Young Writers Society

Reiner paused on the bridge. The wind had gotten cold, and now tugged at his coat; he felt the tiny drops of some faraway rain prickling against the exposed skin of his face and neck.

He closed his eyes, blocking out the distant voices of some other Captors making their way home. The Gathering this year attracted more people than usually — after all, even Sazhey had decided to make an appearance. Reiner took a deep breath, thinking back at their conversation.

A Storyteller, he thought, opening his eyes. The city below the bridge, with its little lights on the rooftops and an occasional privately owned ship docked by the chimneys, felt comfortably hazy. He licked his lips, still tasting the bitter sweetness of the drink.

He had to somewhat admire Arcus for getting his hands on a Storyteller. If he really managed to get them to the Palace, it would no doubt be worthy of a rune ring. Perhaps one on each hand.

Perhaps a Council’s mask. Reiner frowned at a small ship departing from a tall tower to his left, following it as it made its way towards the horizon. Arcus had given up the chance of becoming a Councilman the moment he pledged to give his service to the skies. However, if he was to convince the Storyteller to tell the Council he’s meant to join them… They would believe it. Reiner would do it in his place — and they’d gone through enough of the same training for Reiner not to doubt Vane’s convincing skills.

He licked his lips again, keeping his lower lip between his teeth for a longer moment this time, as he turned to head on towards the house. It was still dark; Brinn had probably been asleep for quite some time. He closed his eyes again as he walked on, counting the steps for what must've been the billionth time. Nine hundred and twenty three — a few less on a good day, a few more on a night such as this one. He'd reached nine hundred and thirty seven, and had just taken out the keys to his home, when someone's hand touched his shoulder.

His fingers curled around a dagger. The familiar cologne was the only thing that stopped him from turning and sticking the blade into whosever neck had foolishly decided to find itself at arm's length. The wind mixed with clean scent of cedar under the harsher notes of valveris flower: Reiner knew only two men who chose the combination — and he'd seen one of them die half a decade ago.

"Rykon," he said quietly, not opening his eyes.

"Long time, Reiner," the Captor replied, Reiner's name rolling off his lips with a particular accent. He opened his eyes and turned to meet the other's. Rykon stood closer than he'd thought.

"I'm your superior now," Reiner said, sharply but with no heat behind it. "Perhaps you should start addressing me as such."

The older Captor slowly grinned. “Deepest apologies, Sir.” His hand squeezed Reiner’s shoulder. “I’ve heard the whispers. My boy, soon to join the Council.” His eyes shone behind the mask. “‘Who would’ve thought’, I’d say, but when it came to you…” He trailed off.

“Are you saying you’d known ever since you first saw me?” Unlike the older Captor, he kept his face impassive, but the bitter, sweet warmth still lingered in his throat and on his lips, and he couldn’t hide amusement from his voice when the other man nodded. “I was ten years old. No Order-abiding citizen should be able to tell such things so far in advance.”

Rykon chuckled. “Arrest me, then.”

“Perhaps I’d rather hear what brings you here.”

Rykon gave a light shrug. “Another student.” He gestured back towards the Palace. “I saw you walking home, and, well… I could’ve been dead and rolled by the wind, and I would’ve still managed to catch up with you.”

Reiner turned to face him fully, turning his back to the door. He had been around the same height as the older Captor for years now — and yet, he still felt shorter.

“And why exactly,” he asked, knowing the answer, “did you want to catch up with me?”

The other’s hand left Reiner’s shoulder, thumb tracing his collarbone instead. “I was hoping you’d be willing to consider some company tonight.” His eyes narrowed. “But then, you seemed quite taken by Superior Sazhey earlier… perhaps I’m hoping in vain.”

Reiner smirked through a sigh. “Superior’s charms are only matched by your own, but no, I have no interest in pursuing anything of the sort.”

“Pursuing,” the Captor mocked, “I had nothing quite as long-lasting in mind.”

Reiner’s back touched the door. He kept still as Rykon’s hand came to rest on his hip, sending shivers through his skin.

Rykon still wore the same thin gloves Reiner remembered, a ring tight on his left middle finger. Reiner focused on the subtlest of patterns on the Captor’s sleeve; it twisted into itself as Rykon took a step closer.

“I can teach you all these things, and more.”

“More?”

A nod. “Things other than fighting and orders: charm; touch; eye contact. Words that get further than any weapon every could.”

Rykon kissed him and he responded in kind, closing his eyes against the flashbacks. Why those thoughts, now? Enough time had passed since he’d heard those words, for a whole generation to be born and graduate.

Fingers brushed against his mask, and he pulled away, gripping the other’s wrist, heart pounding.

“What do you think you’re—“

“You removed it the last time.” Rykon’s voice was soft, soothing, and commanding all the same: a trick not unfamiliar to Reiner himself, and yet still one that tugged at his strings.

Last time was a moment of weakness, he bit his tongue not to say. Moments of weakness could not happen — not to him. Not then, as he had allowed Azrie to escape, and most certainly not now.

“Try to remove my mask again,” he hissed, “and I’ll have you executed.”

Rykon’s smirk grew darker. “You will do no such thing, Sir…” He gripped Reiner’s chin, just a touch too tightly to be considered gentle. “I still have your little brother to teach.”

A vaguely familiar feeling tugged at Reiner’s stomach. He opened his mouth to reply, but the older Captor kissed him again, and he gave in and closed his eyes. Of course he wouldn’t have Rykon executed — he was the best at what he did.

“Brinn—“ He paused. Something was wrong. He licked his lips, and his tongue came back tasting like sand.

“Rein?”

“I—“ His words were heavy and dry. A bittersweet note still tickled at his throat, but he couldn’t remember why that was worth noting. Something prodded his thoughts, something important. He grabbed onto Rykon’s coat, staring at the pattern. It was alive— or it seemed so, brightly coloured and dancing off the fabric and into the night.

“Run away with me, Rein.” Azrie’s voice was low, muffled further by the covers.

“You’re a traitor.”

“I need you—“

“It’s alright.” Rykon’s voice, again. The Captor’s hand was around his shoulders now, and he was helping him in. Reiner squinted at the lock as the key turned in it, and it took him a moment to realise it wasn’t his own hand holding it.

“Poison,” he muttered, “in the…”

“Yes.” Rykon helped him enter and more dropped than assisted him onto the sofa in the salon. The pillows were soft and cold against his skin. He felt hands removing his shoes and coat, and realised the older Captor was still talking.

“I gave you an order, Apprentice.”

Reiner blinked. “What?”

“I said it wasn’t poison,” Rykon enunciated. There was a clank of glass against wood, and something draped over him.

“Did you…” Words failed him, and he sighed, unsure if his eyes were closed or open.

“It’s a test.” Rykon’s voice — or was it his father’s voice?

Father is a Councilman, Reiner thought.

“He’s also dead, Rein.” There was a barely discernible note of something in the other's voice. Concern? Cold fingers brushed against Reiner’s forehead. “You’re in for a difficult few days, and then you’re to report to the Palace.” A tug at his hair, just as the pillows started growing around him. “Understood?”

He nodded into the pillow. “Report to Palace. Yessir.”

Another sound, one that it took him a while to place. Footsteps?

His hand moved to the dagger under the pillow, but it wasn’t there. He pushed up slightly, only enough so to look at the room, and swallowed. His mother stood ready and calm as always, Council’s mask silent and serious. His father’s dark-red attire of Senior Captor nearly blended with the darkness.

“Get up,” Father said. “The Academy awaits.”

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