Archive of Our Own

“She wants to see Ramsa.”

“... Who?”

“The kid. From the explosion? The rocket at the palace?”

“You mean that scrawny one eyed bastard? For what?”

“Maybe she has questions about his parents’ business.”

“He’s, what, ten? What would he know?”

“How should I know? I’m just guessing.”

“Well. Go get him, then.”

Ramsa remained unmoving as his door was unlocked and the guard stepped in. He pretended to sleep a lot more than he really did. “Get up.”

He obeyed. The guard immediately winced, and Ramsa smiled innocently. He had the upper hand only with his eye (or, rather, the lack thereof) exposed, which was his only weapon in a place as brutal as Baghra and only worked on some of the newer guards. “Where are we going?”

“Someone’s here for you. Hopefully to take you away permanently. For gods’ sake, cover that up before you meet her.”

Her? “You’re not handing me over to some orphanage, are you?” He suddenly regretted being such a pain in the guards’ asses. Not that Baghra was any better than literally any other option on earth, but he’d served almost his entire sentence. He’d been hoping they’d just let him out without bothering much with his future whereabouts; it was far too late for damage control, and he was still an enemy of the state in theory.

“I’m not doing shit, kid. Come.”

They passed through narrow, loud passages, someone’s gory remains by a notoriously glutted cell, and finally stopped at the infirmary, where the prison’s nurse patched up Ramsa’s eye and gave him a long lecture on infections (it was really getting pointless by now, especially considering it’d been nearly two years since he lost his eye). Ramsa decided not to mention how itchy these shitty bandages were, mainly because he was busy trying not to piss himself.

He didn’t want to end up in an orphanage. The one orphanage he’d ever passed by (he’d had a friend there, back before everything went to shit) had been founded by some followers of the western religion that Ramsa found genuinely ridiculous. The ladies were always so kind and nice and proper—gods. Creepy. Ramsa had grown up in the middle of constant noise, little explosions everywhere, voices and people and something always happening. If all orphanages were the same, he would survive exactly half a day before getting kicked out and shipped back to the prison. No thanks.

He was so lost in his thoughts (his escape plan was almost perfected already, now he had to figure out what he would after , which was a whole other issue) that he didn’t realise where the guard was taking him until he was blinded by light.

No, sunlight. He was being taken outside.

Ramsa blinked multiple times, trying to adjust his remaining eye to such brightness. They were keeping him in a damp, cold basement; he hadn’t seen the sun in months. It was such a lovely, brilliant day too. He almost started doing cartwheels.

“You’re letting me out?” he asked the guard hopefully.

The guard yanked him by the collar. “Not so fast.” He led him like a puppy to the backyard, and Ramsa was too small to do anything but obey.

Someone was, indeed, waiting for him there. All Ramsa knew about backyards was that people liked burying bodies in them. And illegal things. Like crates upon crates of explosive materials!

He stifled a sigh. He missed experimenting with his parents’ stuff. They never told him much about their work, but they always showed him how to create very small explosions or took him to see the bigger ones. They kept him out of their plans for his safety, but he was always welcome to witness the greatness of their experiments. Their failures, too. They valued failures because they were the easiest way to spot faults and correct them and try again.

Ramsa swallowed hard. He didn’t dare to admit it, because he wasn’t a little boy. He was basically a man (at the ripe age of ten years old), which meant he had to be brave and mature and not care about silly, childish things like when he was going to see his family again.

Ultimately, though, none of that meant that he didn’t miss his parents.

The guard stopped and cleared his throat. “Your Highness. I’ve brought the boy.”

Only then did Ramsa realise there was a chance he was going to be actually executed here.

The woman standing at the other end of the backyard had her back turned to them, but it wasn’t hard to guess who she was. She was tall, her dark hair was carefully held in a delicate braid, and she was dressed casually yet clearly expensively (Ramsa would know; he’d stolen from rich people before, though never this rich). Oh, and what was it that the guard called her? “Your Highness”. Not many people were addressed like that.

He started involuntarily. Things were getting rapidly alarming (if not outright dangerous), and he was nothing but a one eyed bastard—the guards had given him that nickname, and whether they meant it disparagingly or not, they’d made their point crystal clear: Ramsa was nothing but half blind and alone. Just a boy, really.

He took a deep breath.

The Empress spoke, as if on cue. “Thank you. Please leave us alone.”

The guard bowed excessively deeply before hurrying off. Ramsa stared, eyes fixed and unmoving, as the Empress Su Daji finally turned to face him.

“Hello, darling.”

He had to muffle a cry. His thoughts swam dizzily in his head.

He knew he was supposed to bow—this was the Empress, for gods’ sake. Yet he only managed a weak nod with his head. “Your Majesty,” he stuttered.

