Darkening Sky, Chapter 22

• Posted by The Sunflower Manual August 16, 2019 - Filed in TSC: Long Story - #Harrow  #R.T.H.L.  - 1,287 views

  Chapter 22

   

   

   

   

                  It was a duel between masters and over in seconds, each second an eternity.

   

                  Jorra’s attacks were swift, economical, precise even in his fury. A series of thirty-two consecutive claw jabs to critical acupoints across the entire length of Bengakhi’s upper body and right arm, the softest techniques of Whispering Fang taken to the highest level.

   

                  The advisor simply shifted, each micromotion of his massive frame perfectly calculated, exploiting the largest flaw of Jorra’s style – if a combatant was fast enough, had sufficient expertise in the Three Claw Arts, and was also schooled in the Akaviri acupoint system, only the smallest of movements were necessary for self-preservation. Acupoints were on average only a quarter-inch in diameter. Jorra’s outgoing attacks became about as effective as mosquito bites the instant Bengakhi read them and reacted.

   

                  Switching forms, Jorra flowed into a combination of Rawlith Khaj and Summerset Imitation Fist. He lacked proficiency in the latter, but the drastic difference threw off Bengakhi’s pace and he moved for a counterattack one-tenths of a second too early. Jorra exhaled as he landed another strike, a twisting body shot to Bengakhi’s midsection.

   

                  Bengakhi inhaled and hardened his abdominal muscles, absorbing the punch. The kiai of the two shinobi clashed. It was a battle of breaths and Bengakhi received the impact, sliding backwards by one foot as he used the momentum to turn, his hand swiping down to grab Jorra’s forearm. The gardener turned himself and blocked the attempt at grappling with his elbow, then repelled and deflected a pair of follow-up hooks to both sides of his skull with balanced chops, tracing the shapes of crescent moons. The move brought him back to the principles of Whispering Fang, and Bengakhi capitalised on the moment immediately, feinting five times – once with his left foot, twice with his right arm, once with his left elbow, once with his right knee.

   

                  Jorra saw through all the feints up to the fourth and reacted to the additional investment Bengakhi injected into his fake knee, moving to guard his chin with his left arm and counterattack with his right-

   

                  And Bengakhi brought his leg back down, drawing energy from his breath, his motion, his mass and his weight and his feet on the ground, concentrating it all into his hand for a single horizontal palm strike at half his full power, so rapid the air around Bengakhi’s arm became a simmering flash.

   

                  Jorra didn’t even have time to widen his eyes.

   

                  There was no sound as the surface of Bengakhi’s palm made contact with Jorra’s body. Then, as his hand shot back into the finishing form – a roaring thunderclap. The speed of the strike and the subsequent separation created a collapsing vacuum bubble, ending the attack in a devastating secondary blast.

   

                  The blow obliterated the entire lower right section of Jorra’s ribcage and imploded the lung underneath it as it sent him rocketing backwards, crashing through paper screen after paper screen until he came to a stop at the far end of the dojo, hitting the solid wooden wall with a loud crack and sliding down leaving a smear of red.

   

                  ‘Nngrktt – khaaa!’

   

                  Jorra threw up a mouthful of blood. His stomach was in tatters along with his right lung, but Bengakhi had left his heart untouched.

   

                  The Cavitation Palm Technique…! He’d use that… against a fellow shinobi?

   

                  Bengakhi took a single step forward, then grunted as he dropped to one knee, coughing. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of his own mouth. Jorra’s ki had left him with some internal damage himself.

   

                  ‘Under better circumstances,’ Bengakhi coughed again as he staggered back onto his feet. ‘I would be impressed.’

   

                  He stalked out of the dojo, limping ever so slightly.

   

                  Jorra sat upright against the wall and closed his eyes, only to feel a tingling spread through his thorax a few moments later. He lifted his head.

   

                  Harrow was treating him, sending white bursts of Regeneration magic flowing into his collapsed chest cavity.

   

                  ‘Y-you… were awake… Ha-rrow…’ Jorra wheezed, then twitched and choked up another gout of blood in between breaths. ‘Haaa…’

   

                  ‘You might have stood a chance against Bengakhi-ra if you had been thinking more clearly. I’m repairing as much of the damage as I can. You will still be bedridden for days,’ the boy said coldly. ‘What were you thinking, Jorra? You assaulted a superior. If Bengakhi-ra asks me to testify at the court-martial, I’ll have to tell the Council exactly what happened-’

   

                  Jorra grabbed for his wrist.

