process, he felt the itch of healing overtake the fresh pain of the mysterious laceration before it subsided altogether. Strangely enough, the throbbing from his ribs intensified. He could feel the bones shifting back into place.

  He took a cautious, deep breath, curious though satisfied as the agony of the shattered ribs was gone. Pulling at his wet sleeve, he revealed his forearm. The hair of his arm was still matted in places, smeared with a slick of blood. The wound that he had felt was revealed. What he’s thought was a single gash across his skin was, in fact, three parallel cuts that wrapped from across the top of his forearm. Each was entirely healed, though they left three raised, white scars where the skin had been stitched together. They looked less like the result of a blade and more like the consequence of talons.

  “Tsk, tsk. His is a presence you would do well to respect and not to question.” The voice echoed through the Raven’s Court with a condescending cackle—a sharp birdlike quality to its tone. Instinctively, Risens’s hands went to his blades as the words were audible, spoken by something close by.

  Someone or something he had not seen.