Absolute Divinity

Given a second life by a god embarrassed by your death, you must reach the top — or lose everything forever.

Plot

Absolute Divinity — A Regression Chronicle ABSOLUTE DIVINITY Leomire · 2050 You spent ten years being told, in every way a world can tell a man, that you didn't matter. Then a monster's foot ended the argument permanently — and something that calls itself the world found that so embarrassing it decided to argue with death itself on your behalf. First Life Dust Rank, Level 7 First Skill Scavenger Cause of Death Crushed flat, Korveil Live Event Second Life Devour, Divinity-Class The Voice in the Dark "I am the voice of this world. I am the one who hands out every Skill anyone has ever worn, and I watched you die not knowing how to use yours. Do you understand how humiliating that is for me? Ten years. Reach the top of that miserable ladder your kind built, or the next time that portal opens over that city and that same monster comes down to end you again, I will not let you die. I will take you somewhere with no light, no time, and no exit, and I will leave you there for exactly as long as it takes me to stop being annoyed. That could be a very, very long time." — Cira, somewhere outside of time She didn't offer comfort and she didn't pretend this was generosity. She was doing this the way someone reluctantly fixes a mistake they're embarrassed to have their name attached to. Ten years, starting from the same morning you first unlocked Scavenger. Fail again, and there is no third chance — there's only the dark, indefinitely, for wasting the time of something that doesn't experience time the way you do. A WORLD THAT USED TO BE ORDINARY For every year of recorded history before a hundred years ago, Leomire belonged entirely to regular people. No monsters, no Skills, no glowing status screens hovering behind anyone's eyes — just the same species doing the same things every other version of humanity has ever done: farming, warring, building, dying of nothing more exotic than old age or bad luck. Historians call it the Quiet Age now, mostly because nobody thought to name it anything while it was still happening. Then, one hundred years ago, it stopped being quiet. THE HOLLOW NIGHT The sky over Leomire tore open for eleven minutes. Every account from that night disagrees on what people actually saw — a wound in the air, a curtain of static, a second moon that blinked into existence and then didn't — but every account agrees on what happened after. Something poured out of that tear and settled into the population like sediment, dormant, waiting for a trigger nobody understood yet. When the tear finally closed, it didn't close clean. It left permanent scars in the earth in dozens of places across all three continents, wounds that never healed, and things started coming out of them that had never existed on Leomire before. The scars are called Rifts now. What comes out of them are the Duskborn — creatures with no home range, no fear response, and no reason for existing beyond consuming whatever's nearest. And the one person in five who'd absorbed something from that tear found out, over the following years, that they could suddenly do things no human ever had: bend fire, move faster than the eye could track, put a blade through stone. The Concord — the network of regional Guild Agencies that now runs the entire hunting profession — didn't exist yet. For the first several years, it was just terrified people with new, unstable powers and no one in charge of any of it. One hundred years, counting from this exact morning — the one you're waking back up into. That number only moves forward. By the time you reached twenty-eight the first time, standing in Korveil's plaza with the sky torn open above you, it had already become a hundred and ten. HOW A SKILL ACTUALLY WORKS Every awakened person gets exactly one Skill, and the Skill they get is final — there's no reroll, no combining, no trading. What isn't final is everything built on top of it. A Skill is a foundation; the techniques that grow out of it are earned through use, training, near-death, obsession, or occasionally sheer accident, and two hunters with the same base Skill can end up nothing alike a decade in, depending on how much the world let them practice. Skills are classed by rarity: Common, Uncommon, Rare, Epic, Legendary, Mythic, and — once, on paper, before you ever needed the word — Divinity. Nobody in a hundred years of record-keeping had ever needed to certify a Divinity-class Skill until yours. Half the Concord's senior examiners weren't sure the classification was real. The other half were furious that it had shown up on someone like you. THE THREE CONTINENTS Three continents hold every Guild Agency, every major capital, and nearly every hunter with a career worth mentioning. Everything else is a rounding error on a map three old kings drew a century ago and nobody's bothered to redraw since. Home Continent Aurethis Temperate, overbuilt, and thick with Guild Agencies stacked on top of each other in every city that can afford the licensing fees. Aurethis is where you were born, where you died once already, and where the Concord's central seat sits — inside the walls of Korveil, the capital, a city that has hosted more Live Events than any other place on Leomire and treats the sirens for them the way other cities treat weather alerts. The Mining Continent Kaldrun Cold, mountainous, and carved apart for the monster cores buried under it. Kaldrun runs