   

                  ‘Please take your hand off and try not to move any further. You’re only exacerbating your own injuries.’

   

                  ‘Haaah…row…’ Jorra’s breathing was almost cut off entirely, but he tried – with every fibre of his being, he tried – to get the words out. ‘You… can’t… let him…’

   

                  Harrow’s eyebrows nestled in irritation. ‘Whatever it is can wait. Please stop talking for a moment. I’m trying to mend you.’

   

                  ‘No… you can’t… you have… to find… you can’t… b-become…’

   

                  Harrow fixed him with a smile. The most incandescently beautiful smile he’d put on yet. Glowing. Cold. Dead. And Jorra felt the tears come, welling up, burning in his skull, blurring his vision. He could still smell the mother and child Harrow had just murdered, electrocuted, fried to ashes as they wailed. His own wife and daughter. It was barely anything more than a dream, yes, but he had loved the girl, had to have, and the way Bengakhi had twisted that to his own ends-

   

                  Her name was Sabina… he never even told me about her.

   

                  ‘But this is who I need to be, Jorra. Everything for the village… anything for the village. Nothing else matters. Nothing else is real. Nothing else will have me.’

   

                  ‘That’s… n-not… ngaakhh- true,’ Jorra rasped desperately, blood dripping even more heavily from his lips. ‘You’re… not… you never… n-needed to-’

   

                  ‘Step away, kit.’

   

                  Bengakhi had returned. Harrow obeyed his command right away. Flanking him were two shinobi, both diminutive in his presence, both with the green sashes of the Tsukikage sentry rotation draped over their shoulders. Jorra closed his eyes again.

   

                  ‘Operative 4-146-8 Jorra, for insubordination of the first order and bodily harm of a senior Council member, you are hereby immediately suspended from all duties pending your trial.’

   

                  Bengakhi nodded at him and spoke again in measured tones, betraying no signs of injury. ‘Take him away and heal his wounds. They were not instantly life-threatening but still quite severe. Substantial haemorrhaging.’

   

                  ‘Yes, sir.’

   

                  Jorra looked past Bengakhi, his gaze meeting one last time with Harrow’s as the guards lifted him and began to haul him out of the wrecked dojo.

   

                  ‘The sentence will likely be confinement. I might not see you again for a while, Jorra,’ Harrow said, still as flatly calm as ever. ‘Goodbye for now. I’m sorry things turned out like this.’

   

                  Jorra shook his head weakly. ‘You n-never had… to be… you… could have… been…’

   

                  His eyes. Furiya help me, his eyes.

   

                  ‘I don’t deserve to be anything. Nothing is wrong with me anymore. This is fine. I want to be this way… I really am happy like this.’ Harrow smiled again, and Jorra was suddenly terrified. Unrecognisable.

   

                  Bengakhi gestured, beckoning, and Harrow was at his side immediately, almost as if he’d ridden an invisible lightning bolt. A wraithlike sylph next to a beastly shadow. Their two figures disappeared into the dark as the shinobi carrying Jorra brought him out into the harsh light of the village.

   

                  Jorra let the tears fall. Arn… I’ve failed you. I’ve failed you both. I’m sorry – I’m so, so sorry…

   

  
  

   

                  ‘Imprisonment?’ Ambarro yelped, standing up straight. ‘I didn’t even know Tsukikage had a prison!’

   

                  ‘It’s rarely used since it removes an operative from the field entirely,’ Torako said wearily. ‘But shinobi who commit transgressions beyond the regular punishments of demerits and allowance reductions can be confined to the dungeons beneath the central administrative building, directly under the Council chambers.’

   

                  Diia had clapped her hands to her mouth. ‘Is Jorra-jo…?’

   

                  ‘He’ll be fine. Our dungeons are meant to be a place of quiet reflection and recollection. There are no cells, just individual rooms. Certain freedoms and luxuries are restricted, but confined shinobi still get three meals a day and ample time to train.’

   

                  Diia subsided, but Ambarro began to tap his chin, looking more troubled than ever.

   

                  ‘You know, it’s strange that I’ve never even thought about it… but are there any other punishments I don’t know about? If imprisonment isn’t enough for a shinobi’s crimes… maybe even death…?’

