The lithe man skipped on the rooftops. A jump here, a tightrope walk there. He tripped, sending him dangling precariously over the edge. Hanging by one arm, he felt the putrid sensation enter his appendage and the cold sweat on his neck. In one precise movement, he swung himself up and deftly landed as if nothing had occurred.

  He checked to make sure his bag of messages was still strapped securely, then that he had not lost his bow or rapier.

  When that was confirmed, he continued strutting along the roof, humming a ditty.

  Mav was not like most in Rynswater, the new capital city of Bardoo. Long appendages, narrow features, bushy hair, and a different skin tone declared him a Citizen of the Territories. But Bardoo was his home. Born to slaves, his patron had seen it fit to grant him freedom for some reason, though his parents were still bound to chains.

  Mav could remember his patron’s long and confusing lectures detailing things he could barely remember. What he could fondly recall, though, was how his patron confronted his feelings of displacement. He was not different after all. Those anxieties were now in the past, and he considered himself Drajin in all but appearance.

  “Bardoo is unique in that a small percentage of its population is mixed blood with the Territories, a result of sharing a border for so long. You are not as alone in the Kingdom as you might think, though you are one of the few full blooded Eddgaarites who retain their freedom,” His patron had told Mav one day, trying to cheer him up when the other city children had refused to play with him.

  He held onto his deity as he traversed a particularly precarious stretch of roofing. The internal touch made him far more dexterous than most, the precision of each movement perfect. Another marker of his heritage, as his particular deity ability was common among Citizens who could access their deities. It made him unique here, for internal touch was rare for a Drajin to be born with.

  Mav determined his route as he traveled, the sun illuminating his path. The roofs were quicker, for he would otherwise rather be on the ground in the shade of the eaves. Daytime was safe, as all could recognize the boarpine crest of the castle. At night, he could be mistaken for a thief, or worse, an assassin.

  On occasion, he would risk the confusion, as traversing the skies of the city cut down significantly on time. That would be true for any path he took, as all of Bardoo was his playground, thanks to his patron. Rynswater was no different, though it was a shame the previous capital had burned to the ground years ago. This city could still hardly be called the capital.

  A thick brew of clouds in the distance. It will snow today. I hope it will snow. It has to snow.

  Mav continued on his way to complete his errand. When he found his destination, he jumped to the lower edge, then flung himself into the open window on the second floor. Luckily, most in the city were aware of his antics and left things clear of windows to prevent an accident.

  Some of the workers eyed him warily, while others nodded in recognition. He walked past without disturbing their work as they continued the process of paper making. He pulled the letter from his bag as he sought the owner.

  Under his breath, Mav muttered, “Don’t let him be here today. Please don’t let the owner be here right now.”

  “How many times have I told you to come through the door, cuug?” The owner asked as he noticed Mav.

  Thank God. I don’t know what I would have done if he weren’t here. It’d take forever to track him down.

  Mav cleared his throat, then handed the owner his charge. “You’re late on the order, and it appears that the castle needs more.”

  The owner grunted and grabbed the letter, scanned it, then scowled. He walked over to his desk, grabbed a quill, and began writing on a new piece of paper. Handing it to Mav, he said, “You’re going back to the castle, cuug, so you can deliver this.”

  “I wasn’t planning on going back tonight.”

  “So you haven’t gotten the message yet. Maybe you’re too good at your job, cuug. The Champion was by and requested that you return as soon as possible.”

  Mav’s shoulders slumped. He had planned on extensive lazing that night, now a forlorn hope. If he had foreseen this turn of events, he would have prayed with everything he had that this would happen.

  Urgent business, which meant he would be leaving the capital. He hoped he was correct. Pressing his hands together, he offered a brief prayer that he would have to depart from Rynswater. Because he definitely wanted to leave. Definitely.

  “Oh, and cuug, on your way out, use the front door.”

  Mav did, in fact, not use the front door.

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  “You’re a tough man to find,” The Champion said as he clasped Mav’s shoulder.

  “The paper maker told me,” Mav replied as he pulled off his satchel of letters.

  “Oh, him, the one that always calls you that slur.” There was acid in his tone. “Well, he’ll have a change of heart in the near future if he wants to stay in business.”

  “He’s not the worst. If calling me that makes my work easier, I couldn’t care less. There’s no intention behind his words like you’ll find with some snooty rich men or thugs.” He handed his satchel off to another runner begrudgingly.

  The stubbornness in the deed must have caught the Champion’s eye as he said, “Is there a problem?”

  “This just means more work for me. The other royal runners are terrible at their jobs. I wouldn’t be surprised to find when I return that satchel still needs running.”

  “You only rush to finish so you can sleep the remainder of the day away.”

  “And? Even I take some pride in my efficiency, and then I’m rewarded with bed, snacks, and calm thoughts.”