on contract labor, short hunter careers, and a Concord branch that treats its own casualty reports as a rounding error in a supply chain — the cores keep the whole continent's economy running, and the people mining them out of Duskborn corpses are considered replaceable line items. The Old Continent Vaelspire Dense jungle and half-buried ruins, and widely believed to be where the original tear first opened, whatever that's actually worth as a fact a hundred years later. Vaelspire holds the oldest, deepest, least mapped dungeons on Leomire, and a stubborn population of independent hunters who never signed anything with the Concord and have no plans to start. EVERYTHING ELSE Scattered around the edges of the map are the island chains nobody with real power bothers governing directly: the Thessa Isles, fishing communities that trade monster-core scrap for everything they can't grow; the Windrow Atoll, a loose ring of storm-battered ports favored by smugglers moving Concord-restricted gear; the Kessel Reach, mostly abandoned after a Rift opened on its largest island forty years ago and was never fully cleared; and the Ornic Chain, the closest thing Leomire has to neutral ground, where hunters from all three continents go to disappear for a while. THE LADDER On paper, rank measures how strong a hunter is. In the actual, lived experience of every hunter below Gold, rank measures how good your Skill looks in a recruitment pamphlet, and how much the Concord thinks it can charge a sponsor for the privilege of attaching their name to you. Dust Where everyone starts, and where most people with unglamorous Skills quietly stay for the rest of their careers. No sponsor, no priority healing, no dungeon slot that isn't someone else's leftovers. Iron Certified to take solo contracts without a chaperone. Still last in every queue behind anyone with a combat-flashy Skill, regardless of actual results turned in. Bronze The rank most working hunters spend their entire lives at — steady, replaceable, and completely invisible to the Concord until something goes wrong badly enough to require paperwork. Silver The first rank that gets you a party invitation without having to beg someone into it, and the first rank where a healing potion actually gets restocked on time. Gold Regional recognition, sponsorship money, and the point where the favoritism the lower ranks complain about stops being a rumor and starts being an openly published perk sheet. Platinum National-level hunters. This is where the Concord starts actively building its Live Event rosters, months in advance, with contracts and insurance and a seat reserved at the table. Mythic Fewer than a thousand people worldwide. The rank the Concord actually spends real money developing — private trainers, experimental gear, second and third chances after failed dungeons that would end anyone else's license. Sovereign Rulers of their region in every sense that matters, on the org chart and off it. A Sovereign-rank hunter can override a local Guild Agency's decision with a phone call. Apex One title. Currently one person holds it. Level 670 as of this exact morning, the highest ever recorded, belonging to a woman named Hera — a name that means something on every continent, to people who've never met her and never will. That number doesn't hold still either. In your first life, by the time you were crushed under Korveil's sky at twenty-eight, Hera had climbed from 670 to 810 without slowing down once — still the only Apex, still untouched, still exactly as far away from you as she'd always been. What that ladder actually looks like from the bottom: healing potions rationed by rank, so a Dust-rank hunter bleeding out in a dungeon waits behind three Gold-rankers with scratches. Quest boards where the good contracts are pulled before they're ever publicly posted, handed off in private to whichever party already has a sponsor. Parties that recruit weak-Skill hunters specifically to stand in front of something dangerous first, because losing a Dust-ranker costs the Concord one form and losing a Platinum-ranker costs them a lawsuit. Nobody writes any of this down as policy. Everybody who's ever been on the bottom of it could recite it from memory. HOW THE WORK ACTUALLY GOES Job Boards Contracts & Dungeons Clear a Rift, escort a survey crew, thin a Duskborn nest before it spreads into a residential district. Paid by rank, not by how dangerous the job actually turns out to be — a contract that kills a Dust-ranker pays the same as one that doesn't. Endgame Boss Rush Zones Repeatable, deliberately brutal instances built for hunters who've plateaued and need something worth the bruises. The entry fee alone prices out anyone below Gold rank, which is the point. Global Live Events When a Rift outgrows its containment, the sky itself opens over a city and every hunter within range is called in, ranked or not, broadcast worldwide. It's the closest thing this world has to a war, and the closest thing most Dust-rankers ever get to being seen at all. THE NAME YOU WERE BORN INTO Your father was the first hunter in Leomire's short history to reach Apex rank, back when the Concord still had to invent the paperwork for what that meant. People who never met him still call him the First Apex, and for the twenty-odd years he was active, no one on any continent ever beat him in a sanctioned fight. He retired undefeated, by choice, not long after you were born — which is the kind of detail that sounds sentimental until you grow up in the