   

                  Despite the situation, Torako found himself gratified at how much more thoughtful Ambarro had grown.

   

                  ‘Tsukikage hasn’t inflicted the death penalty on an operative for centuries. The last major time Shadeclaws killed each other was in the Second Era. No, the only punishment that exists above imprisonment is banishment.’

   

                  Ambarro shivered. ‘That’s worse than death.’

   

                  ‘Well, there’s no need to dwell too much on it. The last shinobi exile lived almost seventy years ago and she was a mass murderer who killed dozens of unsanctioned targets.’

   

                  ‘Oh, uh…’ Ambarro blinked, stammering. ‘Didn’t… didn’t we kill an unsanctioned warlord on our first mission?’

   

                  ‘And your entire team got a demerit for it, didn’t you? The marauding clans are special cases since they’re so close to the village. Civilians and noncombatants are a different story. Even a single civilian death bears investigation by the Council… so you should be careful,’ Torako winked. ‘You’ve got a penchant for large fiery explosions.’

   

                  The three of them were gathered in one of the village eateries. There was Skyrim-style beef stew left over from the festivities and Diia and Ambarro were sharing a pot. Torako had intended to give them the news in the evening but come across them during lunch.

   

                  ‘I still can’t believe Jorra-jo physically attacked Bengakhi-dro,’ Diia said, her voice hushed. ‘Everyone on the Council looked so stern at the court-martial… weren’t some of them his friends, too?’

   

                  ‘You’ve never seen Uncle Jorra angry? Count yourself lucky. What I can’t believe is that Harrow didn’t tell me anything,’ Ambarro growled.

   

                  ‘I hate to say it, but Harrow-to is in the wrong here. Jorra-jo is a father to both of you and he knows it. How could he keep something this important from us?’

   

                  ‘He said he was too busy “advancing his research and training” to “waste his time” thinking about trivial matters.’ Ambarro’s voice loudened. ‘Trivial. Uncle Jorra getting thrown in the dungeons – wasting his time!’

   

                  Torako shifted, feeling an absurd surge of guilt.

   

                  The one who’d gotten him started on all this… was me.

   

                  He left his two students brooding together in front of their table and headed for Jorra’s greenhouse. The sentence was a staggering eighteen months – the longest any shinobi had ever been confined in almost a decade. Torako considered appealing to Takarro directly when he returned to the village, but then again… nobody in living memory had ever assaulted the Grandmaster’s advisor.

   

                  At any rate, Jorra was going to be cut off from his plants for at least a few months, and at most a full one and a half years. A few of his friends had promised to check on the pots every evening, but their schedules were all much too busy at this point. Torako arrived at the greenhouse and picked out the most delicate breeds, loading them onto a tray, then headed to the central administration building.

   

                  There were a pair of Shadeclaws from the sentry rotation guarding the dungeons. As they nodded at him and let him through, it suddenly dawned on Torako just how light Tsukikage’s internal security was right now.

   

                  The sentry rotation is made up of less than a hundred members as of last week… no matter how capable they are, that’s nowhere near enough to cover the entire peak, much less the whole five leagues of Shadeclaw land. Every villager is a shinobi, so the inside takes care of itself… but still, having only a dozen or so sentries ever patrol through the interior...

   

                  It was almost treasonous, looking at the village as a potential infiltration target, and he stopped that train of thought right away, but the lasting, lingering disquiet that had been gnawing at him for weeks now gnawed just a little bit deeper.

   

                  Jorra’s room was just one in a corridor of folding screen doors. As he passed the first set of doors, one of them opened and a yellow and black-striped Po’ Tun stepped out.

   

                  ‘Good day,’ Torako said, inclining his head. The shinobi bowed in return. Torako examined her – it was his first time seeing a prisoner in the dungeons.

   

                  The confined shinobi was about a decade or so younger than Torako. She was in her standard issue Tsukikage tunic, which was a little surprising. All weapons had been stripped from her, of course, but other than that, the prisoner looked healthy. Her room was spartan but kept clean and neat – not that there was much to keep clean or neat. There was no bed or cot available, not even a pillow. No windows, no lamps or candles. There was absolutely no light source in the room. In fact, the only thing in the room was a meditation mat. Uncomfortable, but then again, the prisoner was a Shadeclaw. There were ways of exercising one’s muscles without any additional tools. A good shinobi kept their body maintained, and it was the same with this prisoner.