Miraculously, she heard it. Thank the gods. He was only a traitors’ son and not hugely disrespectful in her eyes, which would surely be favourable. It’d earned him a quick and painless death instead of a long, torturous one.

Su Daji laughed, surprising him. “Relax, Ramsa. I’m not going to kill you.”

Ramsa flinched, surprised. He’d heard about the Empress’s mind-reading abilities, but how could he possibly take them seriously?

And yet. Maybe they were true.

(Or maybe she could just smell fear from half a yard away. He wouldn’t put that beyond her.)

Somewhere in the shock and confusion he got a grip again. “You’re not?”

(Maybe he was just supremely fucking terrified.)

Daji moved closer. She didn’t blink, didn’t frown against the sun shining directly into her eyes, which Ramsa almost envied.

He was trying so, so hard not to think anything at all. If she could really read minds (he was yet to rule that out), he had to keep his as vacant as humanly possible.

“You’re allowed to be afraid, Ramsa. You’re doing a really bad job at hiding it anyway,” Daji said, and Ramsa bit his tongue and held back a curse. Awesome.

He tried to look all grown-up and serious, like this was business and not a scolding and potentially a death sentence. “I have no reason to be afraid. I have no information on my parents’ affairs.”

(“Affairs” had been a word they used a lot. To Ramsa’s knowledge it was a substitute for “blowing shit up”.)

Daji looked almost impressed, though in a bit of a condescending way. “Oh, what a smart young man you are! I didn’t really expect you to have any information, if I’m honest, but it’s alright. We rooted the whole cartel out ages ago.”

Ramsa understood enough criminal talk to know there was officially no going back to his old life. He’d known it already anyway, but something about Su Daji herself establishing it hurt a little. It made it feel too real, like scratching a scab a little too hard.

“Don’t be upset,” Daji said soothingly. Ramsa had been warned against it, and yet. Gods. She was so soothing. There was an unexpected softness in her treatment, in how she spoke, in how she looked at him: the poor little bastard with no future and no hope.

(Also no eye.)

“What am I supposed to do?” he asked, forgetting momentarily to not sound like a whiny kid.

Daji’s eyes twinkled a little. “How about a change of loyalties, perhaps?”

Ramsa blinked. “A what?”

“Change of loyalties, young man.” She kept calling him that, and he couldn’t lie—it was boosting his ego a little too much. His dead parents must be rolling in their graves. “Your future is a little compromised, I’ll admit that much. There’s no rebellion anymore, and I’m sure you never intended to lead a life of crime forever.”

“I… I never really had an option, Your Majesty,” Ramsa said reluctantly. “I didn’t go to school or…”

He wasn’t entirely sure what children of not-criminal families did, but mentioning that couldn’t possibly work in his favour.

“It’s never too late, but you don’t strike me as someone who would enjoy school. No, I was thinking of something more… fitting. Something you already know a little bit.”

Ramsa blinked in confusion. “Um. I don’t know much, actually.”

Daji laughed, which was peculiar but also kind of fluttering. “But you do! Didn’t your parents know their way around explosives? Surely you picked something up.”

Okay, that was clearly a trap. “Not really,” he lied.

“Oh, don’t bother. I can practically see the recipes in your head. You could demolish a small building if you wanted, and that’s no small feat for a boy your age.”

There was a lump in Ramsa’s throat. He tried to swallow it down. “So you’ll kill me then?”

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m not going to kill you. I’m merely saying you could be very useful to me.”

Useful. A traitor with no information about a long dead rebellion could be useful. There had to be a catch. “How?”

The Empress smiled. Brightly, blindingly almost, and Ramsa’s heart skipped a beat. Suddenly, he would do anything for this woman. She could demand anything, and he’d do it for her, loyalties be damned.

“Now you’re asking the right questions,” Su Daji said. “Have you ever heard of the Cike?”

***

Everyone knew of the Cike. The blood-thirsty, vengeful, borderline demonic group of assassins that did all of the Empress’s dirty jobs. Also, they were rumoured to be shamans, something that Ramsa definitely wasn’t.

In his head, he had pictured the Cike as a group of five or six people with heads covered underneath occult hoods and, maybe, a scythe dripping with blood in each hand. So when the Empress led him through the door of a nondescript building at the other side of the town, he didn’t pay much attention to the two guys already there, even as they quickly collected themselves and bowed deeply to Daji.

“Ramsa, meet Baji and Unegen. They’ll take you to the Night Castle. Cike, this is your new member.”

There was a long moment of stunned silence from everybody involved, minus the Empress herself, who looked almost bored. Finally, the bigger of the two guys spoke.

“Your Highness, with all due respect… that is a child.”

