209 A.B.

(4 months after the Runner's Rebellion)

Three hundred.

It is just a number. Small, miniscule even, when compared to grains of sand in a desert. Gargantuan when you consider each as a human life.

Three hundred lives, taken by me in the defense of my tribe.

I always thought that this moment would feel significant, since it is considered an important milestone in my career as Pic dil Cir's choice warrior. Wasters mark our accomplishments through blood and ink, with the highest respect given towards the most decorated. The killing of three hundred enemies entitles me to an impressively intricate marking, but as my eldest brother presses the ink into my flesh, I feel neither pride nor pain.

Perhaps it is because I have already been marked for having killed two hundred enemies. Before that, marked for killing one hundred. Fifty. My first.

To distract myself, I try to mentally calculate the number of hours I have spent in this very position, hunched over my knees before a roaring campfire while Jaron etches his designs into my back and across my shoulders. This is meant to be a place of peace, but lately I have found it to be less calming and more an inescapable reminder of what I am.

Rowan taught me not to think of it as the amount of lives we have ended, but rather, the amount of consciences we have spared. She says that we are not murderers, that we are quivers. We hold the arrows, so that our friends do not have to shoulder the burden.

Rowan says a great many things, but I am not always inclined to believe her.

We are assassins. I do not know why she will not just come out and say it. This talk of honour and burdens, it is a way of hiding what we really are. We are trained to fight, to kill, and to stay hidden all the while. We are sent into the furthest reaches of the desert during times of war and unrest, told to wipe out as many Miners as we can and to return victorious.

I will admit, there was a time when I found the idea enticing. I wanted to learn to fight, to have my fellow tribesmen look at me in reverence, to earn the same respect that seemed to come so easily to my brothers. I wanted to prove myself, to show Jaron and the others what I am worth.

It was Jaron's idea that I volunteer to be made choice warrior. Three years ago, I was an erstwhile sixteen year-old, prone to spending long hours wandering the desert. Jaron pulled me aside and told me in no uncertain terms that I must apply myself in some way, that people were beginning to talk, that it reflected poorly on our family and his leadership if I remained purposeless. He handed me over to Rowan, reasoning that my talents as a hunter could be harnessed and turned against our enemies.

I wanted Jaron's approval, and so I went along with his plan. I was skilled with a weapon - better than most. Archery was my forte, but I enjoyed learning hand-to-hand combat. Rowan was a good teacher, professionally walking the line of both mentor and friend. She was proud of her work and steadfast in her belief that I could uphold this most honoured role.

Rowan warned me of what was ahead. As best she could, she prepared me to absorb the full weight of my deeds and at the same time, release the demons.

It is this second part that I have always found troubling.

Jaron hums deep in his throat as he presses the dye-coated needle into my skin. I focus on the sharp pinpricks, inhaling low, shallow breaths between my teeth. This pain is something real, something finite. It is something I can concentrate on, for these few moments quieting my churning mind.

Noah crosses towards us, sinking into a seated position on the soft sand and peering over my shoulder at Jaron's handiwork.

"Impressive." He murmurs, keeping his voice soft out of respect for the ritual. "You will run out of space, soon. We are going to have to mark that ugly face of yours."

"You can keep your needles free of my face." I shove him half-heartedly, wincing when the raw skin on my shoulder pulls painfully.

"Are you certain? It is not as though your current features are particularly attractive." Noah continues to tease, sitting back on his hands and tilting his head. "Perhaps it would be an improvement."

"Luca does not need to attract anyone." Jaron speaks up from behind me. "He is busy enough without the distraction."

I feel a jolt of annoyance but reflexively push it aside.

"Besides," Jaron continues. "Not everyone shares your weakness for women."

"I would hardly call Rowan a weakness." Noah glances across the bonfire to where Rowan is sitting, appearing more relaxed than she ever did in her days as choice warrior.

"Any partnership will leave you vulnerable." Jaron tells him. "Take the chance if you wish, but Luca and I can afford no such risks."

"Your sense of romance never ceases to impress, brother." Noah says good-naturedly, catching my eye and throwing me a wink.