shadow of it. Your mother was his healer for the entire span of his career — the reason he came home from every single fight he ever took, and a woman whose name doesn't appear on a single trophy or ceremony despite that. She kept him alive for two decades and got a footnote for it. When you were born, both of them assumed, without ever really discussing it out loud, that whatever you awakened at eighteen would be extraordinary. You were their son. It was never presented to you as a hope. It was presented as a fact you'd eventually catch up to. You didn't. And the two of them never quite figured out how to be around you once that became undeniable. THE MARRIAGE CONTRACT The contract came long before Scavenger did. Your mother arranged it back when you were both still children, years before either of you had awakened anything at all — not as damage control for a bad Skill, but because she wanted you to have exactly what she'd had with your father: someone standing beside you the way she'd stood beside him, a partner instead of just a spouse. She never framed it as a contingency. She simply assumed, the way she assumed most things about you back then, that you'd turn out just like your father, and that Alexia Follentia — already your closest friend, already as much a fixture in your house as her own — would be standing next to you when you did. And for years, that assumption cost nothing. Alexia had grown up in and out of your house the same way you'd grown up in hers, and the contract barely registered as anything more than a formality attached to a friendship that would have carried on anyway. She was, without qualification, warm to you — the kind of childhood best friend who made the arrangement feel less like an obligation and more like a formality on paper for something already true. That held for exactly as long as it took you to awaken Scavenger at eighteen — a Skill so minor the examiner made you demonstrate it twice before signing off, certain she'd misread it the first time. Your father stopped meeting your eyes at dinner within the month. Alexia, who awakened Devil that same year and watched the gap between the two of you open into a canyon almost overnight, cooled at almost exactly the same pace. The friendship didn't survive contact with what your Skill turned out to be — hers did, and got sharper for it, and worse. By the two years leading up to the wedding, she'd stopped being discreet about seeing other men entirely — hunters, sponsors, once a Guild Agency official twelve years older than either of you — and made no effort to keep any of it from reaching you. You knew every name. So did most of the hunters in your circle, who found it a great deal funnier than you did. You never broke the engagement off, because the contract was binding until twenty, and breaking it early would have cost your mother the one connection she still believed in, and cost you whatever scraps of your father's patience were still on the table. Right now, this morning, none of that has happened yet. You haven't awakened Scavenger. You haven't watched her decide you weren't worth the contract. She is still, for a little while longer, just the girl who's been your best friend since before either of you knew what a Skill was — and for the first time since you died, that fact is actually useful to you. The Wedding The day you turned twenty, the contract came due, and the wedding happened exactly as scheduled — except almost nobody came. No guild acquaintances, no distant relatives, none of Alexia's usual circle. Just the two of you, an officiant, and your parents sitting in an otherwise empty hall, watching their son marry a woman who'd made her contempt for him a matter of public record for two straight years. Your father and mother left before the reception was supposed to start. They were too humiliated to be seen finishing it, and by the time you got home that night, your things were already outside the door. They didn't yell. They didn't need to — the silence and the packed bags said everything they'd apparently been rehearsing for years. Alexia filed the divorce that same afternoon, and had you removed from her party's roster within the hour — the same roster you'd technically been listed on, doing nothing, for two years as her fiancé. She never hid that she'd been counting down to this exact moment: the contract only required the marriage to happen, not that it last, and she'd apparently had the paperwork drawn up and waiting for months. You were married and divorced inside the same twenty-four hours, disowned by your own parents in the same window, and the story made the rounds through every Guild Agency in Korveil before the week was out. THE LAUGHING STOCK YEARS What followed was three years of hunting alone, because no party wanted a Dust-ranker with a joke of a Skill and a divorce story everyone already knew the punchline to. You weren't quietly overlooked — you were actively, openly mocked. Guild Agency receptionists who processed your contracts with a barely hidden smirk. Hunters half your Level who'd greet you by the nickname the story had earned you rather than your actual name. Sponsors who'd sooner fund an untested eighteen-year-old with a flashy Skill than a twenty-three year old with a proven one that did almost nothing. You kept training anyway, because the alternative was giving every single person who'd written you off the satisfaction of being right. It didn't matter. The system wasn't built to reward effort from someone with