Any intimidation Ramsa may have felt immediately flew out of the window. “What did you just call me, you—”

Daji yanked him swiftly by the collar, which made him sulk. Aside from the fact that he hated when people did that, he also became aware of how badly he was already failing to impress anybody. “You know how old Chaghan and Qara were, don’t you?”

“Surely that’s different,” the guy said. He wasn’t even that old himself—neither of them was. Definitely adults, but the one who had spoken couldn’t have been way over his mid-twenties, and the other was barely any older. “The twins were always exceptionally powerful.”

It looked like saying that left a sour taste in his mouth. Still, Ramsa felt the need to complain. “And how do you know I’m not?”

He rolled his eyes. “I didn’t mean—”

“Tyr told you the Cike needed an explosives expert, no?” the Empress cut in. She gestured towards Ramsa. “Here he is.”

Ramsa tried to look bigger than he was, but it clearly wasn’t convincing anyone. The bigger man still looked doubtful, and the other guy just seemed perpetually prepared for doom. “That’s… Oh. Hm.”

Daji smiled firmly. “You should know to trust my judgement by now, no?”

Their backs immediately straightened. “Of course, Your Highness! Of course. We’re not doubting you at all.”

(Cue two extremely doubtful glances at Ramsa’s direction.)

“Very well, then.” Daji released Ramsa so suddenly that he almost stumbled forward. “Take him to the Night Castle. Tyr has already been briefed, he’s expecting you all there. Did your mission go according to plan, Unegen?”

The perpetually-terrified-looking guy nodded repeatedly. “All went well, Your Highness. Nothing suspicious to report beyond what we already knew.”

“Excellent. Head back home, then. Tyr will let you know when you’re needed again.” She gestured to the way out. Baji and Unegen bowed, and Ramsa hurried to copy them. Then they walked out, and Ramsa, casting a last glance to the Empress, scurried after them.

“... ridiculous,” Baji was muttering when Ramsa caught up. “I’d never doubt the Empress, but this is too far. Comparing him to the twins—as if they count!”

“Stop calling me a child!” Ramsa complained.

Baji turned, and Ramsa regretted speaking. The man was about eight times his size in total, heavily armed, and largely resembled an angry boar. Chances were he wasn’t hard to provoke, and he clearly didn’t consider Ramsa useful enough to spare.

Yet he was caught off guard. The man’s expression wasn’t angry, no. It was… gentle. Maybe even sorry, and not even in a condescending way.

“But you are a child. How old are you, nine? Ten?” He shook his head. “You’re not supposed to be one of us. You shouldn’t be. It’s a brutal fucking job, and dangerous, and it’ll give you nightmares for the rest of your life.”

Ramsa had to practically run to keep up with them. “I grew up in an explosives laboratory. I lost my eye.”

“Yeah, I noticed that.” Baji turned and looked at him squarely this time. He wasn’t that terrifying, actually. If anything, he reminded Ramsa of the older boys back at the cartel, who took the kids to secretly watch particularly big explosions their parents hadn’t wanted them around. “How’d you lose that?”

“Plan went wrong,” Ramsa muttered. He’d rather not talk about that specific incident, because it was basically a compilation of every single incident at the top of his list of Worst Incidents Ever. In a singular explosion he’d lost his parents, half his friends, his home, his life, everything he knew, everything he’d ever had, and then proceeded to witness indescribable atrocities before being thrown into the most brutal prison of the country. There was quite literally nothing worth remembering about it.

Baji must have sensed his misery. He must’ve also seen Ramsa try to scratch below the godsforsaken bandage. “I think a patch would look cooler, what do you say?”

Ramsa stopped dead in his tracks. He blinked at Baji, his jaw hanging open. “A patch? Like the ones pirates have? I can have one of those?”

Baji grinned. “Exactly like that, and yes, you can.”

Okay, fine, maybe this guy was really cool. “And you can help me get one?”

Baji nodded towards Unegen. “We have our acquaintances. He knows a place.”

“It’s on our way, too,” Unegen said.

But Ramsa was already deflating. “I don’t have any money.”

Baji waved that off. “Consider it a welcome gift. You’re Cike now, kid. We’ve got you covered.”

And, gods, maybe it meant he was really just a child, but Ramsa couldn’t control his smile this time.

***

Ramsa made up his mind about his new life quickly. Job: mostly boring, but had potential for excitement. Location: horrific, at the top of a snowy mountain, in a freezingly cold castle with nowhere near enough candles for every room and way too many creepy shadows. People: a wide scale ranging from friendly (Baji) to extremely unbearable and also kind of unnerving in the worst possible way (Chaghan).

Besides the Seer, who was basically a freak, the rest of the Cike could pass as relatively normal (only on a good day, but still). Their commander, Tyr, was okay. He was almost constantly preoccupied with something, and bothered very little with Ramsa before hurrying off to his office, dragging Unegen behind him. Ramsa was handed off to Suni, a guy even bigger than Baji, though way less intimidating.

