Prologue

G180 Jas 7

Clark sighed as he woke from his long, pleasant nap. He rolled over, blinking a few times to clear his vision. He didn't really want to get up, but because he was awake now, there would be no way for him to fall back to sleep. He only closed his eyes, hoping that maybe—just maybe—he'd be able to go back to sleep, but nothing happened.

A few minutes passed, and he sat up, running a hand through his dark hair to straighten it a little. It was late, he decided by locating the clock on his dresser, but after a nap like that, he would be up all night. And they still weren't home yet. He shrugged. His parents sure were picky about the pettiest things. Not letting him watch the Oath Ranks tournament was ridiculous, especially with Malcolm entering for the first time. Besides, Clark knew his older brother would never make it far in the Ranks. He simply was not smart enough. He stopped to brag every thirty seconds like he considered himself to be the king of the world. The king of his own little world, Clark thought with a smug grunt.

But in just a few years, he himself would be able to try his luck with the Oath Ranks. He wasn't all too confident in his own abilities. He was moderately strong, at least. Stronger than Malcolm, for the most part, which only angered his older brother even more. He grinned. Anything to make him squirm—there were few areas in which he could best him, so Clark had to take what he could get.

He stood from the bed with another sigh, stretched, then located his glasses where he had left them on the nightstand. He shook his hair out again, this time in front of a nearby mirror, but it still dissatisfied him. There wasn't much one could do with such a wiry mess on a moment's notice.

He heard the door open, and Clark glanced to see who it was even though he knew it could only be his parents and Malcolm back from the Oath Ranks. He paused, trying to read their moods by what he could see of their body language, but when they started talking and he could not hear them, he entered the living room.

“Hey,” he greeted Malcolm, but the older man just snorted, brushing past him and leaving the room.

“Some newcomer... I can't believe this.” Ned exhaled deeply and pressed a hand to his forehead.

“What happened?” Clark asked.

This time Alma answered. “Malcolm made it very far. To the final round.”

Clark nodded absently, waiting for her to continue, and she said, “But he was defeated by a newcomer.”

“That's too bad,” said Clark, glancing in the direction of Malcolm's room. He looked back to his mother. “So... is that it? Is he out for good?”

“Well, there's next year.” She sighed. “And we were so close... But I think he has what it takes. He can win next time. He's going to be the one to fulfill his half of the Oath one day.”

Clark tried not to roll his eyes in front of her, so he settled for just glaring at the wood paneling under his feet. “Well... what was this newcomer like?”

She shifted uncomfortably, and Ned chose to answer instead. “Some stuck-up Apotrope. Huh, flinging his silly spells everywhere. It's clearly cheating. Only real men fight with their fists. He was just some overeager kid.”

“Oh. It must have been a good fight then,” Clark said. He specifically avoided tacking on “If only I had been there to see it.” as he was tempted to do.

“It was,” Alma said.

“No it wasn't, you fool!” Ned shouted, kicking a chair out of his way as he stormed past the two. “They time the matches, you know, Clark. Nine seconds. Nine seconds! That's just... That's just absurd! Inhuman!”

Clark swallowed wrong, and he had to squint to keep his eyes from watering. Nine seconds? It took most rounds upwards of a few minutes, some even five or more, especially for the finals. Nine seconds was... was the Apotrope of Oath indeed. If one believed such things.

“He's got his place well set in stone...” Ned grumbled. “And he'll be on top until the Systema of Oath can face him. There's just no way he can lose.”

Alma looked downcast, then she repeated, “No way he can lose...”

“Then Malcolm obviously isn't the Systema,” Clark mused thoughtfully.

“Don't say that!” Alma cried, taking his hand. “No... he was just distracted. Next year, he'll take that son of a bitch down in half the time.”

“Right, Mom,” said Clark, peeling her tightly clenched fingers from his hand. “He'll be fine. Even if he isn't taking it so well right now.”

She gave a shuddery sigh. “Indeed... Malcolm hasn't spoken to us since the fight was over. He is terribly tired, though, so by tomorrow he will be fine.” She was clearly lying, sniffing and making a racket trying to hide her tears. Clark looked to Ned, shrugging.

“What's with that look, Clark?” his father asked accusingly. “Do you think you can do better than Malcolm?”

“No.”

“Well, hear me now, kid... You are going to have to do better. Malcolm is worthless. You are our last hope for a long time—until Beau is old enough, but that will be over ten years from now. You're eighteen. Just six more years, and you 'll have to beat that pompous Apotrope for the sake of our House... and for your own sake.”

Clark nodded stiffly; his mother's incessant crying would have made it difficult for him to respond on a reasonable volume. He took her hands gently. “Mom, I am going back to my room... I can't cheer Malcolm up, I know. He's going to do nothing but try to hurt me if I step in his room now.” Clark had to hold back a sigh at the thought that Malcolm never did like him; as far as he was concerned, Malcolm didn't deserve to be helped, anyway.

Ned snorted, which Clark recognized as some kind of lingo for “Damn straight, kid,” before the older man walked off, presumably for the kitchen, and began ordering the servants around to get him some food.

Clark looked back to his mother. “Try to calm down.”

