YAN

  "NAME AND AGE."

  "Yanick."

  His own voice sounded foreign, dry, and cold—almost as dry and cold as the voice of the man sitting across the table. The word echoed off the walls, making Yanick flinch when it reached his ears. He tried to swallow, but his throat was as parched as paper. The saliva caught in the wrong pipe, and he began to choke, suffocating on his own breath.

  The man across from him didn't react. He sat motionless, waiting, and only when Yanick's coughing subsided did he reach under the table and place an empty glass on the surface.

  "Name and age," the man repeated.

  "Yanick Erickson. Seventeen. My god is—"

  "I didn't ask," the man interrupted, adjusting his pristine white gloves, even though they didn't need fixing. They clung to his hands like a second skin.

  Yanick raised an eyebrow.

  "You don't want to know who my god is?"

  "We already know."

  Without a flicker of emotion, the man reached under the table again and retrieved a glass pitcher, half-filled with water. He placed it next to the empty glass.

  "The subject of this conversation is Rayla," he said, leaning slightly forward. His eyes—twin daggers—pierced Yanick. "Or rather, what you've been doing for her in Valhafen."

  "Rayla?" Yanick barked a hollow laugh. "That's what this is about? Her?"

  The man didn't answer.

  Yanick lowered his head, memories rushing over him like a breaking tide—fresh and raw wounds. And yet they belonged to another Yanick Erickson, the one whose god was Ari.

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  "My father warned me about her," he said quietly, almost in a whisper.

  The man's gloved fingers tapped a complex rhythm on the strange, rough surface of the desk before him. It wasn't metal, nor wood, nor stone.

  "According to our records, your father never served with Rayla," the man said emotionlessly.

  "That's true," Yanick admitted. "He never even met her."

  "And yet he warned you..."

  The man sighed and poured water into the glass, sliding it toward Yanick. Then he resumed tapping, and Yanick realized the rhythm wasn't random at all.

  "My father told me that if I followed her, if I gave her my service, the day would come when she'd ask something of me that would make me hate myself."

  The man's sharp eyes fixed on him.

  "Start at the beginning."

  Yanick closed his eyes, and the dam broke. Tears streamed down his cheeks like rivers.

  "I can't..."

  "It's all right," the man said, his tone softening. "Take your time. Just breathe. Deep breaths. Look at me and follow my lead..."

  Yanick inhaled deeply through his nose, letting his chest fully expand. He held the breath for a moment before slowly exhaling through his mouth, feeling the tension drain with it. He repeated the process until his body began to relax.

  ***

  HE STUMBLED AS HE STEPPED onto the wooden pier, even though the ground beneath him was solid. His body still swayed, accustomed to the relentless rocking of the ship.

  He turned, shielding his eyes from the sharp light of the setting sun that rose behind the ship. In its glow, standing on deck, was Big Mike, nodding at him slightly.

  Yanick returned the nod and headed toward the city, now bathed in twilight.

  He kept his eyes down, avoiding the stares of passersby, though he could feel their gazes on him. He stood out—of that, he had no doubt. His pale skin and nearly white hair contrasted sharply with the dark hair and skin of the locals. Tugging his hood tighter over his head, he quickened his pace.

  The deeper he ventured into the city, the fewer people he encountered. They turned down side streets, disappeared behind tall stone buildings, as though they were hiding from him, disgusted or afraid. Yanick tried to tell himself it was a coincidence, but the nagging thought of rejection clung to him like a shadow.

  On one street, he noticed a hanging tavern sign. The setting sun's light reflected off it, making the text hard to read, but the crude image of a beer mug, clutched by some predatory bird, was enough to confirm it was the place he sought.

  He stared at the sign and walked straight into something solid. He bounced back as if he'd hit a wall.

  "Watch where you're going!" a voice barked.

  The "wall" turned out to be a group of broad-shouldered, dark-skinned boys, barely older than him.

  The one standing closest reached for his belt and pulled out a long wooden club.

  "Let's dance," he said, baring his teeth in a grin.

  To be continued...

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