“Hello, there.” He examined Ramsa with mild interest. “Haven’t had someone as young as you around before.”

“We were around his age when we got here,” Qara said. She was the only girl in the team, as far as Ramsa had figured out, and barely an adult herself. Suni looked around Baji’s age. Ramsa was by far the youngest, and no one he’d met so far was two full decades older than him. “Not ideal, but he’ll survive.”

“That’s different,” Suni said. “He’s not a shaman, are you?”

Baji and Unegen had briefed Ramsa on shamanism and what each of them did, and Unegen had even shown him his fox form (unfortunately for his mature and grown-up image, Ramsa had failed to contain his excitement). It still felt surreal, though, especially to a kid who hadn’t grown up in a particularly religious environment. “No, but I blow stuff up.”

Qara smiled. There was something intimidating about her, for some reason Ramsa couldn’t point out exactly. Maybe it was just her face, though. “That’s all you need to do, then. Welcome to the Division.”

“I’ll take him to his room,” Suni said, and Qara nodded before walking off towards her brother and another guy—Altan, if Ramsa’s memory was any good. He had been briefed on so many different topics in the past three days he struggled to remember even the basics—especially who was who.

“Are they really twins?” he asked as Suni led him across the castle.

“They look alike, don’t they?” Suni said.

“Yeah, but Qara’s nice. Chaghan is fucking terrifying.”

Suni laughed. “That’s fair. He is one of the most powerful shamans we’ve ever met. And he can also be… Well, let’s say manners aren’t his strongest principle. But you’re one of us, so you’re safe as long as you don’t provoke him.”

Chaghan looked rather easy to provoke, but Ramsa didn’t see a reason to push the subject. He had more pressing questions. “What about the other non-shaman?”

“Enki? He’s off for supplies at the moment, which is poor planning from Tyr’s part. If any of you had come back injured… Anyway, you’ll meet him soon. He’s very kind.”

He hadn’t expected Suni to be so talkative, maybe because he’d barely spoken in front of the full team, and his voice had been very quiet when he had. It was deep yet soft, surprisingly calming.

Ramsa dared to ask another question that had been floating in his head. “And… what about Altan?”

Suni looked a bit amused, almost like he had expected this to come up. “What about him?”

Ramsa wasn’t sure either. He only knew he’d been a little starstruck when he first saw Altan. Baji hadn’t said much about him either, but he’d spoken with remarkable respect, and Ramsa could immediately tell why—but he also couldn’t. There was just something about the guy, but it was a very vague something.

“He… looks interesting, I guess.”

“Do you know about Speer?”

“I’ve only heard stories.”

Suni sighed softly. “Altan is the strongest shaman in the Cike, potentially the world. He could easily hold his own against the Empress—I wholeheartedly believe that. He’s also been through hell. And he’s also… just a guy, basically.” Suni shrugged. “He’s got a lot going on, I guess. Everyone finds him interesting at first. You’ll see, he’s merely one of us. Lieutenant, sure, so be respectful and all that—but, other than that, he’s about as noteworthy as anybody else in here.”

“Is he nicer than Chaghan?” He couldn’t help it.

“Yes,” Suni confirmed with an amused smile. “He’s the only one Chaghan gets along with besides his own sister, which says a lot about Altan.”

Suni halted to a stop, and Ramsa almost collided with him, too distracted. “These are our barracks.” He pushed the nearest door open to reveal a small, tidy room. “And this is all yours. You can blow it up for all we care, just don’t expect anyone to clean after you.”

Ramsa was busy trying not to piss himself with joy. This was the nicest room he’d seen in years. “Thanks.”

“No worries, kid. Get some rest.”

After Suni was gone, Ramsa immediately jumped on the bed and tested the mattress. Infinitely more comfortable than Baghra’s for sure.

He realised belatedly that there were clothes left on the bed for him: a nondescript black uniform with no insignia that fit him quite well (it was a little too large, but maybe they were rightly expecting him to grow soon). He’d noticed everyone was dressed plainly, so he was probably expected to do the same. No more hole-ridden, scorched, bloodied clothes. Finally.

Ramsa took a deep breath. Whatever had happened to his loyalties, he had been given a chance to start again, and he wasn’t going to waste it.

He didn’t see a reason to waste it, anyway.

***

He was convinced he was hearing wrong. He had inherited an almost constant ringing in his ears since the explosion, so maybe it was causing him to mishear. For example, what he heard as “Make a list of the things you need”, had probably been “I would love to bury you alive and let you sprout back out like a carrot”.

Chaghan rolled his eyes at his stunned silence. “Surely my Nikara isn’t that bad.”

“N-no, no, I—” Ramsa tried to come back to his senses and form words. Phrases, even. “I’m getting stuff?”