Jaron ignores him, addressing me. "That reminds me, Luca. Two more air machines have been spotted South of the River. I will need you to track them, tomorrow."

"So soon?" I try, and fail to keep the indignation from my voice. "I only just returned."

"War waits for no one." Jaron replies.

I can sense Noah trying to distract me but I disregard him, talking over my shoulder to my eldest brother. "Yet another admirable scrap of wisdom, Jaron. You could rival Cade if you were a touch more peaceable."

The pricking of needlework against my back ceases abruptly. "Do you have something you wish to say to me?"

I cast my gaze down, burying my hands into the sand to keep from clenching them. "No, nothing."

Another beat passes before the needle returns to my skin. "You have done us proud, Luca. Wasters spread throughout the desert hear of our family's deeds and flock to Pic dil Cir. Our camp has never been stronger."

"I know." I say, tightly.

"Our catapults are nearly complete." Jaron stays his course, talking over me. "And soon, we will have enough warriors to launch an attack. Once we have brought down the Miners' wall, the tides of this war will change."

"I know." I say, more loudly this time.

"You should set out at first light." Jaron dips his needle into the bowl of blue-black ink. "The air machines will not stay in one location for long."

"Peace, Jaron. This is a celebration. Let Luca relax a moment before sending him back into the desert." Noah signals over his shoulder and someone brings us three freshly-filled bladders of wine.

I accept the leather pouch and take a sip, exchanging a grateful look with Noah. The conversation turns to other matters, with Jaron continuing his tirade about his precious catapults in excruciating detail while Noah interjects with the occasional light-hearted antidote. I remain silent, drinking my wine slowly as I drift amongst my brothers' conversation. The skin on my back chafes and the most celebrated number once again flashes before my eyes.

Three hundred.

* * * * *

It takes a full two days to track down the first air machine.

The Miners are becoming fearful of our tactics. They have learned to not linger in one place for more than a few hours, and so I direct my search upwards. The machine's profile against the sky is barely-discernable from a distance, but my eyes are sharp and eventually, I am able to come within an hour's walk from where they have docked for the night.

The smoke from the Miners' campfire is a dead giveaway to their position. I shake my head, slouching down in behind a dune and settling in to wait for nightfall. The air grows colder and I pull my cloak over my head, shielding my face from the impending dust storm. It is good luck that the sand will shift tonight; I can use the elements to my advantage and by morning, my tracks will be long gone.

Not that there will be anyone left to find them.

The hare I caught earlier roasts over top of my own, modest campfire. The red-hot coals burn low and the dune does a handy job of hiding me from the air machine docked below. I poke at my meal, smiling a little to myself when the skin cracks, cooked to perfection.

If I could find one pleasure in being Jaron's trained weapon, it would be that I am afforded these moments of solitude, of connectedness with the desert. The long days spent alone, hunting and surviving by my own terms; this is something I can take solace in.

Long periods of idleness followed by brief spurts of carnage. That is the life of the choice warrior.

My hour comes all too soon. When the sky is at its blackest I creep down the side of the dune, zeroing in on the Miners' camp. It is a moonless night, ideal for my work and I take full advantage of the elements, keeping the wind to my front and hugging the shadows.

The Miners keep more lookouts than they used to, a half-dozen men paired off and stationed at three points around the modest collection of tents. It is the lookouts who typically give me the most trouble and I take my time in planning my attack, circling the camp twice to ensure that I have every man accounted for.

Watch your back. No one will watch it for you.

Rowan's words echo in my head, one of many oft-repeated rules. I clutch a dagger in each hand and creep closer, my footsteps soundless and my target oblivious.

The Miners' conversation is crass and casual, but I recognize fear when I see it. They have no desire to be out in this desert. Not unlike me, these men are simply following orders. It occurs to me, not for the first time, that there is much I have in common with these unfortunate subordinates.

I shut my eyes, willing these thoughts away and clearing my mind in preparation for the attack.

Three hundred.

I shake my head and try again.

Three hundred.