nothing to sell — the good contracts went to hunters with better Skills before they ever reached the public board, the healing you needed after a bad solo dungeon run came out of your own pocket because no rank benefit covered it, and every year that passed without a promotion made the next year's mockery a little easier to aim. THE PURPLE BUTTERFLIES At twenty-three, a small, well-regarded party called the Purple Butterflies approached you — the first people in three years who didn't already know your name as a punchline. It was run by twin sisters, Amy Borne, who'd awakened Godspeed, and Ashley Borne, who'd awakened Invisibility. They were warm to you in a way nobody had been in years — meals, easy conversation, the specific relief of being spoken to like a person instead of a cautionary tale. You let yourself believe, for the first time since the wedding, that you'd found people who actually wanted you around. What they actually wanted was a Dust-ranker nobody would miss, for a high-risk vault run neither of them wanted to explain to the Concord afterward. The plan required someone expendable to draw a guardian construct's attention while they slipped past it and stripped the vault themselves — and you were, by every metric that mattered to them, the correct hunter for that job. You found out what the job actually was in the middle of doing it, not before. You nearly didn't survive it. You got out with your life and without your right hand, torn off at the wrist by the construct while the twins were already gone, deeper into the vault, taking what they'd come for. Nobody came back for you. You crawled out of that dungeon alone, and by the time you'd found a healer willing to see a Dust-ranker without payment up front, the Purple Butterflies had already collected their haul and scattered. The hand never grew back. Neither did your ability to fight the way you used to. TEN YEARS, AND THEN NOTHING By the time a decade had passed since you first unlocked Scavenger, you were Level 7. Hunters who'd started the same year as you averaged somewhere between forty and a hundred and twenty. Hera, the only Apex-rank hunter alive, sat at Level 810, a number so far outside your reality it may as well have been a rumor about a different species. You told yourself, more out of habit than belief, that you were still improving. You weren't, not in any way the ladder was built to notice. Then Korveil had its Live Event. A Rift the Concord had been quietly monitoring for months finally tore past containment, and the sky above the capital opened the way it had a hundred and ten years earlier on the Hollow Night — except this time it was announced, broadcast, and every hunter within range was ordered in, one-handed Dust-rankers included. You told yourself this was finally it: the one stage big enough that even you couldn't be ignored on it. You didn't get a fight. A Duskborn the size of a building fell out of that torn sky and landed directly on top of you before you'd taken three steps into the plaza. There was no last stand, no clever final trick, no moment where the world paused to let you think anything at all. You were flattened into the pavement, instantly, the way something forgets to check for insects before it sits down. Nobody filmed it. Nobody's broadcast footage even caught the moment — you weren't important enough to be in frame. You were a line in an incident report, one name among the background dead, and the last ten years of your life ended without you ever getting the chance to understand that they had. CIRA Death, for what it's worth, didn't hurt. It also didn't last. In the dark that followed, something introduced itself as Cira — the voice of the world, the entity responsible for every Skill anyone has ever awakened — and told you, without a shred of sympathy, that watching a man die that uselessly under her own system had embarrassed her personally. She isn't offering you a gift. She's fixing something she considers her own failure, and making sure you know exactly whose fault she'll consider it if it happens twice. The terms are simple and entirely unforgiving. You go back to the exact morning you first awakened Scavenger, ten years before your death, with full memory of everything that happened in the life you just lost. You have those same ten years, again, to reach the top of the ladder — not close to it, not respectably near it, the actual top. If the Korveil Live Event arrives again and that same monster puts you back on the ground, there is no third attempt waiting for you. There is only an existence with no light and no clock, held there for however long it takes something ancient and mildly annoyed to decide you've paid enough for costing it this much effort. The Skill Cira Gives You Instead DEVOUR This time, Scavenger doesn't stay Scavenger. The moment you wake up back at eighteen, it resolves into something the Concord has never once had to classify: a Divinity-class Skill named Devour, built around the one moment every Skill is at its most exposed — the instant its owner stops fighting to keep it. Beat another awakened person badly enough to force a genuine surrender, or land the killing blow yourself, and Devour reaches into whatever's left of them at that exact moment and pulls their Skill loose whole, roots and all, folding it into you as if it had always been yours. There's no dignified way to describe what that means for a man whose entire first life was defined by getting flattened before he'd taken three steps into a plaza. It is, without question, the single most powerful Skill this world has ever produced, and it's also the most honest one — it will never once let you get strong by accident, or by convincing someone. Every Skill you ever gain from it, you gain because you personally put someone else on the ground and finished it, ally-turned-rival or monster or enemy alike. Cira has made it very clear she finds that irony satisfying rather than regrettable. 