In his fifth month in the underground city, Cain finally spoke to someone his own age who wasn't his sister or Iris.
His name was Victor.
The first time Cain noticed him was in the mess hall. Victor sat at the long table in the corner, surrounded by three or four trainees. He was talking—no, performing—telling a story with his hands and his voice, and everyone around him was laughing. He was sixteen, tall, with messy black hair and a half-smile that never seemed to leave his face. On his right hand, a ring with a dark red gem caught the silver moss light.
"Three," Victor said, holding up three fingers. "Three Godservants. I was alone. No backup. No weapons except this." He patted the short knife at his belt. "The first one didn't even see me coming. Two moves. The second one put up a fight—got me here—" he pointed to a scar on his forearm "—but I got him in the end. The third one ran."
The surrounding trainees murmured with admiration.
"Liar," Iris whispered beside Cain.
Cain turned to look at her. Iris sat next to him, her bowl of porridge already empty, her chin resting on her hand. She wasn't looking at Victor. She was looking at her spoon.
"You know him?" Cain asked.
"Everyone knows him," Iris said. "He's been here five years. Came when he was eleven. Marcus says he has talent. But he talks too much, and most of what he says isn't true."
"He's never killed a Godservant?"
"He's killed two. That I know of." Iris finally looked up. Her emerald eyes were cold. "The first one was with a squad. The second one—Marcus had to save him. He almost died. But the way he tells it, he's a one-man army."
Cain looked back at Victor. Victor had noticed them. His half-smile widened, and he raised his hand in a small wave—not at Cain. At Iris.
Iris didn't wave back. She just turned back to her spoon.
A week later, Cain learned why Iris didn't like Victor.
It happened on the training ground.
Hank had paired them up for sparring—Cain against a boy named Theo. Theo was two years older than Cain but half a head shorter. He was fast, but his sword was light. Cain had been training for five months. His body was no longer the bamboo pole it had been when he arrived.
They fought three rounds. Cain won two. Lost one.
Hank nodded. No praise. Just a mark in his notebook. Then he called the next pair.
"Victor. Iris."
Cain stepped back to the wall, leaning against it, his training sword still in his hand.
Victor and Iris walked to the center of the training ground. Victor was still smiling—that half-smile, that "no big deal" expression. Iris had no expression. Nothing on her face. No anger. No tension. Nothing to read.
Hank lowered his hand.
Victor moved first.
He was fast—Cain had to admit that. His short knife sprang from his belt like a silver snake, aiming straight for Iris's ribs. If the strike landed, it would slide between her ribs and pierce her lung.
Iris didn't dodge.
She took a half-step back. Her short sword came up from below, deflecting Victor's blade. The clash of metal was sharp as a snapped guitar string. Then she stepped forward. The tip of her sword stopped at Victor's throat.
Less than two seconds.
Victor's smile disappeared. His eyes widened. His pupils contracted. His body went rigid. The skin on his neck pressed against Iris's blade, goosebumps rising.
"Stop," Hank said.
Iris lowered her sword and stepped back. Her face still showed nothing.
Victor stood there. His hand was still shaking. It took him three seconds to sheathe his short knife. It took him five more seconds to put the smile back on his face. But the smile was different now—stiffer, more forced, like a mask glued back together.
"Good," Victor said, his voice a little tight. "Good. You win."
Iris didn't speak. She turned, walked back to the wall, stood next to Cain, leaned against the stone, and closed her eyes.
Cain glanced at her.
"You don't like him." It wasn't a question.
"I don't dislike him," Iris said without opening her eyes. "I just don't want anything to do with him."
"Why?"
Iris opened her eyes and looked at the skylight in the ceiling. Sunlight filtered through the glass, casting a small patch of gold on the floor.
"Because he would sell out anyone to save his own skin," she said. "Including himself."
That night, Victor blocked Cain's path in the tunnel.
Not the training ground. Not the mess hall. Not anywhere with people. A narrow, dark tunnel where the silver moss grew sparse. Victor leaned against the wall, arms crossed, that half-smile back on his face.
"The new kid," he said.
Cain didn't speak. His right hand rested on his sword hilt—not a training sword. Marcus's old steel sword. Hank had said that starting in the fifth month, he could carry a real sword.
"Relax." Victor raised both hands in an "I'm harmless" gesture. "I just want to talk."
"About what?"
"About Iris."
Cain said nothing.
Victor smiled, pushed off the wall, and took two steps toward Cain. Cain didn't step back. Victor stopped three paces away and looked down at Cain—he was a head taller.
"You know why she's so good?" Victor said. "Because she doesn't care about anything. Doesn't care if she dies. Doesn't care if anyone else dies. Doesn't care about anything. When a person doesn't care about anything, they have no weaknesses."
He paused.
"But that's fake. She does care. She cares about you."
Cain's fingers tightened slightly on his sword hilt.