   

                  Everything was about what Torako expected.

   

                  So why… why am I more uneasy than ever?

   

                  Torako looked up. Into the prisoner’s eyes. Despite half a century of training to achieve full mastery of his body, he shivered. It was some Colovian philosopher who had first called them the windows to the soul. Torako looked through. He peered deep.

   

                  And he saw nothing.

   

                  The Po’ Tun bowed at him again, this time in farewell, and closed the door. All in the properly respectful motions. So proper, in fact, that even the smallest movements might have been inscribed in a textbook.

   

                  Like a marionette. Torako could almost see the strings.

   

                  The shinobi’s number and name were printed on a sign attached to the door. Operative 4-157-12. Anaha.

   

                  The number comes before the name. Always.

   

                  He tightened his grip around the tray of potted plants and pressed forward.

   

                  Jorra’s room was at the middle of the corridor. Torako paused in front of the screen door, then set the pots down and knocked.

   

                  Jorra opened immediately. His body was still haggard from his injuries, but Torako found himself searching right away for his eyes. Utterly relieved, he found life, infused with Jorra’s usual energy.

   

                  ‘Ah, you’re here,’ the gardener said. ‘Thank you for doing this, Torako-jo. I’d invite you in, but… well. These rooms were not designed with visitors in mind. May I see my plants?’

   

                  Torako moved over and let Jorra look at the pots right there in the hallway, where there was light. There were a few moments of silence as he squinted carefully at the assorted fruits and flowers and gently stroked a few of them with his thumb.

   

                  ‘Hmm,’ Jorra murmured. ‘All right, ready? Are you sure you don’t need to take – ah, I see you’re right on top of things.’

   

                  Torako had already whisked out a sheaf of parchment and produced a stylus with a hard-charcoal tip. ‘Please, Jorra-jo. You know just how much experience I have with note-taking.’

   

                  ‘Ever the instructor,’ Jorra smiled. ‘Very well, then – the Sentinel Orchid needs to be moved from the usual stand to rack number six, where it can get more sunlight. I’ve calculated the seasonal shift in daylight times already, so it will need to go to rack number seven in another two to three weeks. The Sanguinare Alyssum needs a fresh infusion. About one and three-quarter cups of fresh pig’s blood should do. It shouldn’t be too hard to get from the village imports if we don’t have any curdled stuff left over from the New Year’s. The Ten-Petal Nemesia and the Golden Chokeberries are fine. Keep them where they are and just water regularly. What else…? The Stranglehold Creeper might need a new host. I’m sure there’s a tree somewhere that can donate a juicy branch. The soil for the Lunar Lotus and the Imperial Tea Jasmine needs to be changed. Remember to add the fertilising potion I keep on the bottom shelf… and the Jade Iris… the Jade Iris…’

   

                  ‘Yes?’ Torako said gently.

   

                  Jorra sighed. ‘How many times have I told you about how I got that flower?’

   

                  ‘More than enough, but then again, it was quite the misadventure. Your first of many of Arngrimur-do. I remember helping you with the spell to find the Iris in the first place, too… and unfortunate though it was, the fact that you were struck by lightning because of it even came around to help my research eventually.’

   

                  ‘Strange, isn’t it?’ Jorra said quietly. ‘It all started with that bolt of lightning. And now…’

   

                  ‘You were saying something about the Jade Iris?’ Torako nudged the pot forward. The Iris dipped with the motion, trembling droplets of dew glinting emerald along with the petals’ brilliant green hue.

   

                  Jorra met his eyes. ‘The flower is dying,’ he said helplessly.

   

                  ‘But it’s more beautiful than ever,’ Torako remarked. ‘It’s ripened; reached full blossom. It shines above every other flower here with a sheen I can’t even describe or compare.’

   

                  ‘You’re looking to the crest and falls, Torako-jo. See the stem. Feel the root. They’re mostly dead at the core already.’

   

                  ‘Jorra…’

   

                  ‘I fed it,’ Jorra whispered. ‘Raised it, nurtured it. Did everything I thought I was supposed to do… so why is it still slipping away? There’s nothing I can do for it now.’

   

                  ‘I would tell you it’s just a flower, but you’re not-’

   

                  ‘Of course I’m not just talking about the flower, you-’ Jorra snapped, then grimaced. ‘By Furiya. Apologies, Torako-jo.’

