“We, the Bahysan folk, place no faith in fortune. If we are bereft of joy, our virtues are found wanting. If we lack strength, it is because our patience was not stout enough to carry us to our desire. If wisdom eludes us, it is not because it was withheld, but because we failed to comprehend it. Whatever a Bahysan does, they do unto themselves; and whatever befalls them, comes from within.”

  Byuga was but seven years old when he first read those words. He had looked up then, meeting his father’s gaze, and lifted his hands to ask in the silent language of signs: “My deficiency—it does not come from within me.”

  “No,” his father had replied, a slow, heavy shake of his head. “It comes from no one.”

  In his earliest years, Byuga could hear. But as time marched on, his hearing began to fray, replaced by a persistent ringing. Before long, even the ringing fell silent, leaving him in a world of absolute hush, save for an indistinct, ghostly hum. He was perhaps five then, though the memory was hazy. Not long after, his eyes began to betray him as well. He mourned his sight far more than his hearing; for to see the world—to see the letters of a page or the movement of hands—was his only bridge to others. His father knew this. He had summoned countless physicians, healers, herbalists, and sorcerers to his court for years. Yet the tide did not turn. Day by day, Byuga continued to lose his grip on the world, his senses slipping away like sand through a clenched fist.

  By his mid-twenties, the sense of touch had largely abandoned him as well. Now, he could only taste, discern blurred shapes, and catch faint scents. In every sense, he felt himself hardening into a statue. He was not happy with his life; indeed, he found himself wondering if he even knew what happiness was. Several times he had sought the rope to end his vigil, but he was caught every time. For the last few years, his father had ensured he was never alone. The Shimlyndvyen—professional warriors of the Shimlyns—accompanied him more often than his own kin. Yet, this was one of the few things that brought him a semblance of peace. Unlike the other Bahysans, he did not feel his inadequacy as sharply when among them. They, too, were like statues: cold, silent, and stoic. In their presence, he felt at home.

  Byuga lived in the North of Bahysaris, the ancestral realm of his people. A ceaseless rivalry simmered between the North and the South. The South was the seat of the Mashida, the palace that ruled the whole of the country, and the home of the Eternal Flame—a place reflecting the glory and might of their race. But the North was of a different mettle; it rarely bowed in spirit to the Mashida’s decree. While Southern nobles, merchants, and artisans busied themselves with trade, the Northern Houses followed the Old Ways.

  After the crushing impact of rifles and cannons was revealed in the Algun-Duhan wars, the Northerners had begrudgingly respected the power of gunpowder and modernized their armies. However, Southern prohibitions made it impossible for them to advance further. In the technological race led by the Dwarves, the Veid, and Southern Bahysaris, the North had no place. They remained tethered to traditions and ancient chronicles. In this regard, despite their perceived superiority, they were little different from the races they looked down upon—the Humans, the Raruns, or the Suvkins.

  Byuga had grown up in Gaigon. It was a wealthy city, yet utterly insignificant in the eyes of the high lords. Even if it were the richest city in the North, it would still be overlooked. The true masters of the North were the Seven Great Families, who traced their lineages back to seven of the eight Great Gods of the Bahysans. From their ancient fortresses and palaces, they had ruled since the dawn of time. Byuga had never seen these titans, but like everyone else, he held them in reverence. His father, Ilya, was a mere Shimlyn—a minor lord. Still, it afforded them a comfort far above most Bahysans, and for that, Byuga did not complain.

  His childhood, despite its creeping shadows, had passed under the steadfast support of his parents. His father had once gone so far as to force the entire court to learn the sign language used by the Chang-chao monks during their periods of silence. Because of this, Byuga had found a way to speak to the world.

  But Byuga’s time was coming. Every Bahysan, man or woman, was expected to leave their home for training upon reaching maturity. The women went to be tutored by the Taom-dium monks, while the men ventured to the Shyugan Towers—ancient bastions in the farthest reaches of the North—to guard the borders and learn the art of war. It was not mandatory by law, but a woman without the jewelry of the Taom-dium or a man without the brand of the Shyugan Towers upon his neck was a pariah. To the Bahysans, it was a mark of one who lacked loyalty to the realm or respect for responsibility. While the South cared little for such things, for the North, it was life itself. And so, Byuga’s time had come to journey toward the Shyugan Towers.