I furl my fingers more securely around the hilt of my daggers and grit my teeth, forcing my thoughts away from the number and back to the task at hand. Pellets of swirling sand prick at my face and hands, reminding me acutely of the needle's point and the permanent design marring my skin. Concentrate, Luca. There can be no hesitation, only clean, swift kills.

Gradually, and with great effort my mind begins to clear. My feet dig into the sand below me, connecting me to the earth, grounding me. I feel the cold bite of the desert air and the welcoming embrace of the shadows. I feel myself a part of the night, a part of this earth, a part of my tribe.

That is when I strike.

The first man falls on the point of my dagger, his soul departing before he can realize what has happened. Three hundred and one. The second man spins and makes to cry out, his attempt at a warning silenced in the next instant. Three hundred and two. The men fall in crumpled heaps and I dart away, knowing that they won't be rising again.

I am inside the camp, now. I skirt the edges, my eyes continually darting to the tightly-clustered tents in case of any movement. Seeing no one, I make my way to the next pair of lookouts, finishing them off in quick succession.

Three hundred and four.

With only two lookouts remaining I move faster, knowing that at any moment my targets could call out for their already-fallen comrades. I approach from the side, keeping the larger of the two Miners in my sights. Silently, I stow away my daggers and unshoulder my bow, crouching and drawing the weapon taut.

Two perfect, clean shots and I am free to move towards the tents.

Three hundred and six.

There is something deeply troubling about attacking a man when he is sleeping. The Miners' tents with their unassuming canvas exteriors are depressingly little defense against me. I pause and nearly waver, shutting my eyes tight and forcing myself to recall another piece of Rowan's wisdom.

No hesitation, Luca. Remember what they have done to us.

Kidnappers, killers, thieves. These Miners tear into our desert, either thoughtless or uncaring for the damage it has already sustained. What little vegetation we are given they take, pried from our hands and squirreled away behind their impenetrable walls.

They would kill me just as readily.

My heartbeat slows as I once again withdraw my daggers, the hilts warm and familiar in my palms. I sidle around the back of the first tent, casting my gaze around once more before slitting a smooth, faultless line through the canvas and ducking inside.

Three hundred and nine.

I move to the next tent, entering by the same method and dispatching its sleeping occupants. One awakes an instant before I get to him, but I ensure his fear is short-lived.

Three hundred and twelve.

My heartbeat begins to quicken, hammering in my throat and shortening my breaths. When I slip free of the blood-filled tent, I attempt to calm myself by inhaling great lungfuls of the cool, night air.

We do not aim to create suffering, we aim to relieve it.

Rowan's words and my own, deep breaths do little to ease my nerves as I continue with my crusade. I feel my blades as an extension of me; quick, deadly and precise. My targets have no idea what has happened to them, transitioning unknowingly from sleep to death.

My mental tally grows louder and louder as I work, hammering inside my skull with each fresh count.

Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen.

Three hundred and eighteen.

Do not doubt yourself.

Nineteen. twenty, twenty-one.

Let them feel no pain.

Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four.

If it were easy, it would be wrong.

Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven.

Feel it, acknowledge it, then release it.

Twenty-eight, twenty-nine.

Three hundred and thirty.

I emerge from the last tent, straightening and tugging my scarf from my face. My clothes are stiff and emit a strange, metallic scent. I attempt to draw breath but my body, honed and prepared for any eventuality, will no longer obey me. Choking, I feel the daggers slip free from my hands as I collapse onto my knees, clutching my chest as I fight to breathe.

Three hundred and thirty.

Release it, Luca. You have felt it, you have acknowledged it. Now, you must release it.

But I cannot.

Three hundred and thirty. That is my number. That is the finite amount of souls I can carry on my conscience before I cave under the weight. The absolute clarity that comes with this realization is enough to jerk my lungs into action and finally, I am able to draw a single, ragged breath. Sand catches in my mouth and throat but I do not care. I know what I must do.

There can be no more. I cannot take it. I will not.

There have been too many deaths. In truth, taking a single soul was too much, but another three hundred and twenty-nine in addition to the first is enough to cement the idea in my mind.

