Reborn From the Cosmos

“It’s really coming along,” Orphelia Yemen remarked, her tongue still tingling from the fruity liquor she’d spent the past hour consuming, a drizzle remaining in her glass and half the bottle sitting at her feet. She was seated at the edge of the Grand Market, close enough to the platform lift that she could hear the stones grinding against each other with every scheduled landing. The patch of grass at the edge of the market was riddled with shallow holes from a multitude of chair legs; in a continuation of the morbid traditions of humanity, overseeing the ruinous city had been something of a favored pastime for the acolytes. She spotted the odd picnic or two as the young adults shared their horror and awe.

They were nowhere near as interested in the city’s slow, mundane recovery. With every passing day, the number of loiters on the edge of the floating school decreased until Orphelia was surprised when she saw anyone aside from herself.

She wasn’t sure why she continued to spend, or waste, her afternoons perched within dubious safety at an unfathomable height. If anyone asked her, she might spin them a tale of hope, romanticize how the growing shoots of green filled her with visions of a peaceful future. Truthfully, and she always tried to be truthful with herself, it was because it was Lou’s city she was watching it rise from ruin. Lourianne Tome-Delarre, by order of the crown. The only woman, no. The only creature aside from the sovereigns of the skies who mattered in the world.

As Orphelia refilled her glass, she pondered how the seething mass of idiots below her would react if they learned how truly small they were. Another reason she liked her place at the edge of the small, scholarly world; it reflected her new understanding of reality. Hunters, nobles, master casters. They were all ants compared to the true monsters beyond their kingdom. And if they dared to wander too far from their anthills, they would be ground under the heel of giants like the other insects of the world.

Orphelia was one of the lucky ones. One of the monsters had taken an interest in her. One that ruled through mind-bending charm and the shadow of threats. She was a pretty pet, a bird in a cage, but, if she was smart and useful, if she sung on cue and preened on command, her cage could be as large as the world. In a kingdom where plenty never tasted a seasoning beyond salt or saw any settlement beyond the village they were born in, it wasn’t a bad fate.

She raised her glass in a silent toast and drained the wine; a good drink made the hard truths easier to swallow. It also helped her stopped thinking about her horrible vision she couldn’t quite remember for a moment…but only a moment. Soon enough, the thoughts wormed their way back into her mind. As well as the fearful little voice that whispered that her new master was expecting results.

It led her to abandon her little retreat; Orphelia left the cheap chair that no one dropping a small fortune to attend the Hall would bother to steal but took her bottle as she walked through the market with only the faintest dip in her gait. Many considered the Hall to be a city, but that was a fantastical exaggeration told by the talentless that would never step foot on the floating rock. The school was expansive, but most of its facilities were meant to support magical pursuits. Of the dozens of stores, there were preciously few dedicated to comfort and pleasure; there was no need with the city so close.

Orphelia’s chosen haunt was perhaps the tamest of the locations designed to entice young minds; the food could only be called decent at best, the square tables had rough edges, and they only served watery ale. However, the corner shadows were deep and the staff knew how to mind their business. It was one of the few places where she could be assured of a reasonable amount of privacy.

No bell announced her as she passed through the door. No one looked up until she rapped her knuckles on the stained countertop and ordered lunch. The server didn’t have a trace of expression as her plate was placed down in front of her ten minutes later, but the steam at least meant it was fresh.

Orphelia was slurping down watery gruel when another person entered the unpopular establishment. The man was the standard for the school, a youth with dark bags under his eyes, unkempt hair, and a colored robe that was starting to fade from repeated washing. He hurried over to her table, dropping into the opposite seat with the kind of energy that would have drawn a dozen eyes in a busier room. She winced but forced herself to relax. Her contact didn’t take criticism well.

“I don’t know why you insist on meeting here,” he huffed, tugging at his sleeves. Somehow, after meeting like this several times, she still made him nervous. Given the man’s refusal to meet her eyes and frequent glances beneath her chin, she imagined most women did the same. “I know a nice place that serves a decent meal. Perhaps we can have dinner together.” He coughed into a hand, failing to cover the way his voice pitched at the end of his casual invitation.

For the thousandth time, the practiced liar hoped she’d gotten her expression right as she flashed what she meant to be a polite and disinterested smile. It was far too close to a quietly disdainful smile.

“Maybe when there’s less work to be done, Pete.”

He frowned but still couldn’t raise his gaze. “You have time to loiter around here. And your place at the edge of the Market.” There was resentment in his tone, but it drowned in a sea of petulance. If he whined any harder, his lower lip would poke out.

