Crumbling. The barrier, falling apart, still held strong in the midst of its collapse. Riven stared up in devastation. Time was running short. A week at best, maybe less. There was no choice he was left with other than to get stronger. Which meant he would have to follow the path to divinity and become an inker.

  Panic ensued.

  The people ran frantically, in a hurried fashion, desperate to protect what was left of their lives. Organizing their belongings, shutting down their businesses, and packing up. Though it had not been stated, the townsfolk understood an impending tragedy when they saw one. Inker. The word still felt unnatural. It had not been long since the day it all began: the day Karn died. That cursed day.

  Because of me.

  Riven struck out, iron whistling through the air.

  I caused this.

  Another swing.

  Which makes me responsible.

  Gordian stepped back, ignoring the scream of the dagger cutting through the air. “Not bad. But your strikes are too forced.” He ducked. “Make your motions more fluid, like the flow of the river.

  “I still don’t see how using a dagger is going to help. My weapon is the spear.”

  “And what will you do when that weapon of yours is gone, or destroyed, or taken. You must be cunning and prepared.” He sidestepped, catching Riven’s dagger with his own. “It can be a backup, if all else fails.”

  Riven twirled his dagger in a second, disconnecting it from Gordian’s, and took a quick stab.

  “Nice try.” Gordian thrust upward, knocking Riven’s dagger from his grasp, knocking him to the floor.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  The seventh time!

  Muttering a handful of curses, he graciously accepted Gordian’s outstretched hand, and got up.

  “Seems it’ll be quite a while before I can catch up to you.”

  “Well, don’t be too disheartened, this used to be my job.”

  Riven placed his dagger back in the utility belt he had been gifted by Gordian, its many uses had quickly become apparent. Taking a quick drink from his flask, and with a grim smile he paused.

  “I’ll win next time, mark my words!”

  Gordian just laughed, amused by his confidence.

  “If you can beat me even a single time, give me a single scratch… I’ll hand over my bar to you. Not a chance boy!”

  “So… how do I become an Inker?”

  Gordian froze, shocked by his sudden question.

  “So that’s what you want. Find an artist, cause awakening on your own is a whole ‘nother struggle. But you have no choice, since we are isolated. Stuck, waiting.”

  “Folks around here wouldn’t dare abandon their lives they worked so hard to put together—they’ll stick it out, for better or worse.”

  “Where’s Mallory?”

  Gordian trembled, unable to answer his question.

  “So she’s gone.”

  “No! I just haven’t heard from her. It's been over a day, worrying, I tell you. But… she can handle herself.”

  ***

  The air whistled beneath the mane of the stallion he rode. One by one, he could feel the horse, its powerful strides as its muscles tensed up and released. The raw, untamed strength of the beast was unfamiliar—he had felt nothing like this before. Talentless. At least that was what he was when it came to riding horseback; the entire day had been wasted in an effort to teach him.

  He was a scout. Or rather, he had been assigned to be one. These days the villagers were on edge, for fear of their lives being disrupted. It was then that he had volunteered, unable to bear the rough arguments any longer.

  Thump.

  Its hooves clattered above the stone road as the beast ran fast, faster than any person could go. Well, any normal person. If he were to become an inker, such a movement would be no trouble at all.

  Sighing, he dismounted.

  Who could have guessed there would not be a single thing in sight, even the corpses of what beasts lie in wait did not remain. As if they had been captured, cleared out, and forced to migrate to some far-away place. A new home.

  Similar to the plight of those who remained in Seldirin. Some had left, others had refused. In a great caravan, many people departed, in an eager attempt to leave the crumbling town behind.

  The end was nigh.

  Still, over half of the total number of people stayed, sure that all would end well. But if they knew the truth—if they saw the world beyond the barrier, they would surely run.

  Riven heard a rustle in the brush behind him and, snapping around, noticed only a small lizard.

  I must be going crazy. High on alert because of a lizard?

  It disappeared, and he did not see it again. Gordian’s lessons on ink still rang in his mind, echoing, consuming his thoughts. Good vs Evil. Or is it really that simple?

  The two paths, that of divinity and that of demonification, were polar opposites. One of deserved and one of undeserved power. But could it be so simple as to label them as different as Good vs Evil? Or black and white? It was therein that the problem lay. Sacrifice or thievery.

  Riven stopped, stumped by how he would proceed. The only way for him to gain power seemed to be to steal, but would he truly be the same afterward? There was only one way to find out… but was the risk really worth it? That would remain to be seen.

  For now, reporting his findings would do. The people would be curious to learn what he had seen. They had not yet ventured from the town, out of fear.

  He jumped right back onto his steed, starting up slowly. It might not have been troublesome for him to ride when in motion, but starting was where his troubles were. Starting from a trot and keeping pace, he eventually allowed the horse to run to its heart’s desire, as fast and efficiently as it could. The houses grew near as his steed turned a day’s walk into a short ride.