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  This was not a source of dread for him, for his uncle was a Shyugan. It was the highest rank one could attain in the North—a title of immense prestige, even if it lacked direct political power. The rank of Shyugan was born of the Jade Lineage, the only one of the Qang-shuin lines to have been lost to history. Once, the Jade Lineage had ruled all Bahysaris from the Jade Palace with nobility and justice, only to vanish into myth, the very location of their palace forgotten. Centuries later, when the Kardams first raided from the North and found a Bahysaris ravaged by civil war, the Jade Lineage returned one last time to unite the Houses and repel the invaders. A leader was declared Shyugan, and he had built the 111 towers that separated the lands of the Kardams from the Bahysans, placing the magnificent Gaigen at their center. Though he never declared himself Jailyun—the Jade King—as his ancestors had, his descendants were treated as the sovereigns of the North until they too vanished. To take the title of Shyugan was the greatest honor a Bahysan could hold. Byuga hoped that with his uncle’s protection, his time there might be tolerable.

  His father, however, was far more anxious. Byuga was his eldest son and heir, and though Byuga had never known his birth mother, he felt the depth of his father’s love. His stepmother, conversely, had tried countless times to have her own children named heirs in his stead. Byuga, in truth, agreed with her. He did not believe that in his fractured state he could carry the weight of lordship. He knew he would likely die soon anyway. But his father resisted, barring the way to his displacement. Byuga knew he was the only point of contention between his father and stepmother, and the realization tasted like ash. It was bad enough being a flaw in his own life; he had no desire to be a burden on others.

  Upon waking that day, Byuga had wished to visit the Taom-dium monk in the fortress, but Balbun had stopped him. Balbun was a Shimlyndvyen, the warrior his father insisted stay by his side day and night. Balbun tried to teach him to fight despite his failing senses, but it was a futile labor. Byuga felt his inadequacy deepening with every lesson. He saw his opponents only as blurs; he was deaf to the whistling of blades and the rhythm of footsteps. Because he could not feel the impact of a blow or the brush of steel, he could never react in time. Most days, he simply dropped his scourge and allowed Balbun to strike him as a lesson. He felt nothing, after all. He had hoped to escape this today, but Balbun always seemed to manifest at his bedside before he could slip away.

  “I do not want this,” Byuga signaled with his hands.

  “Life does not want you either, yet here you are, out of spite,” Balbun signaled back.

  “My father’s spite, not mine.”

  Balbun chose not to answer. Instead, he hoisted Byuga onto his back. Byuga secretly enjoyed this part. Despite everything, the old warrior still treated him as he had in his childhood. It was a double-edged sword; it warmed him that Balbun maintained his cheer, but it stung that he was still viewed as a child. Both his father and his guard needed to realize he was a man grown. Yet, they still punished him for his failings as if he were a wayward boy, and he hated it. How could they expect him to love himself or wish for life when they punished him for being unable to see, hear, or feel?

  They descended the grand central stairs from the inner sanctum. From the top of these stairs, all of Gaigon was visible. To the Northerners, the city was at the edge of the South; to the Southerners, it was the gateway to the North. It was built upon vast plains. The palace of House Jado, which had sheltered Byuga’s kin for centuries, sat in the saddle between two rocky peaks. Though Byuga had never seen the other great Northern cities, he found this place austere. The innermost section, the U-shaped sanctum, consisted of three floors of classic Bahysan architecture painted in black and green. Below it lay the courtyard, a massive terrace flanked by cliffs. In its center was a sprawling garden where stone benches sat atop green and orange marble. Byuga loved sitting there. Even if he couldn’t see the details, he could watch the sky and the plains meld into a beautiful, shifting slurry of color.

  Beyond the garden, another set of stairs led to the second tier of Jado House, where the armories, smithies, and barracks of the Shimlyndvyen stood. On the opposite side were the kitchens and dormitories for the Bahysan children in training. In the center lay three training grounds: one for the javelin, two for the scourge. Finally, there was the lowest tier, the largest of all. Here stood a grand hall with the characteristic curved eaves and triangular spires of Bahysan design, shimmering in black and green. This was where the Lord of Gaigen heard petitions and grievances. It was here that taxes were tallied and gifts presented before the eyes of all—a tradition dating back to the first Jade Jailyun, preserved for over a thousand years.

  Beyond the House of Jado lay the city itself. Gaigon was vast, one of the greatest in the North. Yet, because they were seen as Southerners by the North and Northerners by the South, House Jado was never truly embraced by either. As Byuga descended, he looked toward the horizon. At the city’s edge stood a coal factory, a relic of the Macatosh Wars. Byuga had heard tales from his father about the struggle against the mages. But those days were gone. The mages had been hunted down, one by one, until only those in the monasteries remained. He knew they were tolerated more in the South, but he had never seen a mage in the North. He had read of them among the healers of the Taom-dium and the ranks of the Chang-chao, but nowhere else. Yet he remembered hearing that the Southern armies still employed them. As they crossed the garden, Byuga wondered what had become of the mages in the lands of the Dwarves or the Veid. He would have given his remaining eye just to see a true mage.