“Well, as far as I’ve been told you don’t blow things up with your mind, so—”

“I hope you’re not terrorising the poor child.”

Ramsa turned immediately; Chaghan didn’t even blink. “I’m not terrorising the child. The child just happens to have been gaping at me like a fish for the past two minutes, and I only have so much patience.”

Altan looked amused, which wasn’t noteworthy anymore. Everyone looked at Ramsa amusedly for some reason (save for Chaghan, but Chaghan didn’t seem capable of any positive emotions in general). He took a seat between them and turned to Ramsa.

“You and Enki aren’t shamans,” he explained, “so you get your own stuff to use as you please. Theoretically there’s a budget, but leave that to us.” He pushed a sheet of paper and a pen towards Ramsa, who stared at it and then at them blankly.

“Anything?” he asked.

Altan shrugged. “Anything, I guess, yeah. We might have to look for substitutes, but if you’re asking about restrictions, there are none.”

It sounded too good to be true, but Ramsa had never been one to pass up an opportunity. He grabbed the pen eagerly, but then remembered a rather crucial (and rather embarrassing) detail.

“I may or may have never learnt how to write,” he managed, feeling his face warming. He looked between the two boys, waiting to see if they’d make fun of him.

Chaghan couldn’t have cared less; frankly, Ramsa wasn’t sure why he was even still there. Altan, on the other hand, simply took the pen and paper back.

“Well then,” he said, grinning at Ramsa almost mischievously. “What do you need?”

***

Ramsa’s first days as Cike were mostly chores, which he should’ve expected but was also deeply unhappy about. No assassinating took place, and the list he’d compiled with Altan had been buried somewhere in Tyr’s endless paperwork (what kind of paperwork Tyr could possibly have, Ramsa hadn’t the faintest clue, but it consumed a lot of his time).

Still. It wasn’t quite so bad. In fact, living with the Cike was surprisingly pleasant. He spent most of his time tailing Baji, who didn’t seem to mind it. Unegen tagged along a lot, and Suni also appeared occasionally, though significantly less.

“His god is a little aggressive,” Unegen explained when Ramsa’s curiosity finally won. “It happens.”

“Only to him, or…?”

Baji shrugged. “Some of us have it worse than others. Chaghan and Qara have no issues at all, as far as anyone can tell, but the rest of us… Well, shamans have a certain reputation for a reason.”

Everyone knew about that. Whether they believed in shamanism or not, they all knew one thing about it: it ended badly. Always. No exceptions.

Ramsa knew he was staring (he’d been doing that a lot lately, like it was his fault everything was so strange), but he was having a hard time imagining Baji losing his mind. Unegen, sure, fine, he was so skittish it was hard to picture him calm under any circumstances. But Baji? He looked so normal, even when he was armed like a hedgehog.

The other man laughed when he understood. “Well, it’s not a fun ride, otherwise shamanism wouldn’t be so notorious. We all struggle. You don’t want to see Altan or Feylen on their bad days.”

“You said the twins don’t have issues.”

“The twins are a different case.” Baji shuddered. “I don’t think even Tyr knows exactly what they do. All we understand is that they have a better grasp on these things than the rest of us.”

“So they don’t… lose it?”

“None of us are losing it, kid,” Unegen said. He’d been silent for so long Ramsa had forgotten he was also there. “Except Aratsha, maybe.”

“Aratsha?”

Baji and Unegen exchanged a surprised look. “You haven’t met Aratsha yet?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Well, that’ll be fun, then.” Unegen pulled Ramsa up. “Come on.”

They led him all the way through the castle, then outside. The cold was cutting, and Ramsa wrapped his arms around himself, but the others didn’t seem to even notice the difference. They finally stopped at a chute that was still barely running. A barrel was weirdly casted aside nearby.

“Here he is,” Unegen said, gesturing towards the water.

Ramsa found himself staring at a pond. Fascinating. “Handsome man, truly.”

“Why, thank you,” a new voice replied.

Ramsa let out an embarrassing shriek, but he couldn’t help it. A mass of water at the pond near the chute had risen and taken the vague shape of a man from the waist up. Ramsa couldn’t see much of his face behind the fuci and shells piled up on the top of his head.

“Meet Aratsha,” Baji said. “Aratsha, this is our new kid, Ramsa.”

The mass of water leaned closer to study Ramsa. “A pirate! Haven’t seen one in a while!”

The sudden surge of pride that overtook him, even if the comments weren’t exactly serious, was enough to overlook the fact that he was speaking to a pond. “Aye aye, captain!”

Baji ruffled his hair. “It gets better,” he told Aratsha. “He knows how to make stuff go boom.”

Aratsha looked as thrilled as a mass of water can. “Finally! We’ve needed one forever, Trengsin can only do so much with the fire.”

