“Take him,” Griever Glane said, his voice muffled by the holy canvas that covered the Orphan’s ears. But did he detect a hint of sadness in the man’s words? “Take him to the edge, and be gentle enough. I know this boy. He won’t resist.” The old man clapped the Orphan on the shoulder. “Next time I see you, son, we’ll be peers. Be tough, and remember what you’ve been taught. If you come back with the Flare, you’ll be executed. May the Cure watch over you.”

It was almost comical. Almost. But it fed the Orphan’s desire for a new destiny.

The strong hands that gripped the other ends of the guiding poles began to force him forward. Pushing, pulling, swiping, his guides moved him away from the fortress he’d protected for so many years, across the empty plain where one met a death sentence if they approached from the opposite direction. When he and others like him returned, it was through a path known to only a few, a secret more guarded than the identity of the Great Master in the Golden Room of Grief. The Great Master, whom no one had ever seen.

Forward, forward they marched, the Orphan not resisting, moving as elegantly as he could along the trail his guides set. The wind whipped, the icy pellets of sleet bounced off of his rough, woven armor, making a sound like war drums. No words were spoken. The cloth pressed against his nose smelled of freshly dug earth, the deepest grave, still waiting for a body to call it home.

He marched forward, forward, the guiding poles chafing his skin.

Hours later, they reached the edge, the very edge, to which they guided him carefully. The Orphan could feel its stony threshold under the balls of his feet. The wind was stronger than ever here; he felt as if he could lean into it without fear of falling. They’d have to give him a really strong push. Even as he thought this—with something close to giddiness—the acolytes unfastened the poles from the leather belts that still were like vices around his arms and legs. Once those were freed, unleashing waves of pain as blood gushed within his veins, he sensed the priests and priestesses line up behind him. He continued to face the abyss.

“Any words before you depart?” one of them asked.

Beetles of fear scurried across his skin, as if they’d burrowed beneath the cloth that wrapped him so tightly. This was the moment that began his future, a future unlike the ones his Bearers of Grief envisioned. He quoted the litany of calm in his mind, a device that still worked despite his blasphemy.

“Eh?” a woman shrieked across the wind. “Want to say something, lad?”

The Orphan spoke as loudly as he was physically able.