Byuga’s tutelage was, at its mildest, rigorous; at its most severe, it was stifling. Each day, he was roused before the sun had even contemplated the horizon. There followed the morning rites of the monks—a communal liturgy held within a primordial hall of the temple. They would array themselves across dozens of suspended galleries arranged in a great circle, chanting in unison. The words were of the Tongue of the Elder Folk, heavy and somber to the ear. Yet, they filled the bahysa with a peculiar tranquility—a sense of vitality and burgeoning power. Indeed, through the aperture at the summit of this sunken tower, the sun’s rays would soon spill downward. On the lowest floor sat a fountain, encircled by a riot of verdant flora—a miniature forest thriving within a glass vessel, a world unto itself.

  Then began Byuga’s formal instruction. First came History. He learned of matters hitherto unknown to him: the Great Houses, the lineages, the realm of Quang-Shuin, and the Beasts of Fate. These were lessons woven from religion, mythology, legend, and philosophy. They read, they wrote, they listened, and they debated. The monks named these morning sessions the Lessons of Lore. Immediately following was the Hour of Wisdom, where they divided into classes to dispute a topic chosen by the presiding monk.

  Only then did they partake of the day’s first sustenance: usually an apple, a few slices of bread, and eggs with greens. Then followed the lessons he could never truly fathom. The first involved various objects placed before him in solitary sessions, a different monk presiding each day. Their demeanors shifted according to the objects; sometimes the air would fill with phantom music, other times his body would be racked with sudden, sharp pain. He could not grasp the purpose of these trials, yet he offered no protest.

  Afterward, he would sit face-to-face with a monk. In this discipline, he had excelled from the very first day. The monk would hand him a piece of chalk and command him to write what passed through the master's mind. Byuga would reach out with his spirit, peering into the monk's eyes and seeing everything that lay behind them.

  A series of other strange disciplines followed. They taught him the Tongue of the Elder Folk, breathing techniques, and the means to exert dominion over his own body through the breath.

  These labors exhausted him so utterly—mentally, physically, and spiritually—that he would collapse into sleep the moment he reached his bed, his stomach often hollow. The next day, the cycle began anew. Upon every waking, a glass of white liquid stood by his bedside. He noted green flecks and an orange suspension within it, though its nature remained a mystery. He drank it regardless; in the early days, when he had refused it in loathing, the pangs of hunger had crippled him long before the meal hour. Each day left him spent, yet somehow he began every morning invigorated, possessed of a heightened self-awareness, as if he had truly awakened from a lifetime of slumber.

  The monastery was cold, but Byuga—having spent weeks amidst freezing gales and blizzards—only began to notice the chill after many days. Initially, the interior had felt quite warm. In time, he noticed the other children drinking something. Though he had not yet begun his studies in alchemy, he sensed it was a potion. There was no time to ask, save for the brief interval after the Morning Rite or during the meal. Moreover, he was uncertain if they knew his sign language; if they did not, he feared he might mark himself as a target. Bullies, he knew, could be found even among scholars.

  He attempted several times to speak with the monks regarding new raiment, but they offered no reply. Soon, he convinced himself he knew the reason: they wished him to be alone with his inner self. He understood the philosophy of Taom-Dium. Every bahysa had to find a spark of the Creator within their soul. Then, like the Celestials who shaped the earth and commanded its functions, they were to take their place in the terrestrial hierarchy. He knew the theory, yet he failed to see how it helped him find himself. For him, there were no sounds; his eyes were failing, and the only scent the monastery offered was that of mold and iron.

  Loneliness was his constant companion. Day by day, he attended lessons and rites, trapped in the same unyielding routine. To be sure, he learned much, particularly during the Lessons of Lore. The libraries of Taom-Dium were peerless. Beholding the countless tomes, forbidden scrolls, and relics, he could not help but imagine the legendary Library of ChangChao. During the Hours of Wisdom, though he could hear little, he strove to comprehend. Once, he had attempted to touch the world with his heightened perceptions as he had done before, but a sudden, crushing pressure—the weight of surrounding consciousnesses—forced him to recoil in terror. He nearly succumbed to a swoon. He wished only for someone to talk to; he had no other desire.