I am rejecting this way of life, forever.

At once, all of my doubts and justifications make perfect sense. It is not that I disbelieve in the honor of a choice warrior, but rather, that I am the wrong person to hold this position. For too long I hid from the truth; that I am not, and never will be, a true choice.

It was not until tonight that I finally found myself, covered in blood and suffocated by three hundred and thirty spirits, broken but completely certain of my decision.

I do not care what Rowan says, or what Jaron orders. It is not right, for one person to bear all of this.

There can be no more. The count shall forever after remain the same.

Three hundred and thirty.

* * * * *

"What?"

I draw my shoulders back, forcing myself to lock eyes with my eldest brother.

"I said, I will not do it anymore." My voice is not strong but my meaning is clear.

"Is this a joke?" Jaron looks from me to Noah. Our brother is standing with his back against the door, arms crossed and appearing every bit as bewildered as Jaron is furious.

"It is not." To illustrate my point, I withdraw my daggers and toss them onto Jaron's cot, the only piece of furniture in the barren room.

The three of us are ensconced in Jaron's private quarters, a small, windowless cell several metres below ground. Normally, I would go to great lengths to avoid these cramped rooms, but under the circumstances felt that this conversation could not wait.

Jaron looks from my discarded weapons and back up to me. His neck is flushing red behind his beard but when he speaks, his voice is measured. Ever the wise leader, he first tries to reason with me.

"So, you had a difficult night." He folds his arms in front of his chest, mimicking Noah's stance. "I understand, Luca. You should rest, you will feel differently, later."

"I do not need rest." Despite the seriousness of the situation, I am strangely calm. "I need to stop killing. I have reached my limit and will go no further."

"Your limit?" Jaron raises an eyebrow. "You are my choice warrior, Luca. You have no limit. That is a condition of the role you accepted."

"I was wrong." I glance at Noah, trying to read his expression.

"You were...wrong?" Jaron scoffs. "I am sorry, brother, but you were not afforded the luxury of being wrong. You made a choice, and now you must honour it."

"I never chose this." I tear my eyes away from Noah to look at Jaron fully. "You decided on a place for me, but I am not suited for it. I cannot do it."

"What are you talking about? You have done it."

I flinch. "Well, I do not wish to, any longer."

"I do not understand. What is the difference to you?" Jaron uncrosses his arms, instead curling his hands into fists at his sides. "The choice warrior's hands are already stained red."

"Jaron -" Noah speaks up from the back of the room.

"Quiet, Noah." Jaron snaps.

"It is not my place, to be choice." I try again. The panic begins to claw its way up my throat and I swallow.

"Of course it is. You are the perfect choice. You are silent, you are deadly." Jaron's head is wagging back and forth, disbelieving. "You are more skilled than Rowan ever was. This is who you are, Luca."

"That is not for you to say." I snap. "You aren't as all-knowing as you believe yourself to be."

His fists clench so tightly that the knuckles blaze white. "You cannot turn this around on me. I am sorry that you are finding your role difficult, but it is your responsibility. Tomorrow, you will go and search for the second air machine."

"I will not."

Not since we were children have I seen such abject rage colour Jaron's features. Until Noah steps between us, I am uncertain as to whether or not he intends to hit me.

"That is enough, brothers." Noah pushes me back with more force than necessary, removing me from striking distance. "We are family, we do not fight this way."

"Family." Jaron sneers, staring daggers at me over Noah's shoulder. "You do not know the meaning of the word, Luca. Do you understand how this will reflect on us? A great tribe without a choice warrior? The people will feel cheated. They will think us weak."

"That is all you care about." I shoot back. "How you appear. When we were a tribe of one hundred people, you did not care so much."

"Your shortsightedness makes you foolish." Jaron fairly spits. "In greater numbers we are a greater force. Do you want to win this war or not?"

"What war?" I shout. "It is just me, out there. I have killed hundreds of people, for you, for our family, for our tribe, but still, it is not enough. It is never enough. Nothing has changed and I am spent."