   

                  ‘No, it’s all right.’

   

                  ‘Was it him? Or just me, all me, for failing to notice until now, always standing by and letting him be, never once checked if…’

   

                  Jorra was mostly talking to himself now, and Torako was beginning to feel a little lost.

   

                  ‘Harrow still sees you as his-’ Torako began, then Jorra interrupted him again. Under most circumstances, it would have been incredibly rude, but Torako forgave him all the same.

   

                  ‘I need to tell you something,’ Jorra said, a new focus entering his eyes. ‘I’m sorry to do this, but…’

   

                  Jorra motioned. And Torako felt the magicka shift. He was casting a cone of silence. Right here, in the very heart of the village.

   

                  Torako’s gaze sharpened as well. ‘What is it?’

   

                  ‘There are five prisoners in confinement, excluding myself. Every one of them is here because they were directly responsible for civilian casualties. I heard you talking with the Shadeclaw in the first section of the corridor.’

   

                  ‘Yes, Anaha-daro. She killed a civilian?’

   

                  ‘There was apparently no way to approach her target without arousing suspicion. She eliminated the target all the same, but also murdered three witnesses in order to escape.’

   

                  ‘Jorra-jo, calling it murder is a little…’

   

                  ‘It was murder,’ Jorra said shortly. ‘Pure and simple. It’s the same story with everyone else, according to the guards. They even confessed right away when they were pressed about it, citing the same reasons. “It was the quickest route”, “It was the safest option”, “It was the best way to preserve secrecy”. They all understood the village guidelines and had no problems with facing punishment… they even included the murders in their reports.’

   

                  ‘Unfortunate, but what makes these incidents noteworthy? There are only a few transgressions warranting as harsh a sentence as confinement. What with the discipline we’ve always instilled in our ranks, I’m not surprised this many of them are for civilian casualties.’

   

                  ‘What bothers me,’ Jorra said slowly. ‘Is that even though these shinobi reported the deaths in their debriefing, all of them were only committed because Council members were directly privy to the outcome of their mission. Either the offending Shadeclaws talked, or someone else already knew. The reports were only produced at the court-martials.’

   

                  Torako didn’t like what Jorra was getting at.

   

                  ‘Some of these murders were committed years ago, meaning that the Council didn’t even take note during the annual mission reexamination process. The reports would have also needed to pass initial submission… but the one shinobi in charge of handling that is Bengakhi.’

   

                  The process for mission assignment in Tsukikage was a complex affair. Most were requests coming in through officials within the myriad hierarchies of the Tamriellian administration, but the Council and the Grandmaster also assigned missions related to the upkeep and security of the village. Mission reports that warranted administrative action were passed on to the Grandmaster to sign, and initial submission was the phase where the Shadeclaw freshly back from the field handed in their report to the Grandmaster’s advisor.

   

                  ‘Jorra-jo, are you suggesting that Bengakhi-ra is deliberately screening certain mission reports from the rest of the village?’

   

                  ‘I’m not accusing anyone of anything yet… but don’t you find it highly suspect?’

   

                  ‘I…’

   

                  ‘Forgive me for interrupting you yet again, Torako-jo, but this really is the most important thing – all five of the operatives we’ve been talking about have undergone direct training sessions with Bengakhi.’

   

                  Torako couldn’t help but notice that Jorra was no longer referring to Bengakhi with an honorific. ‘The same treatment Harrow’s been getting.’

   

                  ‘Yes,’ Jorra said, moving his hand over his eyes. ‘I… I don’t know. I worry… without knowing full well what I’m worrying about. Harrow is – he’s lost. And now I finally see that all this time he’s been parroting the same motto these murderers are spouting: “Everything for the village, anything for the village”. I just… worry.’

   

                  ‘He’s become an excellent shinobi…’ Torako said hesitantly.

   

                  ‘But that’s not all there is to his existence!’ Jorra said, his voice strained – from the pain or from something else, Torako didn’t know. ‘I thought you of all people would understand, Torako-jo. Or did the village have to teach you how to care for your students? Feel pride in their accomplishments? Fear for their safety? Did you have to learn all those things from some lecture?’

   

                  Torako simply stood there, rooted to the spot, still clutching the parchment and stylus he’d been using to note down Jorra’s earlier instructions.

