Alarion wasn’t sure how long he knelt on the island with Sierra’s body. Hours, perhaps? The dark of night had yet to abate, so it couldn’t have been days. Despite how long it felt.

  He wondered if he’d died. Maybe her blade had killed him after all? Perhaps this was all there was after death. An empty twilight.

  And pain.

  His wounds were excruciating. Sierra had pushed his HP well into the negatives and the backlash had been the worst he’d ever felt. Part of him wished he was dead. Part of him worried it would all be for nothing. That his wounds would claim him. He’d die next to her on a lonely rock in the middle of the sea.

  Should he have just gone with her? Would it have been better to kill himself?

  Should he still do it?

  “There you are!”

  The voice rang out from high above, from someone standing on the edge of the curtain wall. Alarion looked up in time to see the man hurtling down from that perch, his boots shattering stone as he landed next to Alarion. The man had leapt four stories and seemed totally unphased, as though he’d only hopped from one step to the next.

  It was Ruin. Of that Alarion was certain.

  The man gave off an air of dominance in everything from his posture to his size. He was massive, easily seven feet tall, his shoulders twice the width of Alarion’s body. He wore exquisite armor of an unfamiliar make. It looked like ceramic, like fine porcelain of white and gold, but the scorch mark on the left side of his breastplate told a story of its durability. The body suit he wore beneath was powder blue fabric that moved seamlessly with each shift of his weight, while a crimson loincloth hung from his belt for simple aesthetics.

  His mask was a golden, faceless thing. Flat topped and severe, the two front halves met at a sharp angle down the midline of his face. Gold gave way to ruby where they met, a single glowing line that gave the impression of a solitary, judgemental eye.

  Despite the all concealing nature of the mask, it did nothing to deaden the man’s voice as he spoke. “I’ve been looking for you. You’re the boy, yes? Two thirty-eight?”

  Alarion looked up at the man and swallowed hard. Death stared inexorably down at him and Alarion knew he wanted to live.

  Pity he would never get the chance.

  His greatsword flew true, striking the center of the giant’s helmet at full size without so much as moving his head. Then Alarion shifted.

  At least, he tried to.

  He’d moved. Alarion felt the pull of the weapon, the flicker of spatial distortion. He’d teleported to his dagger, but somehow, he was back where he started.

  And Ruin was holding his weapon, turning it over in his hand.

  “That is a powerful trick for someone of your rank,” Ruin chuckled. “Reality and void magic with a strong sympathetic link… I’m not even sure this would have a range limitation. Where did you get it?”

  Alarion didn’t answer. Instead, he tried to stand with one of Sierra’s knives held tightly in his grip.

  “Stop. You’re barely alive as it is.” Ruin gestured with a blue gloved hand and Alarion felt his body go rigid. He struggled against the sudden intrusion of foreign magic, but felt his control lost in the grip of the man’s spell. He forced Alarion back to the ground, held him there, then tossed the weapon at his feet. “You should name it. Names strengthen sympathetic ties.”

  Alarion glared up at the man, then gasped as Ruin took even the small defiance of a dirty look from him. He wasn’t pushing down on Alarion with mana the way Lal Viren had done. No, he was controlling Alarion’s muscles with such finesse that he could alter his expression on a whim.

  “I’m confused, though. I was told to collect you and the girl, but I find you wounded and her nowhere to be-” Ruin stopped mid-sentence as he finally looked beyond the boy in front of him. Alarion had little resources and even little energy, but he’d moved her body away from all the blood and covered it with a blanket from her pack. “Is that… you killed the old man’s daughter?”

  Alarion waited for the death blow. Instead, he heard laughter.

  Ruin was laughing like a man possessed, as though he’d heard the punchline to the universe itself. He doubled over with a hand over his belly and another on his knee, cackling with mirth as Alarion watched impotently. Eventually, the man’s breathing grew ragged, and he reached for his helm. He touched something behind his ear and the faceplate opened a few inches, just enough for him to take it off and let it fall to the ground.

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  The man beneath was nothing like Alarion had expected. He had short, curly brown hair, wide eyebrows and an aquiline nose. He wore the ghost of a goatee with a small scar just below his lower lip and looked for all the world like a farmer’s son. Albeit one writ especially large.

  “I cannot believe you… that you…“ Ruin gasped as he finally struggled toward some form of composure. His words caused a short remission as he laughed again, but eventually he tapered off enough to speak. “… Mothers, the old man will be shattered. Are you out of your mind?”

  “Just do it.” Alarion answered.

  “Do what exactly?” he punctuated the question with a few more chuckles and held Alarion’s lips closed with his magic to prevent him from answering the rhetorical question. “I was told that you were to be left alive if you were with the girl. You are with the girl, so my mission is complete.”

  The large man dug into a small compartment on his hip guard and produced a flask. He tossed it to Alarion and released control, then frowned when the boy started to rise once more. “Mmm, you are a feisty one two-thirty-eight. Drink.”

  It wasn’t a request. When Alarion did not comply, Ruin forced him to drink the potion.

