Jeran stood “at attention” in High Inquisitor Saharim’s office. His stance may have been a little too relaxed for proper soldierly discipline. But the door to the office was closed and it was just them in the room.

  Saharim looked tired. She sat straight in her chair, a small glower aimed at him for his lax attention. That was normal, but her drooping shoulders and creased brow had nothing to do with his lack of decorum. The assassination of the Emperor and his children had everyone on edge. Several stacks of paper, messages from various other high inquisitors, were neatly tucked to the edge of Saharim’s desk. An Envelope bearing the grand inquisitor’s seal sat on top of the stack. The seal was cracked and Jeran could see Saharim leaning away from it like it would bite her. Her eyes-

  “Stop looking at me like that.”

  Jeran caught himself staring and shifted his eyes to the space over her shoulder. “Apologies, high lady.”

  Her glower sharpened to a glare. “So we’re doing proper methods of address now?”

  “You do outrank me,” He said, burying a smile beneath twenty-five years of soldier’s discipline. “It’s only proper.”

  Saharim glared at him, frowning. He kept his eyes focused over her shoulder, maintaining a careful blank expression. Eventually she sighed and rubbed her face, waving at a chair. “Sit.”

  Jeran sat, nodding at the letter. “Is it safe to assume I know what that is?”

  “From the Capitol?” Saharim raised an eyebrow. “Or restricted correspondence between the upper levels of the inquisition?"

  Jeran put on his best, ‘I can see this is bothering you face’ and waited. Saharim met his eyes and remained silent.

  “Remmy, if you want to talk-”

  “That’s the line Captain.”

  Jeran closed his mouth. And resisted the urge to grind his teeth. “Apologies, high Lady.”

  “You are excused.” She produced a sheet of paper, the tension in her body seeming to tighten. “The Seekers report a light eater has manifested on a farmstead a few hours north, you and Inquisitor Victor are being sent to take care of it. He and his apprentices are already on sight and waiting for your arrival.”

  Jeran took the sheet and scanned over it, confused. “Why can’t they just handle it?” he asked

  “Because we needed a controllable situation to test Owen.”

  Jeran looked up seeing Saharim’s grim expression. “You want me to send him into combat?”

  A stricken look rippled across her face before it was crushed beneath the commander of Blackreach. “You are to observe how he reacts to other aberrations. Stepping in only if the situation grows dangerous. Those are your orders.”

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  ***

  Jeran sat at the front of the covered wagon, guiding the horses down the road and letting his mind wander. Jeran trusted Saharim with his life, but the last two months had changed everything. Owen had changed everything. Jeran turned back to see his two “apprentices”. Zaid, ever dutiful, was caring for his sword. Even seated in a wagon, Zaid was all straight edges, and stiff posture. Wiping the blade with measured, careful motions. Owen sat by the back of the wagon, properly lounging against the side and staring out at the passing hills. Jeran frowned, Owen he understood being assigned to him. He needed a minder, and Jeran was a capable fighter. But Zaid… he wondered what Saharim was thinking assigning someone months away from formal induction to apprentice under him.

  “Oh!”

  The shout hit Jeran’s combat sense before it actually penetrated his ears. He looped the reins over a peg and rolled back into the wagon in a blur. By the time he crouched next to Owen, still-sheathed greatsword grabbed from the floor of the wagon, his adrenaline rush had cooled enough for him to recognize it hadn’t been a shout of alarm. Zaid hadn’t moved, and Owen looked up at Jeran sheepishly.

  After mentally disarming himself, Jeran released his held breath and rocked back to a sitting position. Dropping the sheathed sword.

  “Sorry,” he said, “I just-” He knuckled his forehead, blowing out a breath he didn’t remember holding “You startled me.” Damn it, this was the monster everyone was tiptoeing around? After composing himself Jeran looked back at Owen’s face, trying to exude relaxation. “What happened?”

  Owen took a long second, then pointed out towards the passing hills, blushing.

  “I… recognized those flowers.”

  Flowers, of course. “You recognized them?” Jeran asked, focusing on the small clumps of yellow flowers dotting the hills. “That might be something. What do you remember?”

  Owen visibly relaxed but he shook his head. “No, I didn’t remember them, not really. It was more like remembering what a fork is. I know that I know them, but not how or why.” The kid seemed to deflate with the admission. Red stars Jeran thought, he’s so young.

  Jeran stroked his chin, considering the flowers. “It’s nothing major,” he agreed, “but it’s still something. I’ll pass the information to Saharim, these flowers probably don’t grow everywhere. So we can use them to narrow down where you might have come from”

  The original brief investigation into Owen’s past had yielded nothing. Which wasn’t that surprising. Shortly after they’d found him, news of the Emperor’s death had reached all the inquisition strongholds. Coupled with a general lack of identifiable traits other than his paler skin the investigation had been halted until Owen regained more of his own memory. Many worried that Owen was some sort of long term plan. That possibility was the main reason he had been assigned as Owen’s “instructor”.

  Dangerous thoughts, distracting thoughts. Thoughts that reminded him of a black sky and a glowing sea. Jeran shook his head, banishing the memories. He fought monsters, that was all he needed to focus on, all he wanted to focus on.

  He clapped Owen on the shoulder. “Let me know if you recognize anything else, alright? I promise not to jump off the driver’s seat again.” He said it with a smile and Owen nodded back a fainter smile banishing the last vestiges of tension.

  Jeran clambered back to his seat at the front of the wagon. Zaid was still wiping down his sword as if nothing had happened. Jeran sagged back into the driver’s seat and rubbed his face. He wasn’t cut out for apprentices, regular or not.