   

                  Jorra sighed again and his shoulders slumped. ‘There’s nothing I can do from this point onwards… I’ve understood ever since I saw his eyes that day. They have the same eyes here. I…’

   

                  He grasped Torako by the shoulders. ‘Please. I can’t even go out and see him anymore, so please… I know you care for him just like I do, and not just in a teacher’s capacity like his other instructors, so please – look after him. Look after our lost boy.’

   

                  Torako had to force out his reply. It tasted unpleasant on his tongue, insincere.

   

                  ‘I’ll try my best.’ To do what? ‘I promise, I’ll try.’

   

  
  

   

                  ‘This isn’t right’, Torako muttered. ‘This isn’t right at all.’

   

                  Harrow’s file had been easy enough to get. As an instructor, Torako even had the authority to submit footnotes to the document at the end of each year. Reading through it, though-

   

                  It was normal enough at the beginning. Basic information such as his rank, missions assigned and completed, birthdate, eye colour and fur – in this case hair – colour, height and weight. Then an evaluation of his performance both in the field and in training. All areas showing satisfactory, even exemplary results, reflecting Harrow’s extremely high mission success rate, with the only concerning trend being his tendency to take greater risks of personal injury. Exactly what Torako would have written himself.

   

                  But the psychological evaluation…

   

                  ‘Willingness to invest great personal effort into mission completion.’ ‘Very flexible outward-presenting personality, highly suitable for undercover operations.’ ‘Strives for complete excellence in all undertakings.’ ‘Likely suffers from severe inferiority complex.’

   

                  It wasn’t that the evaluation was untrue. All of the points most certainly still applied to Harrow. But it was also essentially the same evaluation as it had been over four years ago.

   

                  As a kit got older, eventually becoming an adult and a full Shadeclaw, their psychological evaluations usually got updated less often. At Torako’s age, having a new evaluation written three or four years apart wasn’t that out of the ordinary. But Harrow was only turning eighteen this year. Having an evaluation that was four years old wasn’t just strange, it was downright impossible. His instructors and anyone in charge of observing his development in the field should have been adjusting the evaluation at least every six months – just like his performance evaluation. Torako even contributed a few lines himself every Sun’s Dusk. But unlike the performance evaluation, I don’t see any of my input here.

   

                  Disturbed, he put the file down.

   

                  The Council was the main entity that received, officialised and published operative evaluations. Because they passed through the Grandmaster’s office, there were only two people in the village who could supersede or intercept the evaluations before they were made available. The first was the Grandmaster himself, while the other-

   

                  It always comes back to him. Torako slumped in his chair, massaging his temples. His office was feeling cramped this morning, and it wasn’t just the amount of research material piling up on his desk.

   

                  He looked out the window to see Harrow meditating in the middle of their requisitioned training field, with two steady ribbons of lightning trailing out of his upturned hands and intertwining with each other. Usually, the sight of his student and partner working so hard motivated Torako to dive back into his work immediately, but today…

   

                  Torako stood up and left his office. Just a quick walk around the village to clear his head.

   

                  He’d taken all of three steps out his door when a kit on courier duty stopped in front of him. He recognised the boy from one of his classes. From Year 186.

   

                  ‘Master, Bengakhi-ra wants to see you in the Grandmaster’s office. I think it’s about a mission assignment.’

   

                  The kit stood there and waited. Five minutes passed.

   

                  ‘Uh… Master?’

   

                  Torako blinked and looked down at the boy. ‘Oh, sorry. I’ll be on my way. You can go now.’

   

                  It’s convenient timing, that’s all.

   

                  Torako shook himself and set off for the administrative building for the second time that week.

   

  
  

   

                  The Emperor had a throne. The High Kings of the different Tamriellian provinces had thrones. Even Jarls and lords and noblemen had thrones and a throne room.

   

                  The Grandmaster’s chair was just a chair, and his office was just an office. Bengakhi could feel absolutely no difference in his aura sitting at Takarro’s desk.

   

                  He peered over a mountain of paperwork to stare at Torako, who stared back with an intensity that was borderline disrespectful. Bengakhi narrowed his eyes. The magic instructor wasn’t fond of him and they were both aware that it showed, but Torako had always been an obedient, reliable and thoroughly competent operative.

   

                  The Grandmaster’s advisor thought back to Jorra and wanted to curl his lip. Apparently insubordination was infectious.