  The potion was like nothing Alarion had ever experienced, its potency a world apart from those he’d taken previously. Vitality ran hot down his throat, it flooded out from his stomach to his limbs, his organs. New status notifications joined the unread pile at the corner of his view, indicating the extent of the healing.

  “You objected to being forcibly recruited, I take it?” The man asked as he moved over to Sierra’s body. He knelt and gently pulled the blanket back from her face. His nose wrinkled and some of the humor was gone from his expression as he covered Sierra once again. “A good decision. I should know. If I let you go, are you going to stop trying to attack me?”

  Alarion frowned but nodded.

  “Good. Anything with precision is exhausting for me. I’m more of an area of effect sort of guy. But if I used my skills more broadly, you’d stroke out. Or get turned into a fine paste.”

  Alarion stood as the magic faded, then bent to retrieve his greatsword. He gripped the hilt tightly as it shrunk down to its miniature size. Then he said, “Echo.”

  “Echo, hmm? Can’t say I would have picked that, but then no one would ever accuse me of being creative. I didn’t even come up with my title.” A sword shimmered into being in Ruin’s hand. It was a foreign style, with a long straight back and a single curved edge that ran all the way down past the cord wrapped grip. “They call this Flourishing Nation. I call it third after I broke the first two. Fortunately, sympathetic ties don’t require a good name.”

  “Are they all dead?” Alarion asked, looking past Ruin. With the casual way the man spoke it had been easy to forget what he’d done.

  “The cost of ambition.” Ruin replied absently. “If it is any consolation, they died quickly. Only the Governor put up much of a fight.”

  The thought of Dar dead brought the hint of a smile unbidden to Alarion’s lips. Then the reality of the loss struck him. He hated Dar, but he didn’t want him dead. And Elena… ZEKE…

  Sierra.

  Tears stung his eyes, and he blinked them away.

  “What now?” Alarion asked.

  “Now you pack your bags and wait for the Judicator to take you for service.”

  Alarion looked at the tall man incredulously.

  “Is there something on my face?” Ruin asked, genuinely brushing at his cheek.

  “They will kill me! They just tried!”

  “No, they won’t. Not openly.”

  “What makes you-”

  “Because I am Ruin.” he answered with sudden intensity. “I am an army unto myself. I am a Godslayer of the Sixth Rank. Who would dare risk my anger?”

  “Why protect me?” asked Alarion.

  Ruin’s posture softened as his eyes flicked toward Sierra’s body. “You were close, aye?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I am sorry for what happened before. For laughing.” Ruin dipped his head in contrition before he continued, “But the fact is, her death is a great boon to me. Keeping you alive is a thumb in Syrus’ eye, and I can not pass up such an opportunity. Were she alive, I would be duty bound to return you to him, but now…do you understand what it means to have a patron?”

  Alarion shook his head.

  “Patronage is an old Vitrian custom, predating the empire. The Houses are built on patronage, with most branches being both patron and client to others within the same House. In our case, I would be your patron, and you, my client. You receive protection from abuse both physical and legal, and the right to make requests of my person, wealth, and connections. Within reason. In exchange, you are obligated to assist me when asked. You’d also be required to defend me when asked, but I think it is a little early for that.”

  “All because I killed your master’s daughter?” Alarion asked. The words felt disgusting in his mouth.

  “And also because you are the only person I’ve ever met with an aptitude higher than mine. I may be politically inept, but even I can count high enough to see your value,” Ruin answered without sugar coating his motivation. “And he is not my master.”

  Alarion considered the offer, then asked. “Am I bound to you forever?”

  “Hardly. People respect the system, but it’s informal. If you take advantage of me, others will look down on you. And of course, kill you if you haven’t become strong enough to protect yourself. But I will have no direct hold over you.”

  It seemed too good to be true, and Alarion said as much. “What is the catch?”

  “That you are a client to the man who just slaughtered your adopted family?”

  The words made Alarion flinch, but he could respect the honesty. It was a transactional arrangement, but one that weighed steeply in his favor. Ruin could have made demands, he could have leveraged his position or threatened Alarion. But to look at Ruin made the reality clear. He was as direct as his would be client.

  Alarion looked back to Sierra’s body. If he rejected the office, they’d kill him. Then her death would be for nothing. “What do I need to do?”

  Ruin smiled and extended his arm in the traditional Vitrian style. Alarion met him, the back of his wrist pressed against one as thick as his thigh. Magic flared, a short swirl of elaborate diagrams in white and gold.

  When he withdrew his hand, Alarion saw nothing. But when he peered toward it with his mana sense, he saw a Vitrian sigil marked into his flesh.

  “Anyone who is likely to be a danger to you will recognize it, and I will make a proclamation on my return home that should reach most of the empire. I will not protect you against fiends or ruffians or beatings for insubordination, only those with power who would take your life. Do you understand?”

  “Mm.” Alarion answered.

  “I’ll take the girl back to her father. Go collect your things.” Ruin stepped past him and stooped to collect Sierra’s body as he added. “And check the third floor.”