Panic rose in Ren's chest, empty air that wanted to escape from him in visceral screams. He would not, though. In his early days of training, following his father on more dangerous capture and arrests, Ren had quickly learned that panic got good men killed, and better men dismembered. So Ren grit his teeth, teeth bared in grimace. He would not speak for fear of his voice giving him away, could barely see because of the mask on his face, and was limited in motion because of his hostage.
He tried to call on the power of his Mark. The strength was there, but that ability to slip through solid objects remained absent, as if the very ground around him had grown averse to his ability to pleasantly ignore it.
'... Of course they have an Anchor. They're standard for barricades.'
The men running the barricade surrounded Ren and his captive, pushing them against the wall, a dozen or so lengths from the door. Even through his mask, though, Ren could see the flicker of the Mark of the Anchor, the glow wrapping around a wrist and resting on the back of his hand.
Bumps formed along Ren's skin. 'Third Mark.'
Though a Mark Tree had many, many different strange abilities, Ren had already found his natural enemy. Pillar of Space, second of the three: The Anchor.
And worse still, he had power up to the Third Mark, the highest before true ascension began. Before the Binding Mark, before divinity.
Ren's eyes narrowed behind the mask, unsure. 'If I fight, could they figure out my identity from my build and combat alone?' Such a notion was silly, but not impossible. House Winter took in very few recruits, and who they did take in became the best by way of impossible training regiments that were only possible when Marked were present to heal them. And to make it more obscure, training was always done away from the public eye: House territories may have policed themselves, but it was the Arbiters who made sure they didn't overstep. As such, the Arbiters – and therefore Ren – had always been uniquely capable of combat. But Ren wasn't in uniform. He was in a red coat, his tattered Winter formal halfway across the city.
He didn't have a choice. Letting out a shaky, quiet breath, he finally allowed himself to speak. "Let me out of the city, and this man lives." Of course, Ren was bluffing. Arbiter policy wouldn't allow him to kill an innocent, but he'd use the underhanded tactic if it could get him out the city gates.
"The Reaper has gotten out!"
Eyes snapping to his left, Ren cursed under his breath. Of course the caravaneer left him. Such confidence was only accompanied by someone only out for their own skin. Erin would've never trusted him. His father would probably…
But it was his mother who'd sent the missive to them. Lips curling down at their corners, Ren's arms tightened around the neck of the man he'd taken hostage.
—
Each heaving breath was a punishment in itself to Silas, who stood, hands on knees and nearly doubled over after a long sprint directly back to the caravan, where he'd assumed Ren would already be. Of course, Silas was never that lucky. Not only was Ren not already safe in the caravan, he wasn't even on his way, having gotten stuck somewhere back at the city wall. 'Some arbiter…'
"Where's the Arbiter's heir?"
Heaving a breath, Silas straightened up, glancing to see Evelyn, golden hair tied up in a ponytail, trailing over her shoulder. Her rose gold eyes boring into him, he let out a shaky breath. "Mother and Father aren't here?"
Eyebrow twitching upward, her lip curled down at the corner. "You lost him?"
Silas smiled apologetically, looking up at the moving wagons, covered in canvas as their lamps swung inside. "I thought he was behind me. Manifested the Outcast, should've been easy."
Pinching the bridge of her nose, Evelyn sighed. "Of course." Turning back to the caravan, she shook her head. "I was really hoping Father wouldn't have to get involved."
Silas froze at that. "You're that serious about going back for him?"
Fiddling with the hem of the collar of her robes, Evelyn turned away. "Father's always saying how he and mother owe a debt to the Supreme Arbiter."
"Right…"
—
Backed against the wall, Ren wasn't sure what to do. As long as he held the hostage, there was no way they'd be willing to shoot; guns were far too unwieldy, and he'd proven himself too skilled to be stopped by blade or fist. The Anchor likely wouldn't be able to move close enough to deal damage if he wanted to maintain the ability, so that meant all that was left was time, and it wasn't in favor of Ren. Time for them to realize he was only of the First Mark, time for them to send anyone else, time for them to stop things.
Time for Ren to get caught.
He didn't know how long he stood there, back to the wall, fear and adrenaline coursing through his veins. Minutes? Hours? It was all the same to him, blurred together in a single moment that lasted far too long.
"Elren Winter!" One of the blockadesmen, no, the Anchor shouted, testing the name, testing for reaction. But Ren held firm, refusing to respond. If he responded, he damned himself. If he didn't, they could very well assume it was him. Either way, his blood would be spilled ink.
"Elren," The Anchor grumbled again, moving forward with some struggle. Ren let out a quiet breath. Anchors may have been able to nullify some abilities, but the cost was their movement. Movement became near impossible, and while there were ways to get around that at higher branches along their Mark Tree, it still didn't do too much.
Even with the understanding, Ren wasn't sure he'd make it through the night. 'At least I stalled my death by one more day.'
He grit his teeth, eyes flicking past the guardsmen to the growing crowd. Though Ren was familiar with crowds – Arbiter dealings always brought rabid attention from the people. After all, when the arbiters intervened, something was going to change. But with the arbiters indisposed because of the murder of his sister, this was the entertainment of the night. Vile entertainment, maybe, to watch a hostage crisis in the early hours of the morning, but fascinating.
The crowd, however, wasn't looking at him, eyes cast atop the wall, where the watch would be stationed. He'd thought he'd heard gunfire after Silas had disappeared, had heard it fade. What on earth would be worth looking at? They couldn't fire down directly at Ren without putting his hostage in danger. Ren had certainly done his studies about these things, so he'd made sure to keep his back flat against the wall, his hostage's head restrained and close enough to cover his shoulder, which meant any mistake from above would guarantee the death of his hostage.
Puffing out a breath, Ren dared to look up.
Gold flashed, a burst of light in a straight line before him.
The ground beneath Ren's feet shook at the thing's impact, scattering soldiers and civilians alike as the ground tore, rippling in liquid waves of stone and soil. And there, in the crater, embedded into the ground, was a golden, glowing spear – No– A glaive, its head far too large to be any pyke or javelin. And then, from it, a wave of power erupted, returning Ren's abilities as the Anchor backed away.
Ren fell backward through the outer wall, tumbling onto the ground on the other side. 'What just…'
Before Ren could even take in the sudden change, his wrist was seized by some man, rose-gold eyes flashing against his dark hair. He forced Ren to his feet, then pulled him in front of him and pushed Ren westward. "Go."