  As the weeks turned into months, his lessons intensified and transformed. The exercises where he glimpsed the mind and wrote upon slate grew harder; now, he had to read the mind and react with reflexive movements to counter the master’s intent. The lessons on matter evolved into Alchemy, and this became Byuga’s favored study. For the first time, he began to learn the art of brewing elixirs. The study of stones and terrains shifted into hours spent examining magical energies with strange implements. The Hours of Wisdom became exercises in persuasion. Only one thing remained unchanged: the lessons where they tried to provoke a reaction from him. Byuga knew they were waiting for something to respond to him, but no matter what they placed before him, the world remained silent.

  Finally, nearly two months after his arrival at the Taom-Dium Monastery, a knock came at his door. In the dead of night, a monk greeted him. As Byuga stared with sleep-heavy eyes, the monk raised his hands:

  “Come with me.”

  The young bahysa did not object. He dressed, left his chamber, and followed. “What has happened?” he asked. The man did not answer. They navigated the corridors until they reached the sinkhole-like hall of the morning rites. Following the monk up the stairs, they reached the penultimate level. Byuga peered over the stone balustrade into the abyss; there must have been fifty tiers or more. He felt the biting cold. The sun born of the previous morning’s rite was long gone. Snow, like white dust, drifted through the aperture above. In his time here, he must have forgotten what true cold felt like. Now, it chilled him to the marrow. He could not tell if it was merely his own lapse in memory or if the season had truly turned more savage.

  It was then he noticed the monks seated at the very summit. They spoke, and the monk accompanying him turned to Byuga. “Jado lin Byuga, you have been here eight weeks.” Byuga had not even realized so much time had slipped away. He saw now that he had lost himself in the unbreakable rhythm. “You learn faster than the others; you possess the makings of an Eren.” At that moment, one of the monks—Gyatso—spoke with a hardened expression. The guide turned back to the Jado heir. “Yet, despite displaying every sign of the arcane, you fail the most fundamental trial.” Byuga knew whereof they spoke: the lessons of provocation, the methods they used to stir his dormant power.

  “I cannot do it,” Byuga signed, his hands trembling. “I do not understand what is expected of me.”

  “We shall test you.” Byuga grew tense as he watched Gyatso’s hands. “There is a rite we use to rouse the sleeping faculty. An ancient rite, from times forgotten.”

  “From the Elder Folk?” Byuga asked, his signs becoming frantic with excitement.

  “If this rite reveals a hidden power within, your faculties shall awaken, and you shall remain with us. If it does not, we shall deem you a Stained One—one who can use only the mind—and you shall be cast out from the Monastery. May Quang-Shuin be with you.”

  The monk forced Byuga to his knees and began to trace symbols around him. These were inscriptions in an elder tongue. From his recent studies, Byuga recognized some of the words—Ancient Speech. They were intertwined with sigils and a mystic circle. Then, the monk produced a peculiar stone and murmured over it. As the stone began to glow, he passed it over the symbols on the ground. The circle ignited with a pale light, and the monk stepped back, standing motionless.

  Byuga only realized much later that the monks had begun chanting in the Ancient Speech. As the circle shined, a strange tingling sensation washed over him. A moment later, the symbols outside the circle flared, and he lost all control over his body. The gallery vanished from his sight, and as everything plunged into darkness, he could feel every atom of his being. Then, he was severed from all sensation. He drifted—weightless, formless, perceptionless—through a lost pocket of time.

  He opened his eyes in a place he did not recognize. A light of unknown origin illuminated a darkness that defied explanation. One by one, the shapes around him gained meaning. Suddenly, he beheld countless bahysas. They were of varying ages, garbed in different raiment, appearing in disparate locales. Some wore armor, others magnificent robes. There were those who looked like brigands, and children stood among them. All of them stared at Byuga with a terrifying, expressionless precision.