“Can only do so much in general,” Baji corrected, rolling his eyes. “Don’t know how much you’ve been following from here, but Tyr has been giving him nearly every single job recently, it’s beginning to get on my nerves. Altan is overextending himself and the rest of us aren’t doing shit. I’m rusting, I can feel it.”

Aratsha made a motion that Ramsa assumed was a shrug. “We haven’t had a big job in a while, I’m sure something will come eventually. In the meantime, make sure the kid doesn’t get rusty too.”

“I’ve ordered stuff,” Ramsa said, eager to contribute to what appeared to be a serious conversation about their job. “Tyr said he’ll get around to it.”

“I’ll have to remind him, because he can and will forget otherwise,” Baji said. “And then we can go to our supplier and get your stuff.”

“We… don’t have to go all the way back to the city, right?”

They all laughed at that. “Nope,” Baji said. “There’s a village about an hour away from here. The Empress has her people there, and we have our peace and our crap. It’s been working like clockwork for as long as I can remember.”

Ramsa exhaled, relieved.

Then Aratsha clapped him on the shoulder, which mostly meant Ramsa got a nice shower of freezing fucking cold water, and Baji and Unegen cried from laughter as Aratsha apologised profusely and Ramsa dripped in shock.

***

Tyr eventually sent Ramsa on a short reconnaissance mission with Baji, Suni and Qara. He ended up with a sprained ankle, but mostly unharmed. According to Qara, he’d done a good job for the turn things had taken.

“Just a stupid little ambush,” she told Enki cheerfully (why, and mostly how) when she brought Ramsa to the infirmary, then left to brief Tyr along with the others.

“Ambushes are rarely stupid and little,” Enki muttered before sitting Ramsa on a bed and beginning to squeeze his ankle. Ramsa bit his tongue.

“It wasn’t serious,” he managed through gritted teeth. “Baji took care of them.”

And he had. Three men, armed well, and Baji had taken them out in about ten seconds. Suni had advised Ramsa not to look, and in retrospect Ramsa shouldn’t have, but the sheer amount of strength… it was unlike anything he’d ever seen, and he had been equally transfixed and horrified. He still hadn’t fully recovered.

He’d spent most of the past two weeks learning every card game in existence by Baji. They took most of their meals together, and Baji had taken upon him Ramsa’s physical training (which, for some reason, consisted almost entirely of making Unegen turn into a fox and run around while Ramsa chased him). At no point had he given the impression of a violent, angry man, regardless of what Ramsa knew about him.

And yet.

Enki’s look was sympathetic. “First missions are always a shock,” he finally said. “Everyone gets a little injured no matter how easy it is in theory. And everyone gets a bitter first taste of the real job.”

Ramsa swallowed. “I know they… we… well, we are assassins. It’s just…”

It was different saying it now. It was real now. Before, it had been merely theoretical, something the others may or may not have been doing when they were absent.

He’d witnessed his fair share of death before, but an explosion was a lot more… impersonal. There was something intimate in the worst way possible about killing with your own hands—about seeing someone you thought was kind doing it.

Enki was already bandaging his ankle. “You focus on what you were brought here to do. Don’t worry about the deaths, you’ll get used to them easily.” He winced, like the words left a weird taste in his mouth.

“You…”

“I don’t kill, no. Not in that sense, at least.”

After that, there was silence. Ramsa looked at his hands and saw blood. He wondered what time and association would make of him. Wondered if he’d ever become capable of doing what Baji had done.

“You should ask someone to teach you how to defend yourself, by the way,” Enki said out of nowhere.

He was done with his ankle, Ramsa realised. He straightened his foot, flexed it a little, testing the pain. Still there, but the pressure of the tightly wrapped bandages made it surprisingly bearable. “Baji already helps me with exercising.”

“That’s different. Also, I know he’s your friend, but if you spar with him he will accidentally beat you to pulp. Ask Altan, I think he’d be happy to help. He learned how to fight properly at Sinegard, and he’s a really good teacher.”

Ramsa still found Altan a little intimidating, but he couldn’t argue with this logic. Plus, in their few interactions, Altan had been warm towards him. Also, if he’d learned how to fight at school, then he’d probably been a beginner once, which meant he would probably be alright with Ramsa’s fighting experience being basically brawling.

He only had to ask him, and he’d quite honestly rather be beaten to pulp by Baji instead, but he decided to be mature and not mention that he was dead afraid of a generally friendly person.

“I can ask him for you if you want,” Enki said.

Ramsa looked at him and saw a literal angel. “You’re the best.”

Enki smiled and ruffled his hair. “No worries, kid. Has anybody checked on that eye of yours, by the way?”