"How do you know?"
"Because I can tell," Victor said. "I'm good at reading people. The way she looks at you is different. When she looks at other people, it's like looking at rocks. When she looks at you—she still looks like she's looking at a rock, but her pupils dilate a little. She probably hasn't even noticed."
Cain was silent for a moment.
"What are you trying to say?"
Victor smiled again. This smile was different—deeper, colder, like a knife hidden beneath silk.
"I'm just telling you—don't trust her too much. Don't trust anyone too much. In the underground city, everyone has their own agenda. Marcus has his. Hank has his. Your sister has hers. Iris has hers. You have yours."
He patted Cain's shoulder.
"Welcome to the real world."
He walked away. Cain stood alone in the tunnel.
He stood there, touching the cord on his wrist, thinking about Victor's words.
He thought about what Iris had said—"He would sell out anyone to save his own skin."
He thought about what Marcus had said—"Don't ask a question you aren't prepared to face the consequences of."
He thought about what his father had said—"Follow me, and you won't get lost."
But his father was dead. He had to walk the path alone.
He turned and walked toward the training ground.
The next day, Cain found Iris on the training ground.
She was shooting arrows. The target fifty paces away was thick with arrows, every one in the bullseye. She heard Cain's footsteps and didn't turn around.
"Victor talked to you?" she asked.
Cain stood behind her. He didn't speak.
"He talks to everyone." Iris lowered her bow, turned, and looked at Cain. "He'll tell you how great he is. Tell you how much he knows. Tell you what the world is like. But every word he says is paving his own path."
"Is he wrong?" Cain asked.
Iris was silent for a few seconds.
"What did he say?"
"He said you don't trust anyone."
Iris looked at him. Her emerald eyes held an expression Cain couldn't read.
"He was half right," she said. "I don't trust most people. But it's not because I was born that way. It's because I've seen what people do when they're pushed."
She paused.
"Have you ever seen a live Godservant? Not a dead one. Alive. I have. When I was stealing food in the marketplace, a Godservant caught me. He didn't kill me. He pinned me to the ground and asked, 'Do you want to live or die?' I said live. He said, 'Then call me master.' I called him master."
Cain's fingers tightened.
"I called him master," Iris repeated, her voice very soft. "Then he laughed. Let me go. Walked away. He was just playing. He never meant to kill me. He just wanted to watch me kneel."
She looked up at Cain.
"After that day, I told myself—I will never kneel again. Never call anyone master again. Never let anyone pin me to the ground again."
She picked up her bow, nocked an arrow, and aimed at the target.
"You don't have to believe everything Victor says. And you don't have to disbelieve everything either. You just need to remember one thing—in the underground city, everyone survives in their own way. Marcus uses responsibility. Hank uses discipline. Your sister uses silence. I use my bow."
She released. The arrow split the air and struck the bullseye.
"What do you use?"
Cain stood behind her, looking at the arrow still trembling in the target.
"I don't know yet," he said.
"Then find it yourself," Iris said. "But don't let Victor find it for you."
After training that day, Cain went to find Lyra.
She sat in the corner of the classroom, a book open in front of her. Not a novel. Not poetry. A book about the history of the gods. The Dawnblade's classroom didn't teach math and language. It taught how to survive. And the first step to surviving was knowing who the enemy was.
Lyra saw Cain walk in and closed the book.
"What's wrong?"
"Who is Victor?"
Lyra was silent for a moment.
"Why are you asking about him?"
"He talked to me."
Lyra's expression didn't change, but her hand—the one resting on the book's cover—tightened slightly.
"Victor was one of the first children Marcus took in," she said. "He's been here five years. He's smart. Talented. But he has one problem."
"What problem?"
"He wants to be seen," Lyra said. "He doesn't want to be a shadow. He wants to stand in the light. But in the underground city, the people who stand in the light die the fastest."
Cain looked at her.
"How do you know all this?"
"Because I listen in class," Lyra said. "Because I watch in the mess hall. Because I don't train, don't fight, don't kill. The only thing I can do is watch and listen."
She stood up, hugging the book to her chest.
"Victor won't hurt you—at least not yet. But to him, you're not a person. You're a ladder. Something he can climb to get higher."
She walked to the door and stopped without turning around.
"Cain."
"Yes."
"Don't be anyone's ladder. And don't use anyone as a ladder either."
She left.
Cain sat alone in the classroom, looking at the closed door, touching the cord on his wrist.
He thought about what Marcus had said—protect your comrades.
He thought about what Hank had said—your body is your first weapon.
He thought about what Iris had said—don't let Victor find it for you.
He thought about what Lyra had said—don't be anyone's ladder.
He stood up, picked up his sword, and walked toward the training ground.
Moonlight streamed through the skylight, spreading a cold white glow at his feet.
He stepped on it. One step at a time. Walked into the darkness.