  “Who are you?” He realized he could speak. More than that—he could hear. He heard the echo of his own footsteps, then a strange sound like the dripping of water. His head felt as though it might burst. For the first time in years, he truly heard. His eyes widened as he looked around in a frenzy. Sounds began to bleed into one another until he was submerged in an indescribable cacophony. The men and women continued to watch him. He heard battle cries, supplications, laughter, the ring of iron, the strumming of instruments—all at once. He collapsed to the floor, on the verge of tears.

  Then, he felt a touch upon his shoulder. He lifted his head, and the noise ceased, replaced by a multitude of sensations. He felt tickled; a tingling began in his loins and legs. So rapidly did he experience pain, pleasure, shivers, and a thousand nameless emotions that he shrieked and threw himself to the ground as his senses were set aflame. Scents reached his nostrils—fragrances he had never known. He was terrified, joyful, mournful, and ecstatic. He felt as though madness were claiming him; he crawled upon the floor, weeping and laughing in equal measure.

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  Then, it all stopped. Byuga rose, shivering, and looked at the bahysas surrounding him. Simultaneously, each reached for the halo upon their head. Though they spoke no word, Byuga knew their meaning. His hand went to his own halo; he had not forgotten the gift of Aliquam Menaro. But the bahysas shook their heads and lifted their own haloes away—they were of a deep, emerald green.

  As the figures began to dissolve into mist, Byuga stared at the haloes remaining suspended in the air and remembered. He recalled the skeleton he had found beneath Geigen, upon the throne where he had seated Balbun. He looked at the emerald halo before him and, in that instant, he knew. He swallowed hard and reached out. The moment his fingers grazed it, the haloes streaked toward his head with impossible speed. As they converged and merged above him, a blinding light seared his vision, and once more, he drifted into the void.

  When he finally awoke, his eyes met falling ash. He was at the very bottom of the gallery, within the heart of the life-filled forest. Stones had been overturned; the circular balconies were marred by deep fissures. As he tried to make sense of the carnage, he felt his body burning. As he sat up, Gyatso approached, the other monks gathering behind him. Gyatso knelt, looking at him thoughtfully. Then he rose and extended a hand. He spoke with the others, and Byuga, remembering he was still deaf, swallowed a bitter draught of disappointment. Gyatso guided him from the gallery into the corridor. After walking in silence, Byuga raised his hands.

  “What happened there? Why did the balconies collapse?” Gyatso did not answer. He remained silent until they reached the library, leading Byuga into the Forbidden Section. There, he turned.

  “The monks will seek to use you,” he signed. “You are powerful, Byuga. You are something we have encountered only once before. Did you see foreign countenances? Silhouettes you did not recognize?”

  “Yes,” Byuga nodded. Gyatso swallowed, his eyes fixed on Byuga’s with a look of profound sorrow.

  “You must flee,” he signed. “You are of the Jade Lineage, Byuga.”

  The Jado heir stiffened. He knew the name. The Ancient Jade Jailyunluk—the god-kings descended from Metin kal-Juade. He had spent years in Gaigon amidst the scent of saltpeter and fire, watching his father’s political maneuvers with awe. Had the most powerful bloodline in Quang-Shuin been in their veins all along? What did this mean? Why had his father never spoken of it?

  Gyatso drew closer. “Years ago, the Prince of Jado brought a woman here. A woman they called unwanted, even mad. She was with child. She died here, and the prince came for the child only when he became shimlyn. That woman was of the Jade Lineage. The monks will not let you go; they will use you. You are that child, Byuga.” The young bahysa had never truly known his mother. He had been told only that she died of sickness—the same affliction that plagued him.

  “What am I to do?” he asked with trembling hands.

  “You must leave before dawn. I shall alert your friends. They will come for you before the Morning Rite. Go with them and find your path. Did the Old Jailyuns show you the way?” Byuga hesitated, then remembered the halo and nodded. Gyatso handed him a parchment. “Read this while you wait. You will understand. Burn it before you depart.” Byuga was in shock—it all felt like a fever dream—but he knew he had to gather his strength. He bowed his head in acceptance. Gyatso escorted him to his chamber and left.