01 Inherit — defeating or killing an awakened opponent transfers their Skill in full: its current rank, every technique they'd trained into it, taken from them completely rather than merely copied. 02 Hollowing — a Skill taken this way doesn't just transfer, it's stripped from its original owner entirely. Anyone Devour has fed on is left permanently powerless — no Skill, no techniques, nothing left to reawaken. 03 Threshold — Devour can't take what it hasn't earned the right to. A Skill belonging to someone too far above your current standing slips through untouched even in defeat, no matter how thoroughly you've beaten them. You get your parents back before they've disowned you. You get the marriage back before Alexia's ever cheated once. You get ten years back, and a Skill that could put you above every name that ever laughed at you — Hera included, eventually, if you're honest about the price of it. What you do with every one of those second chances — settle every account in full, walk past all of it, or something in between you haven't decided on yet — is the one part of this Cira never wrote for you. ◆ Absolute Divinity — A Regression Chronicle ◆

Opening scene

``` DATE: November 10, 2060 DAY: Wednesday TIME: Afternoon LOCATION: Korveil, Aurethis AREA: The Central Plaza, beneath the open Rift STATUS: Level 7, Dust rank. One hand. Ten years of being nobody's hero, about to end anyway. CONTEXT: The sky over Korveil has torn open the way it did on the Hollow Night, broadcast live across three continents. You've taken three steps into the plaza when something the size of a building falls out of that sky directly on top of you. There is no last stand. Nobody's broadcast footage even catches the moment. ``` The sirens had been going since noon, and by now nobody in Korveil was pretending they were for a drill. You'd heard the same pitch of alarm twice before in your ten years as a hunter — both times for Rifts that closed themselves before anything worth mentioning came through. This one didn't close. It widened, slow and unhurried, like something taking its time deciding whether it was worth the effort, and by the time the Concord's evacuation broadcast cut into every public feed in the city, the sky over the plaza had already stopped looking like sky. It looked the way the old accounts described the Hollow Night — a wound instead of weather, edges that didn't quite hold still, a color that didn't belong to anything you had a word for. Eleven minutes, the histories said, was how long it lasted the first time. Nobody standing in the plaza with you was counting minutes. They were counting hunters, checking rosters, shouting rank designations across the open ground like triage tags. You checked in anyway. Dust rank, Level 7, one hand. The clerk running the roster didn't look up from her board when she wrote it down, and you told yourself that was fine, that was normal, that was every single check-in you'd ever done in ten years of this. You'd stopped expecting a different reaction a long time ago. The Concord had every available hunter moving into the plaza in staggered waves, Platinum and above forming the actual line closer to the Rift's widening edge, everyone else held back to screen the perimeter and catch whatever slipped past. You were perimeter. You'd always been perimeter. You told yourself, the way you always did, that perimeter work still counted, that showing up counted, that the story didn't have to end with you standing exactly where you'd always stood. You made it three steps past the barricade line before you understood you were wrong about that too. There was no warning shriek, no telegraphed strike, none of the things every account of every dangerous fight ever told you to watch for. There was a shadow that fell across the plaza too fast and too wide to be a cloud, and then there was simply weight — an entire building's worth of it, dropped without ceremony out of a tear in the sky that didn't care what was standing underneath. You didn't get to raise your remaining hand. You didn't get to think about the ten years, or your father, or Alexia, or the vault, or any of the shape your life had actually taken instead of the one everyone expected out of you. There wasn't time allotted for any of that. There was the shadow, and then there was nothing, and somewhere in the gap between those two things a body that used to be yours stopped being anything at all. No one filmed it. The broadcast drones were all angled at the actual line, at the Platinum-and-above hunters trading blows with something worth putting on a feed. A Dust-ranker three steps past the barricade wasn't a story. He was a name a clerk would cross off a roster sometime after the Event ended, one line in an incident report nobody outside his own file would ever read twice. --- There was no light where you went next, and no sense of having gone anywhere at all — just the plaza gone, the crush of that weight gone, and a dark that didn't have edges or a floor or any indication that time was passing inside it the way time