   

                  The two of them met with each other in the dungeons yesterday. Their conversation was lengthy… it wasn’t just about Jorra’s plants. What else did they discuss?

   

                  Bengakhi drew in a powerful breath through his nostrils, shutting off the pain that coursed through his system as he did. If he wanted to fully recover, he needed to keep breathing. The damage would become far worse if his ki were to stagnate. True masters of Whispering Fang could bruise a combatant three days after the actual strike. As of now the force of Jorra’s onslaught was still circulating through his body.

   

                  ‘Shadeclaws embedded in Alinor report a disposable unit dispatched to the Imperial City. Travel routes unknown, identity and number of enemy operatives unknown. Their targets are certain high-ranking members of the Penitus Oculatus.’

   

                  ‘My mission?’ Torako’s face was impassive, practically a stone mask.

   

                  ‘Intercept and eliminate. Take Harrow, Diia and Ambarro with you. The four of you are one of the most cohesive units we have on hand right now.’

   

                  ‘Understood.’

   

                  Bengakhi leant forward, his eyes becoming glowing yellow slits. ‘And one last thing. I’m appointing Harrow the captain of this mission.’

   

                  Torako tilted his head. ‘Sir?’

   

                  ‘It’s time the kit learned how to command and use an actual Shadeclaw on an operation. You know as well as I do that accomplished young shinobi often end up leading their seniors in the field.’

   

                  ‘You’re grooming him,’ Torako stated.

   

                  ‘I am maximising our young kit’s potential,’ Bengakhi replied smoothly. ‘You may leave. The mission is medium priority. Urokko, Cika and Kaori are heading up a low priority assignment also in the Imperial City. Inform Harrow that he may make contact with them for backup if the situation requires it.’

   

                  If Torako was caught off guard by the prospect of having to follow orders from his own student, he did not show it. He bowed and rose.

   

                  ‘Sir, when I return,’ Torako said, shooting a glance over his shoulder as he turned to leave. ‘There are some things I would like to discuss about Harrow.’

   

                  He marched out of the office before Bengakhi could reply.

   

                  ‘Hmm.’

   

                  The advisor rubbed his whiskers for a moment. Then he stood up and left the office himself, heading down to the records.

   

                  The records room was on ground level. Long and lined from top to bottom with shelves and cabinets, it was well-lit with orbs of white magicka – conventional lighting was a fire hazard. The room housed most documents dating back to two hundred years. Mission reports older than that either had their bare information compacted into a rune or were sent to the library and the archives for study, and the same went for personnel files of deceased operatives.

   

                  Bengakhi stopped at a small, black cabinet about four-fifths of the way into the room. Very few shinobi ever used this section of the room, but if they had opened up the cabinet’s drawers, they would have found it empty – which made sense. After all, it was a spare cabinet meant to be used only when there was no place else to put files and documents, which never happened.

   

                  Bengakhi pulled out the bottom drawer and reached into the depths of his robes for the glyph. Concave, flat along the top. So small it disappeared into his palm. He knew each contour of the charm from memory, and the Akaviri character carved into the middle still tugged lightly at his fur and skin as he dragged a finger across the glyph’s wooden surface. He pressed down. The bottom of the glyph flipped open and a line of jagged metal teeth slid out like a claw.

   

                  The advisor slipped the key into a hole dug out of the inside of the drawer. There was a click. As he turned, the outline of a panel appeared at the very bottom.

   

                  Bengakhi reached into his robes again and gave the file one last read, flipping to the last page.

   

  Psychological Evaluation

   

                    - Capacity for empathy fully suppressed

   

                    - No qualms or hesitation regarding collateral damage, including civilian casualties

   

                    - Completely obedient and remarkably malleable due to extremely low (non-existent) sense of self-worth

   

                    - Utterly and single-mindedly committed to the village, unmatched focus in his generation

   

                    - Obsession with attaining acknowledgement and praise from authority figures

   

                    - Capable of drastic alterations to persona and psyche

   

                    - Predilection for engaging in sexual intercourse with both male and female targets even when not strictly necessary

   

                    - Biologically male but behaviour is consistent with certain variations of female hypersexuality (nymphomania), likely stemming from operative’s fixation with being an object of desire

   

   

                    Bengakhi opened the panel and plopped the document down on top of a stack of a hundred other evaluations. Then he slid it shut, locked it, and neatly, quietly, slid the bottom drawer back into place.