  Byuga opened the parchment and sat upon his bed to read.

  It was a report from an elder monk, Shaysun, written after his mission. He had been tasked with investigating an event from decades prior. The Jado Prince read the report with bated breath. Twenty years ago, another Prince of Jado had indeed come to the Monastery, bringing a woman he claimed was his wife, begging the monks to treat her 'madness.' He had then departed. Later, it was discovered she was pregnant. The monks sent word to Gaigon, but no one came. The woman was indeed 'mad' by their reckoning; she saw strange visions and possessed powers no one could fathom. They eventually performed the Awakening Rite upon her.

  During the rite, the truth emerged. A power without precedent had manifested within her, wreaking great devastation. The report described a searing light erupting from her mouth and eyes, melting the very stone. Byuga reflexively touched his own mouth. The ash he had seen... the broken stone... was he the cause?

  The report then detailed the woman’s accounts. She spoke of seeing bahysas looking at her with murderous intent—dozens of men and women offering her a halo. Again, the young heir shuddered at the memory of his own vision. The monks had researched this and found the answer in ancient myths: the Jade Jailyuns carried the soul of Kal-Juade and could see one another across the centuries. What bound them was the Jade Crown, the source of their dominion. Byuga realized then what he had seen.

  He read on. The monks of Taom-Dium had spent years searching for the legendary Jade Palace and the Jade Crown, but had found nothing. Byuga looked up from the report, his eyes wide. That woman was his mother. His father had taken him at birth. Why had he not come when they called? He thought of the ruins beneath Gaigen. That must be the Jade Palace. The skeleton he had brushed aside—it must have belonged to the last Jade Jailyun. A bitter, mocking smile touched his lips. Where were the Jailyuns when the North fell to the mashidas? Why was the lineage hidden? How had they managed to build Gaigen atop the Jade Palace to hide the remains?

  A knock at the door broke his reverie. He felt the vibration first, then saw the shadows beneath the door. Panic-stricken, he scanned the rest of the report. Near the bottom, under a heading marked For the Eyes of the Council Only, he found the horrifying truth. To find the location of the Jade Crown, the monks had cast spells upon the woman, using rites to invade her mind and the minds of her ancestors. His mother had not died in childbirth; the monks had simply lied to his father. They had surrendered the child only for fear of conflict with House Jado. The report stated they had spent months performing rites upon her until her mind, unable to withstand the pressure, finally "surrendered."

  The knock came again, harder. Byuga felt a wave of nausea. He remembered the feeling of the monks entering his own mind. They had killed his mother.

  As a heavy blow struck the door, he snapped out of his trance and threw the parchment into the hearth. He opened the door to find Makar. Behind him stood Linyu and Lin-Shu. Linyu signaled for him to come. Byuga quickly drank the elixir by his bed and gathered his things. He mimed eating, but Makar and Lin-Shu held up bundles of food. Gyatso must have aided them. Linyu looked at Byuga and signed: “We know who you are. We know your blood.” She bowed her head slightly. Byuga said nothing; he donned his gear and followed them into the dark.

  They moved toward the exit unchallenged; at this hour, sleep was at its deepest. Yet, at the great gates, they found a dozen monks waiting. Some, Byuga recognized from the Awakening Rite. Makar and Linyu stepped in front of Byuga. In the eyes of the boy from Chafchauin, there was a new, fierce fire. But before a word could be uttered, both were flung against the ornate walls by an unseen force, pinned there like stone. A monk stepped toward Byuga, his gaze void of emotion.

  “It was folly to bring a kardam into the monastery. Jado Lin Byuga, you are not yet an Eren. Explain this defiance.”

  “What you did...” Byuga began to sign, wanting to throw the truth in their faces, but he stopped. He would only implicate Gyatso. He looked at them with a pleading gaze. “I missed my friends. We only wished to spend time together.”

  “This does not follow the teachings of the Eren. Return to your chamber.”

  “I will not.”

  “We can send you there easily, Jado Lin Byuga. Is that what you desire? A monk must always choose the path of peace.”