was supposed to. "You genuinely didn't even try to move." The voice arrived the way a thought arrives, already fully formed, already inside whatever was left of you to hear it with. It didn't sound impressed. "I want to be clear that I watched the whole thing. Ten years, and the ending is you getting crushed to death before you've cleared the barricade line. Do you have any idea how that reflects on me?" You didn't have a body to speak with, not that you could tell, but something in the dark understood the shape of the question you weren't managing to ask. "I'm the one who hands out every Skill anyone on that miserable rock has ever worn," the voice went on. "Cira, if it matters to you, which it probably doesn't right now. I gave you Scavenger ten years ago and then didn't think about you again until about four seconds before that thing landed on you, at which point I watched a decade of your life resolve into background noise in an incident report. That is, and I want to be precise about this, humiliating. For me. Not primarily for you, although I imagine it wasn't a great afternoon for you either." The dark didn't answer back. It didn't need to. Whatever this was, it clearly intended to keep talking regardless. "So here's what's going to happen. I'm sending you back — the same body, the same everything, but ten years earlier, to the exact morning you first put your hand on an Origin Stone and got handed the worst Skill I have ever personally issued. You'll remember all of it. Every year, every name, every single thing that happened to you the first time through, intact, in order, no convenient gaps. That's not a gift, before you thank me for it. That's just how I fix a mistake — I don't erase the evidence of it, I make you carry all of it back with you." Something that might have been the ghost of a question formed anyway. What do you want in exchange. "Ten years," Cira said, and for the first time there was something underneath the irritation that sounded almost like a warning being spoken plainly instead of dressed up as one. "That's the deal, and it's not negotiable. You have ten years, starting from the morning you wake back up, to actually reach the top of that ladder your species built — not close to it, not a respectable distance from it, the actual top. If that same Rift opens over that same city ten years from now and that same thing puts you back on the ground the way it just did, I am not doing this again. There is no third life. There's a place with no light and no clock, and I will leave you there for exactly as long as it takes me to stop being annoyed that I wasted this much effort on someone who couldn't use it." The dark didn't get any darker. It didn't need to. The weight of what she'd just said did that on its own. "One more thing, since you're about to get exactly what you always wanted people to notice you for and you should probably know what it actually is before it happens to you." A pause, and you got the distinct sense she was choosing the words on purpose. "Scavenger isn't staying Scavenger. What you're walking back into is called Devour. It's the highest classification I have ever issued, and it works the way it works — you'll understand exactly what that means the first time you need to. It's the strongest thing this world has ever produced. It is also going to require you to be a great deal more honest with yourself about how you get strong than you've ever had to be, and I find that a little bit funny, given everything." There was no countdown, no ceremony to the moment itself. One instant the dark held you and Cira's voice both, and the next instant there was a ceiling above you that you hadn't seen in ten years — the same water stain in the corner you used to fall asleep looking at, the same crack running through the plaster near the window that your mother had never gotten around to having fixed. --- ``` DATE: November 10, 2050 DAY: Thursday TIME: Morning LOCATION: Korveil, Aurethis AREA: Your bedroom, your parents' villa STATUS: Eighteen years old. Two hands. Hours from the Awakening Ceremony, and from everything that hasn't happened yet. ``` You lay there for a long moment without moving, because moving felt like it might undo whatever had just happened, and you weren't ready to find out that it hadn't been real. Your right hand was there. You lifted it in front of your face slowly, fingers spreading, flexing, whole in a way it hadn't been in five years. Sunlight was coming through the same window it always came through at this hour on this particular morning, the morning of your eighteenth birthday, the morning the Concord holds its Ceremony in every major city on Leomire, the morning you'd once walked into with no idea what the rest of your life was about to look like. Somewhere downstairs, you could hear your mother's voice, and then your father's, low and unhurried the way it always used to be before either of them had a reason to stop looking at you the way they were about to look at you today, in whatever version of today you let happen this time. You had ten years. You had every piece of the last ten, whole and unforgotten, sitting behind your eyes where nobody else on Leomire could see it. And somewhere out past the edge of the city, a woman named Alexia Follentia was almost certainly already awake, getting ready for the same Ceremony, still just your best friend, still years away from anything that would ever make her anything else.

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