  As they approached the throne room, Mav’s thoughts were anything but calm. In his mind, he prayed to God that he would be executed. That the most difficult of tasks would be laid before him. That was a sincere hope that everything in his life would go wrong.

  Mav knelt before the King. The Champion took his rightful position next to the throne, and the Truthsayer, who was a resident in the castle. The atmosphere of the lavish throne room was always heavy, but that was nothing compared to the pressure of the King’s gaze.

  Even after being summoned countless times, he was never quite used to it. Far harsher than the previous ruler’s demeanor.

  “I have summoned you, Mav, our swiftest royal runner, for a task that takes you out of the walls of Rynswater,” The King declared.

  “Yes, Sire.” He had long learned to say nothing but that when speaking with the new King of Bardoo. Much unlike his father.

  “You will travel to Tentington to meet your charge, the Promised One and his companions. Once you locate them, relay that all paths forward are barred. They are not welcome in Bardoo. Guarantee that moving forward will cost time and energy. Their only recourse is to turn back.”

  The Promised One. It was a title he could remember faintly from somewhere, but it mattered little to him.

  ‘But Sire,” The Truthsayer interjected, “What of the southern paths? With the Uxsons’ attention elsewhere, our grip on that region has loosened as the other borders’ needs take precedence. We can hardly bar them from the southern route that will lead to our city.”

  “It is not a matter of consequence. Even they will have difficulty navigating the narrow southern mountain paths without a guide. In any case, they will not know. Their only recourse would be to turn back, or waste an incredible amount of time fighting through bureaucracy to arrive here.”

  “A description, Sire?” Mav asked.

  The King barked a laugh. “You will know when you see them. If they decide to leave, escort them out. If not, continue with them in your care. Leave immediately, Mav.”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  By the grace of God, it did not snow. Mav would have despised that. The roof always leaked, making his nest needlessly uncomfortable.

  The low sun painted the clear sky orange; the dark clouds that had promised snow had long been cast away by western winds.

  There was still a chill in the air as he walked the pavestones, accented by the harsh wind that bit through clothing. Close to his side stood the Rynswater castle, a smile encroaching on his features at his escape from the suffocating place.

  The King wanted to call it a palace; it was anything but deserving of that title.

  Above, messenger pigeons were sent out to deliver orders. They were scrambling to lock the roads down and bar this person. Why did they not kill them? From what Mav could ascertain, they were too important, such that they could make their way through the blockades, though it would take some time.

  It was none of his business; he would carry out his duty and then be able to rest. Maybe even pick up a woman or two.

  Ahead, the outer stables were in disarray as men and women rode onward carrying the urgent decree. Messenger pigeons were not he most reliable after all, especially in this season due to the cold and winter hawks.

  Would enough sentries, outposts, and cities receive this message in time? Unlikely, an unneeded excursion to prevent something they feared.

  He prayed it wouldn’t go well.

  “Prepare a horse,” Mav said to a passing stable boy.

  He snickered in response, but then nodded.

  Things were already going well, which was not good. They would usually put up more of a fight if he asked for a horse, even when he had orders. Whatever was going on had to be serious.

  Beyond the chaos, he walked into the tall building that acted as an office and housing for the outer stables. With his long stride, he went past the front desk, up the flights of stairs, and past all the communal housing. A dull ceiling met him. Pulling a key from his pocket, he put it in the socket above him, unlatching the mechanism and dropping the ladder.

  Mav climbed into his room. Usually, he would pull the ladder up and relax, but now was no time for that. He swiftly moved to pick up his travel pack and old spear. He sighed at his comfortable bed. The only thing that would see him off in this city, the only thing that would await his return. Rynswater, Bardoo, was his home. But that did not mean anyone needed him.

  Only God and his patron, but God hated him. He did not have to hope or pray for that; he knew it to be true. Every time he wished for something, God would look into his mind, read his soul. Then God and the universe would work in opposition, manifesting the complete opposite of his desires.

  If he wished the kind baker to recover from her illness, she would die.

  If he asked for clear skies, a storm would consume the land for days.

  Even if he simply existed, bad things would happen.

  So he cursed everything. The land, the people, himself. All except his patron or God, the two beings immune to his strange disposition.

  He relocked the mechanism to his room and left for the outer stables. When he arrived, his horse was already awaiting him. Mounting the animal, he kicked off, already heading in the direction of Tentington. There was no guarantee his charges would be waiting in that city, but few would be traveling at this time of the year. He could easily meet them on the road.

  Already riding his horse hard, he would exhaust it, then switch at every available outpost or city. The crest on his arm gave him that power. The quicker he was done with this task, the sooner he could return to his bed. No, he did not want to return to his bed. No, he needed sleep.

  Traveling Dradris was easy; he had been trained by one with such talent after all. Soon, he could be done with work. He rode onward.

  Mav, the man who thought himself a plague on the world.