“Not since I left the prison,” Ramsa said. Somewhere between his really cool eyepatch and the fact that it wasn’t itchy anymore, he’d almost forgotten about the literal hole on his face.

“Alright, let’s give it a look then,” Enki said, taking the eyepatch off carefully. He didn’t wince at the damage, which was rare.

Ramsa didn’t have words for that sort of appreciation. So he merely said, “Thank you.”

***

Tyr finally summoned Ramsa a couple of days after the mission. Altan was in his office as well, but didn’t say anything beyond asking Ramsa how his foot was.

“How are you finding it here? Everything okay?” Tyr asked.

“Yeah,” Ramsa said, nodding eagerly. He had seen Tyr so little he was still nervous around him. “The mission went okay, I’m getting to know everyone… It’s all right.”

“Everyone’s nice to you, I’m assuming?”

“Yeah, well…”

“Chaghan doesn’t count,” Altan chimed in.

“Oh, well, then yes.” And then he felt a little guilty for no good reason. “Well, to be fair, Chaghan isn’t that bad, either. He’s just…”

“Intimidating? Yeah, he’s like that.” Tyr seemed distracted, doing about three things simultaneously at all times, yet somehow he followed Ramsa’s train of thought with astonishing precision. Ramsa could only ever dream of such an effective attention span. “As long as you’re not receiving death threats by anyone, you should be getting along just fine.”

“... Does that happen?”

“Death threats? It’s been years, don’t worry about it.” He flipped through the countless stacks of paper on his desk. “By the way, Enki mentioned something, and he was making a good point. Do you know how to fight?”

Bless his soul. “Um, well, not really. I think the Empress was aware of that when she sent me here.”

“Yeah, she mentioned something about you looking like you can brawl like a stray cat, but nothing more than that.” Ramsa didn’t know if he should feel insulted by the wording, even if it was true. “Anyway, that won’t do any good here, so you should learn a proper fighting technique or two before you get a real first mission. Altan has already agreed to help you if you want.”

Ramsa casted a glance towards Altan, who seemed perfectly content with everything so far. “That sounds good,” he managed, trying to sound casual about that idea and not insane with both terror and excitement.

“Perfect. You’ll get started when your foot heals. Until then…” He plucked a sheet of paper and a little pouch out of the mess and handed it to Ramsa. “You have some shopping to do. Baji and Suni will come with you. Feel free to get anything else you find useful.”

Ramsa couldn’t believe his luck. “Thank you!”

With the corner of his eye, he caught Altan smiling.

***

Ramsa forgot about the fact that he had a list the moment he stepped into the supply store. “Oh. Gods.”

“Yup.” Baji clapped him on the shoulder. “Go wild.”

He did. He didn’t even know what half the powders and liquids around the store were, but he still grabbed one of each for good measure.

The place was a literal goldmine: a huge semi-basement that expanded through a large cave in the mountain and was covered with laden shelves all the way from the ceiling to the floor. Full crates and sacks were disposed at the feet of overburdened tables, everything smelled faintly of smoke and burnt oil, and Ramsa was tempted to start pirouetting around the room.

It reminded him faintly of home in the best way possible. Enough, but not so much to hurt.

Also, sentimentalities aside, this was the place that would make him a useful member of the Cike. He didn’t need to be a shaman; he just needed this . And he could have it.

So he went overboard.

Suni walked alongside him and asked about stuff, which Ramsa happily proclaimed he didn’t know shit about. Baji mostly pushed for the most flammable materials, and, okay, fine, only because he insisted so much, Ramsa ended up getting a bit of everything he suggested.

He ended up leaving the supply store with three giant, overloaded sacks, which Suni and Baji were kind enough to carry. They also made a giant order of stuff that wasn’t supposed to arrive until the following week. The store owner looked vaguely horrified at the prospect of a child buying so much ammunition, but clearly he knew the Cike, because he kept his concerns to himself.

Ramsa didn’t need anything else to be satisfied, really. Quite the opposite.

“Happy, aren’t you?” Baji asked with a grin as they walked back home.

(Home. He could get used to that again.)

“Very much,” he beamed.

***

Ramsa ended up enjoying his time with the Cike about a million times more than he could’ve ever expected. Even when he turned out to be spectacularly bad at self-defence. At least Altan had the patience of a saint.

It wasn’t that surprising. Among the things Ramsa had observed during the past few weeks, Chaghan barely spoke to anyone else, but could spend hours with Altan and neither of them seemed to mind it. It had to be some hidden superpower from Altan’s part, surely.

For the time being, Altan offered a hand and helped Ramsa get off the floor. “What went wrong here?”

Ramsa had figured it out already, because Altan was a good teacher on top of being the human embodiment of patience. “Feet too far apart?”