"And you think I am not?" Jaron thunders. "We all have our burdens to carry. You cannot run from your choices."

"It was never my choice to make!" I match him, decibel for decibel.

"Grow up, Luca." Jaron mocks. "If you did not have me to push you along, you would never have accomplished anything. You would be lost, aimless."

He means the words to sting, and they do.

"If I am guilty of anything, it is recognizing your gift and setting you on a path." He plows on, oblivious to everything but the sound of his own voice. "Do not forget that you wanted this, also."

I cast my gaze down to the floor, staring blankly at my blood and sand-coated boots.

"You may not like it, Luca, but choice warrior is who you are." Jaron's words echo over my head. "It is not a trade that you can pick up and put down at will. When you killed a single person you crossed the line, and there became no going back. You knew that, do not pretend otherwise."

I did know.

"It makes no difference whether you kill one person or a hundred. You are a killer, already. Stopping now would be a waste of your talents."

Talents I never asked for. Set on a path I never chose for myself. Jaron is right; I am aimless and until last night, I was incapable of making a decision for myself.

"He just needs time, Jaron." Noah interjects, placing his hands on Jaron's shoulders. "Let him sleep and we will discuss this, later."

"I do not need time." I hear myself say, finally tearing my eyes away from the tarnished floor to look at Jaron. "I have made up my mind. It is my decision and mine alone."

Jaron shoves past Noah and closes the distance between us in one long stride. He is only a couple inches taller than me but a good deal heavier. I force myself to remain stock-still, every muscle tensed as I brace myself for what is to come.

"If you quit now, you will be throwing away everything you have accomplished these past three years." When Jaron speaks, his voice is dangerously low. "What is your count, Luca?"

"Three...three hundred and thirty." I say, quietly.

Jaron nods slowly. "Three hundred and thirty people, killed by a disgraced warrior. Is that really how you want to be remembered?"

"Better to be a disgrace of my own choosing, than a champion of someone else's." I say.

A heavy silence follows and even Noah, the eternal peacemaker, seems at a loss for words. Finally, when I think I can stand it no longer, Jaron deigns to speak, his words dripping with disdain and his oversized frame trembling with a barely-controlled rage.

"Get out of my sight." He turns away in utter disgust and I feel my cheeks flame red. "I am ashamed to call you brother."

Not trusting myself to say anything further, I shove past him and slip through the door. The low-ceilinged tube station feels suddenly small and suffocating, and I don't slow my pace until I have jogged up the stairs and pushed my way free of the camp.

The sun blazes red hot, unforgivable in its intensity. I run to outpace this leaden feeling, sweat pouring down my back and my legs moving of their own accord. I propel myself across the sandy expanse, weaving between dunes, aimless but for one unquenchable motivation.

The need to run.

The dunes fall away behind me, giving way to great, flat plains. My feet pound against the hard-packed sand, each reverberation hammering Jaron's words through my head.

This is your place.

You are a killer.

Do not forget that you wanted this, also.

I lean into a turn and re-double my speed, hurtling past dried shrubbery and scorched, blackened trees. The trunk of one such remnant looms ahead of me, larger than the rest, rough bark and spindly limbs stretching up into the sky. Without slowing my pace I hurl myself towards the lowest branch, grabbing hold and lifting myself up. I climb recklessly, unmindful of the height or the strength of the ancient boughs.

When I can climb no further I sit back, leaning with my still-fresh tattoo scratching against the charred trunk of the tree. I stare blankly at the horizon, blinking spots of light from my vision as the adrenaline gradually ebbs away.

After a time, a low whistle sounds from below. Sighing, I turn in my perch to see a familiar figure crossing the plain and heading towards my tree. I climb down reluctantly, dropping from limb to limb and landing on the cracked sand beneath, straightening just as my brother steps up in front of me.

"Feel any better?" Noah raises his brows in question.

"No."

"I did not think so." He beckons me over to the side, sinking down onto a flattened rock and waiting expectantly.

I trail after him, slumping into a seated position and deliberately avoiding his gaze.