“Neither of those are dinner. My nights are occupied.” She barreled over him as he opened his mouth to respond and do something stupid like invite her on a picnic. “Now, have you got anything for me?”

“I do.” Peter leaned forward, glancing left and right as if there was a chance that anyone would care to eavesdrop. By chance, he met the gaze of a young boy absently cleaning the tables. He quickly ducked his head as the youth scowled.

“There have been meetings between the instructors. The Separatists are gaining favor, especially given the events in the city. Dunwayne’s actions are not being looked on kindly.”

Orphelia scoffed. “What did they expect him to have done? Everyone was powerless.”

“That’s the crux of it. If the Harvest Hero is as powerless as everyone else, why does he deserve to be in charge?”

Perhaps because he was a rare man with noble intentions and hard-won wisdom. Qualities the ambitious wouldn’t hold in high regard. “Then? Are they going to…oust him?”

“No, no.” Pete waved away the suggestion as if it were a bad smell that had wafted over. “Support for the faction would die like that. Besides, they don’t hate the man. They just want to do things differently.”

“And he’s an obstacle to that.”

“The Hall does have a procedure for electing a new grandmaster. Senior staff can vote him out, make him a regular instructor. It’s just…never been considered until now.” The young man frowned. “Everyone wanted to believe that they still had a hero.”

Orphelia fought the urge to roll her eyes. The idiots never realized that they never had a hero; when Dunwayne was active, his actions were heavily restricted by the kingdom. And as for his great achievement of slaying a powerful draconid, that was accomplished with the help of several notable master casters who history never mentioned. It fit the crown’s agenda to have a man of common origins rise to great fame. An example they could point to when the people complained that the nobles were oppressive and cruel. If the “Harvest Hero” could do it, then that meant others simply weren’t talented or dedicated enough.

Admittedly, Dunwayne had done quite a bit with his manufactured reputation. She would never deny that he was a man worth admiring. Yet, once more, the reason others only bothered with heroics on the surface reared its ugly head. At the end of the day, honor and good deeds meant preciously little. All that mattered was strength. Dunwayne could no longer defend his position. Therefore, it would be wrested from him, for good or ill.

A development her father would be eager to report to the king. More importantly, a development her charming little master would be eager to report to her summoner. Orphelia didn’t have any ill will toward the aging hero, but she was glad to finally have something of substance to pass along. The last thing she wanted was for the powers that be, insignificant or otherwise, to think she was incapable.

“This vote. When will it happen?”

“It’s supposed to happen at the end of the academic year, so the fall, but the party is pushing for an emergency vote.”

“Based on?”

“Incompetence.”

Orphelia guffawed. Incompetence was as integral to humanity as thumbs; she highly doubted the men and women pushing the old man out were without the common flaw.

“Do they have enough votes?”

“Yeah. Only a matter of time now.”

“A world without a hero.” Orphelia leaned back in her chair. “That’s a gray place.”

Pete scowled. “He’s just an old man. I don’t see what you like about him.”

So, her contact had been swayed by the ideas of his master. She made a mental note that any future conversations with him would likely be biased. “I care about my future. The Hall is very accommodating under its current grandmaster. I don’t know what these Separatists want to turn the school into.”

“They want to preserve the traditions of the Hall,” Pete said quickly, his voice hardening to become a shield for his allies. “They just believe more direct action is needed to preserve our future. We can’t let mad nobles and foreigners do whatever they want. Fighting may not be advisable but there are other avenues available. The only unacceptable option is nothing.”

The fool. Nothing was the only realistic option. “Of course.” Reaching into a discreet pocket of her dress, she placed a small pouch on the table, sliding it across to keep the coins inside from jangling. “I’m sure the wise leaders of the Hall will handle the matter appropriately.”

The poor scholar briefly undid the tie, his thin lips arching as he laid eyes on the silver inside before he tucked it away. “I also heard somethings about your…friend,” he said, a question in his pause. “Robert Quintana? I believe he was on your qualifier team.”

“He was, though I wouldn’t go as far as to call us friends.” The way his shoulders sagged was almost pitiful in its transparency. “Something happened?”

“Nothing too terrible. Just a wild night in the Zone but who hasn’t had one of those.” His eyes briefly met her own, gauging her response to his claim of nightly excess. Her polite disinterest never wavered. “I’m sure his name only made the rounds because of his talents.”

“Mm. I won’t fault anyone finding a way to relax.”

“Eh-hem. A new massage parlor has just opened in the Market. I’ve heard good things about their baths and they offer group discounts—”

“Maybe some other time, Pete,” she remarked casually, already standing. “Good luck with your studies.”

She didn’t wait to hear his response before leaving.