Altan nodded, and Ramsa felt embarrassingly proud of himself. “Exactly. You’re inevitably going to be significantly smaller than your enemies for a while, so focus on your balance instead getting close to your enemy. Once you’re down, you’re done. Let’s try again.”

Altan has decided that they should prioritise self-defence, and Ramsa couldn’t disagree. They had started with deflecting knife attacks, and Ramsa had already successfully found a technique that worked for him: going for the knees.

Now he was supposed to snatch the knife away from his opponent instead of merely knocking him to the ground, which turned out to be infinitely more challenging than it sounded. Ramsa had hoped his talent at pickpocketing would somehow help, but it hadn’t. Now, he was trying to think of a way to suggest biting his opponent without alarming Altan.

He considered the theoretical knife near his chest: Altan had said that an effective defence would’ve been grabbing the forearm, spinning it around and knocking the opponent to the floor. Ramsa, however, was too weak to do any of that without getting immediately stabbed or beheaded, so they had to explore other options.

He tried to distribute his weight better this time, and almost managed to dodge Altan before an arm was softly wrapped around his throat. Altan released him immediately, but Ramsa had taken the hint.

“Gotta be faster?”

“Gotta be faster.”

Ramsa waited until the nonexistent knife was at his throat again, then stepped to the side and immediately dodged. Before he knew it, he was behind Altan, and without thinking much about it he jammed his knee behind the other man’s own.

It didn’t do much, obviously. Ramsa was still tiny in comparison, and Altan knew what to expect. But it was by far the best move he’d pulled in any practice session so far.

“How was that?” he asked hopefully.

There was a hint of genuine pride in Altan’s smile. “Well done.”

Ramsa almost passed out on the spot. His entire body was sore and he could feel his pulse harsh against his veins, but he’d done it.

Altan sat down on the floor and patted the spot next to him. Ramsa promptly collapsed.

“That was a good move,” Altan said. He might as well have told Ramsa he was the most talented fighter Nikan had ever seen. “A real opponent wouldn’t have expected it, and the back of the knees is always a good spot to hit.”

Ramsa nodded. “Thanks.”

Altan seemed to hesitate for a second; then, to Ramsa’s immense surprise, he lay down next to him.

Ramsa held his breath. There was something strangely amicable in that gesture, something almost… vulnerable. He realised Altan was letting his guard down, and he wondered when was the last time he’d done that. From what he’d heard so far, it may as well have been almost a lifetime.

Now, though, the world stilled. Ramsa could hear his heartbeat slowing down, his breaths steadily coming back to normal.

“Altan?”

“Hm?”

He didn’t have anything to ask—no, that was a lie. The truth was, he had infinite questions, but he was afraid to ask. Not because he was scared of Altan anymore, but more because he suspected there was something forming between them, a rare and vulnerable trust that Ramsa didn’t want to sacrifice before it was even really there.

He wanted to trust Altan, and he wanted Altan to trust him too, see him as any other person in the Cike. He felt as safe around him as he felt around Baji or Suni, with whom he’d spent much more time. And there was also something slightly different with Altan; his trust was almost… protective, maybe, or brotherly.

He still had a question to ask, so he said the first thing that came to mind: “Is this it, then?”

It sounded sadder than it was. It wasn’t supposed to be sad at all, actually. Gruesome, sure. Shocking and nauseating, definitely. But sad? No. Ramsa had been through worse.

He turned and found Altan smiling. He understood it perfectly, then. “Yup. This is it, more or less.”

“It’s not bad.”

“It’s really not.”

Gods knew what Altan had been through. Ramsa almost counted himself lucky.

They were safe now, though—or, at the very least, as safe as they’d ever be. And they all had each other.

 (Yes, even if that included Chaghan, who Ramsa still found fucking terrifying.)

Baji chose that exact moment to barge in, and Ramsa flinched so suddenly he scared Altan more than the door banging had. “Sorry!”

“Don’t bother,” Altan muttered as Baji echoed Ramsa’s frantic apology. “What’s wrong?”

“Emergency meeting,” Baji said, barely containing his excitement. “The Empress finally sent a full-scale mission.”

“Fucking finally,” Altan groaned, hoisting himself up. He offered a hand and helped Ramsa to his feet.

“Am I coming too?” he asked hopefully (dreadfully also, but Aratsha had been right, he was getting rusty).

Baji looked more energetic than Ramsa had ever seen him. “Full-scale, kid. She needs the Cike, and last I checked, you’re Cike too.”

He knew he was practically beaming, but he couldn’t help it. Baji’s excitement and Altan’s change of energy were almost palpable, and very contagious. Ramsa was small, granted, but he understood significance when it was there.

Also, there was something vaguely resembling pride in their faces. Or maybe Ramsa was just really excited and they simply found him amusing as usual.

Whatever. He could live with that.

Maybe he even wanted to.