"A bit dramatic, coming all the way out here." Noah makes a show of rubbing his feet. "Is this your way of encouraging me to exercise?"

"I did not ask you to come after me." I snap.

"You spend too much time alone." Noah ignores my outburst. "I never know what you are thinking."

I have no response for that, so I chew on my bottom lip and return to studying the horizon.

"Why did you not say something sooner?" Noah presses. "If the burden was becoming too great, why did you not tell me? Or Rowan?"

"I did not want you to think me weak." The words feel awkward, but I force myself to say them. "Rowan warned me that it would feel this way. I have no excuse except that I am not strong enough."

"Strength has nothing to do with it." Noah makes to place a hand on my knee but I shake him off. "Rowan is one of the strongest people I know, but even she is not immune to these hauntings. Truth be told, I have never understand how either of you could put yourselves through it."

That catches my attention. I glance up, confused. "Rowan always upheld her post, though."

"She did, but I know it hurt her to do so." Noah watches me carefully, his words deliberate and measured. "There is no shame, Luca, in not wanting to be the choice warrior."

"Jaron says otherwise." I flinch inwardly, recalling the sting of his words.

"Jaron only wants what is best for our tribe."

But not what is best for his brother. I bite back my retort, casting my gaze away.

"He does care about you, you know." Noah continues, nudging my knee with his. "He just has an odd way of saying it."

I scoff, a smile finally working itself free. "Must be difficult to speak clearly, with his head so far up his arse."

Noah laughs uproariously, the boisterous sound echoing across the sandy expanse. "I am afraid you may be right about that, little brother." He leans back in his seat, appearing perfectly at home amongst the dead foliage. "But he does mean well."

I nod, rubbing the back of my neck and fingering the fresh marking, there.

"And for what it is worth, you have managed to impress me." Noah continues, the good-natured smile still plastered across his features. "I was not sure you had it in you to speak up."

I feel my eyes stretch wide and Noah releases another laugh at my expression.

"You are not a killer, Luca." He says, matter of factly. "You are a thinker, a wanderer and a slew of other things, but never a killer."

"I am, though." I feel the need to point out. "Three hundred and thirty times over."

"That does not make you a killer." Noah tilts his head. "A killer is someone who takes life without remorse, someone thoughtless and merciless. You are none of those things."

A bit of weight lifts from my shoulders and I sit up a little straighter. "If you knew all this, then why would you let me go out there?"

"Because it was not my decision to make." He says, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "And because I am not fool enough to get in between you and your daggers once you have made up your mind."

I snort, allowing him to throw a companionable arm around my shoulder.

"I do not know if I can stay here." I say, almost to myself. "When they hear what I have done, they will demand that Jaron cast me out."

"Do not be absurd, brother. This is your home." Noah's grip on me tightens. "You cannot leave us, now. You may no longer be the choice warrior, but that does not mean that there is no place for you."

Another bit of weight lifts. "Thank you."

"Thank you." He says, firmly. "For everything you have done to protect us."

I duck my head, feeling embarrassed.

"Now, come." Noah rises to his feet, dragging me up with him. "There will be no hiding from your tribe. Are you hungry?"

"Yes." I have long since worked off the hare I consumed the night before.

"Good. And I would prefer to walk, if that is all right with you." Noah keeps his hand on my shoulder, steering me back in the direction of camp.

There is no pace we could set that would be slow enough, but I concede to a lazy amble, falling into step next to my brother and letting his easy chatter wash over me.

Dread begins to work itself free of my mind, curling once more around my lungs and tightening my breath. I will return to camp a failure, a disgraced warrior. They will whisper, gossip, look on my markings with pity. Despite Jaron's strong leadership, some may choose to leave our camp for good.

The alternative is infinitely worse. This moment should find me alone in the wilderness, little better than a hired knife as I prepare to do Jaron's bidding and kill for the three hundred and thirty-first time. Instead, I am crossing the desert with my brother by my side, the sun's pleasant heat upon my shoulders and a light dusting of sand about my feet.

My choice will not be celebrated and immortalized in ink.

It is all the more significant, because it is my own.