  “An initiate may leave the path of Andhou if they wish. There is no penalty, is there?” He was afraid, but he wanted to expose their hypocrisy. He had known their philosophy long before entering their walls.

  “Paths wind, rise, and fall. Sometimes they become tunnels, lost in shadow. Nothing in this world is immutable. Return to your room, Jado lin Byuga. Do not question our wisdom. You possess neither the right nor the humility.”

  Byuga said nothing. He knelt. As Lin-Shu nudged him, he held up a hand to stop her. He knew he could do it. He could reach his ancestors. He could use this power he finally understood. He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and with the serenity of a man accepting his fate, he reached inward. He focused on the memory of that involuntary sensation.

  Once more, that familiar, perfect feeling enveloped him. But this time, he was the master. It was not like clinging to a swinging sword; it was like gripping the hilt. He stood and opened his eyes. The sensation remained. He felt every monk, every movement, every grain of their skin. He could feel which monk was maintaining the spell on Makar and Linyu.

  The lead monk raised a hand and unleashed a spell. The air around Byuga trembled, but nothing happened—only a fine dust settled around him. The Saints of Taom-Dium stared in shock. They seemed frozen. Then, in perfect unison, they raised their hands, their bodies moving in a coordinated dance as they chanted. Byuga knew the movements; he knew the tongue. He tried to form the words in his mind, but though he could resist their magic, he could not yet weave his own. As the monks’ spells began to converge upon him, Byuga felt the shift. His limbs began to vibrate as if he were fading from existence. He had to act.

  He moved with a speed that startled even himself. He bridged the gap between himself and the monks in a heartbeat, slipping through their formation to strike the one monk who was not chanting—the one holding his friends. As the monk collapsed, Byuga felt Makar and Linyu hit the floor. He needed no eyes or ears to know.

  He turned, sensing a different spell—one he could not trace—hurled toward the monks. He pivoted and rushed to his friends. Unbeknownst to him, the breathing techniques of the past months were fueling his unnatural grace. As Makar scrambled up, Byuga looked back to see the monks being drawn into a vortex of sand. More words were spoken, the vortex ceased, and as the monks were scattered, the stone gates behind them were pulverized, drawn into a dark portal.

  Gyatso appeared. Black smoke, like the fumes of gunpowder, billowed from his eyes. Black veins traced patterns across his skin.

  “Go.” Byuga did not hear the command, but he felt it—a touch upon his soul. The Jado prince felt a chill at the monk's terrifying visage. His spirit sensed that whatever magic Gyatso was wielding, it was born of agony and something unnatural. It was a distorted, profoundly alien presence.

  “Let’s go, Byuga!” He could 'touch' the voice. Hearing Linyu’s cry, he ran, joining his friends as they leaped through the shattered gates into the blizzard. He could feel the monks attempting spells, but as he stepped onto the frozen bridge, Gyatso unleashed another working that warped reality itself. Byuga’s power faltered before the sheer distortion of it. Between the monastery and the blizzard, everything began to run like a watercolor painting. Byuga did not question it. He ran across the bridge.

  As they plunged into the deep winter, Byuga realized how far the season had progressed during his isolation. The trees were half-buried in drifts; the blizzard was a wall of white. Linyu turned to him amidst the howling wind.

  “Where shall we go?”

  “You shall go to Gaigon,” Byuga said, his voice straining. “We go to Gaigen.” When Linyu looked confused, he pointed to Lin-Shu. “Take her to my father. She will be safe in the House of Jado. Tell him what happened. We do not know if our messages ever reached him. Makar and I will go to Gaigen. Something waits for me there.”

  Linyu bowed her head. Byuga, using the last of his strength, lowered his hands and spoke with his own voice for the first time in an age. “Let us go, Makar.” He could feel the clumsiness of his speech, but the kardam smiled, his eyes shining.

  As their paths diverged, Byuga watched Linyu and Lin-Shu until they vanished into the white. Then, he signaled Makar to lead the way. As they forged through the snow, he offered up a prayer for the safety of the girl and the boy—his first prayer since childhood, and it was directed to Kal-Juade.