Chapter 68: Live Edges

Chapter 68: Live Edges

Silas waited. Elyra seemed to think she had explained herself adequately.

"That’s not much of a reason," he said.

"The reason I gave Voss is true," Elyra replied. "But I’ve had Spirit Communion all year. I didn’t want to walk into a Red Gate until a Bronze Class student who keeps surviving things he shouldn’t decided to enter."

"So I’m interesting."

"Very. I’d rather see what happens than hear about it afterward."

Part of him was flattered, which was inconvenient. The rest remembered a game route in which her curiosity had ended with Alden dead because he stood between Elyra and something she wanted to understand.

One route. The actual girl before him had patiently taught him to sense a spirit’s attention. She had also kept Nim’s existence to herself.

He couldn’t treat a possible ending as something she had already done.

"Keep that interest on the dungeon while things are trying to eat us," Silas said.

Elyra smiled briefly. "I can pay attention to more than one thing."

That’s what worries me.

He left her and ran for the dormitory.

The wing was nearly empty. Silas took the stairs quickly, regretted grabbing the rail with his aching arm, and pressed his palm against the studio lock.

Relief met him across the threshold. His shoulders loosened. The ache in his forearm dulled, and his mana began recovering at the room’s familiar accelerated pace.

For a moment he wanted to shut the door and stay.

His bed was unmade. A cup sat on the desk. The dart case waited on its shelf, exactly where he had left it. Nothing here was bleeding or screaming.

Then a shimmer opened beside the pillow.

Nim tumbled out, rolled once, and sat up looking pleased.

"You won," the spirit said. "I saw you hit him at the end."

Silas stared. "You were at the arena?"

"I came this morning. My pocket holds onto the bond now." Nim licked a paw. "I went under the seats to watch. Then there were too many feet, so I went back in."

Silas remembered telling him to stay home. Apparently Nim had considered that advice.

"You could have been seen."

"I wasn’t." Nim’s ears flattened. "Then everything got loud. And something felt wrong. Like the marsh, but worse."

"The gate." Silas unbuckled the padded blade and set it on the desk.

Nim watched him. "You’re going inside."

"Yes."

"Then I’m coming."

"No." Silas crouched beside the bed. "People are dead already. It only admits Rank One. You’re Early Rank Two. The boundary stopped the instructors without letting them through."

"I can make myself smaller."

"That doesn’t change your rank."

"For you," Nim said, offended. "Watch."

The faint light around his fur dimmed. His outline became less distinct, and the steady presence Silas felt through their bond thinned. Nim remained cat-sized, but the pressure of his mana was lighter.

Silas touched his head. Nim leaned into the hand as usual.

"Rank One?" Silas asked.

"What I’m manifesting. I’m still me underneath." Nim flicked an ear. "A spirit can keep more of itself unmanifested. Your Core is formed inside your body. You can’t make that stop being Rank Two just by using less."

Silas remembered the examiner’s wording. Ten Core-bearing entrants. Nim would accompany him concealed in Foldspace, with his manifestation reduced; he wouldn’t take another party member’s place.

"And after you cross, you become Rank Two again?"

"No. I have to stay reduced inside. Rank One strength, until we’re out."

Silas left his hand on Nim’s head. There went the comforting possibility of a secret Rank Two companion solving everything when the party got into trouble.

"Then you’d be a Rank One spirit in a Red Gate."

"With you," Nim said.

"That isn’t as reassuring as you think."

Nim pushed harder into his palm. "You want to go. I want to see it. I want to help. You don’t own me. That was the deal."

It had been. Silas had insisted on it himself, when agreeing to their bond.

He looked at the small spirit on his pillow. Nim could be stubborn about a spoon or a patch of sunlight. Silas hadn’t expected to feel quite so frightened by that stubbornness.

"I don’t want you hurt," Silas said.

"I know." Nim’s tail curled around his paws. "I don’t want you hurt either."

Silas breathed out slowly.

"Stay in Foldspace while we cross. Nobody sees you. Not the examiner, not Gareth. If you decide to come out later, tell me first."

"I’ll tell you," Nim said.

"And don’t do anything brave."

Nim considered that. "I don’t know what brave is in there yet."

Silas closed his eyes briefly. Of course he didn’t.

The live shortblade replaced the padded one at his belt. Silas drew it a few inches, checked the edge, and sheathed it carefully.

He knew Returning Edge with this weapon. Still, there would be people beside him inside, moving without competition officials to keep them apart. A careless recovery could cut someone who was trying to help.

He tightened the straps on Vessa’s bracers, then took down the dart case.

Its hard shell opened under his thumb. The narrow adamantite weapon lay in the lining, pointed at both ends, dull gray until he turned it toward the window.

He had tested the live dart in a rented practice room. He knew how its weight felt without his studio’s doubled strength, and how much control a quick return demanded. He had kept it off the tournament floor because he didn’t want his rivals studying it.

Soon he would use it where the targets moved, snapped, and tried to kill him.

Silas lifted it a finger’s width with Remote Grasp. It rose smoothly. He lowered it again and strapped the closed case across his chest, catch outward beneath his left collarbone.

Find the angle. Good metal doesn’t mean everything has to give way.

He packed his first-aid pouch, two water flasks, and ration bars, then pulled on grip boots and a weatherproof outer layer. While lacing the boots, he made himself sit long enough for the room to do some more work.

His reserve was recovering. His forearm still ached when he turned his wrist. He could have waited for both to improve further, and every part of him wanted to.

Outside, people were still missing.

Nim watched from the pillow, quieter now. Silas finished the second boot and checked his communicator. The screen still offered a perfectly ordinary academy channel, with the tournament schedule suspended at the top.

Once he crossed the gate, that channel would stop reaching anyone.

He thought of Mara watching his duel, proud of a victory she might still be talking about. He didn’t know what news had reached her. He wanted to call, but he couldn’t explain this quickly, and hearing her frightened would make leaving harder.

The thought left him ashamed. He couldn’t spend the whole rescue window deciding how to tell her.

He put the communicator away and stood. Most of what the duel had taken was back. He would have to make that enough.

Nim stepped into the opening of Foldspace and turned once before vanishing. The bond retained its lighter presence.

Silas checked the dart catch with his thumb. Blade, bracers, supplies. He had everything he had come for, including one companion he hadn’t expected.

At the door, he looked back at the pillow.

I’d like to bring both of us back to that.

He crossed the threshold. The room’s doubling fell away, and his gear settled heavier against him. His arm began throbbing again.

Silas locked the studio and headed for the cordon.