When it was apparent that she was not listening, Clark just left her and turned to go back to his room.

He slumped on the bed with yet another sigh. If Malcolm had not come close to winning, then Clark certainly had no chance in hell. But he could not help being curious—just a little bit—as to just how strong this Apotrope was. He had to be incredible, definitely, but maybe if he could be allowed to see him, just once, to gauge him, he would be able to see if really was any good. Even if magic and Systema were completely different styles, he had to wonder what a fascinating fight that would make. With a grimace, he realized what an advantage the longer range of Apotropia had over fighting, but Apotropes were generally weak, so if he could get close enough, it would be easy, right? He could not be sure.

Malcolm had told him about Apotropes before—they were just normal people, apparently. Clark himself wasn't allowed outside because of his age, so he had to reluctantly take his word for it. Still, that kind of excitement was too much for Clark to ignore. He wanted to see one for himself.

So win he would. He would best even Malcolm in the Ranks if he had to. He wanted to face this champion Apotrope. If Malcolm made it so far, then certainly their bloodline would be the closest to the Systema of Oath's. And that meant that he himself had a fairly good chance.

'Hello... Please answer me.'

Clark sat upright suddenly, and he glanced around the room. The door was closed, and he could only hear his mother still coughing erratically to herself. He began to lie down again. It was just his imagination. Maybe Ned had the television on, or Malcolm, possibly; his room was close enough.

Hopefully.

He looked around again, cautiously. He was not alone It was odd—he heard it, felt it, from the living room, yet when he turned to the window, it could have been from there. He just sat, fixated on the trees outside, and he waited.

Come back, the thought fervently. What the hell was that?

'Please answer me,' it repeated, louder than before, with an edge of impatience. Clark opened his mouth to reply, then he halted. He couldn't just ask what the hell it was, could he? He saw nothing yet he heard a voice. Definitely heard a voice.

Maybe, he thought with a self-depreciating grimace—it was inside his head.

Sure. Imagining things, of course.

'Blasted idiot.'

“Hey!” he said automatically, then he covered his mouth. He looked to the door. No one seemed to have heard the random outburst.

The voice turned into an amused laugh. 'Yes, you should have seen it indeed. It was a good fight. If only it had lasted longer...'

Clark could find no reply. There was definitely a voice there, somewhere, he could not locate it, but someone was there, someone that had been listening to him since Ned and Alma got home, and someone was trying to talk to him. He was hesitant to say any more to the weird voice. 'Mind over matter,' he thought, 'Only hear what you want to hear...'

'But I want to hear you,' it said.

“Where are you... and who are you?” he whispered. He was terrified, shaking, and suddenly, he did not want to face the Apotrope champion any more.

'Me? I'm at home. Where do you think I... oh, right.' It cleared its throat, then asked, 'What is your name?'

'That's a ridiculous question,' he thought back to it.

'Well, it's not like your questions have been any better.'

Clark winced. It was definitely, certainly, positively a voice in his head, having its fun flitting through his thoughts like it was perfectly normal. He felt very insecure all of a sudden. 'My name is Clark. Of the Dynei House.'

'I thought so. Malcolm Dynei was a decent opponent, by the way.'

Clark felt his breath catch in his throat. It made sense. Of course, the Apotrope champion was invading his mind, that's who it was—trying to get him to break down, go insane, or kill himself, even, to remove his future competition. There was no telling what he planned to do in the six years that Clark would be required to wait before he could enter the Oath Ranks, though. Clark began to shudder violently.

'I'm sorry,' it said suddenly. Clark picked his head up from where he had buried it into the pillows unconsciously, frowning at its sudden compassion. 'I did not mean to... to worry you. Should I leave for now?'

'No.' Clark found himself shaking his head, though he knew the Apotrope could not see him. 'No. Tell me... where you are.'

'I already did. I'm at home. The Laresse House, 546 Anse Boulevard.' He paused, and Clark was unsure if he was thinking of something else to say or waiting to hear a reply. Clark started to say something—think something—back to him, but he stopped when the Apotrope continued. 'Oh... my name is Conner Laresse. Please to meet you, Clark.'

'Yeah.' Clark was too dumbstruck to answer intelligently. He rolled over, further pushing his head in the pillows. Block it out, please, just make it go away. It was too weird.

'I will talk to you some other time, then,' Conner said, his voice lighter than it had been before. 'You sound like you need some sleep right now.'

Clark only nodded against the pillows, and Conner said, 'Good night.'

He began to cry softly.

He was doomed. He was crazy. He was a coward and a worthless piece of garbage to his House. He was too young to enter the Oath ranks to help make money for them, too hesitant, too shy to comfort Malcolm, and as of a few moments ago, mad as a starved animal. He wanted to punch a wall.

“Conner” was stalking him. Would Malcolm be mad if he found out? Clark thought, oddly coming to believe the entire conversation had not been part of his groggy imagination after all.

But he wanted to talk to him again. He knew what to say, and the more the ran their conversation through his head again and again, the more naïve he had sounded. He wasn't that naïve. What a terrible first impression.

Come back. I have something to tell you, he thought. I just don't know what it is yet.