Initiate
"Kawe," said Kutha, pointing at the first girl. Then he aimed his finger at the second. "Kamva. From now ON, these are your names. Forget your past, who you were, and where you lived. I am now your uncle." He grinned, the movement twisting the scars on his cheeks. "Disobey, and I'll kill you with my bare hands. Clear?"
Both girls nodded.
Kutha scratched his stubbled chin, studying them closely. "You looked younger at the auction. How old are you?"
"Twelve," replied Kawe, looking down.
The man grunted, lifted his head, and shouted at the auctioneer. "They're old! You told me they were ready for the Selection if no one took them."
From atop the stage, the auctioneer observed the remaining children, glanced at Kutha, and proclaimed, "By order of noble chief Sokhulu of clan Kala, this merciful auction is closed. The claimed will follow their new aunts and uncles." He gestured toward the guardians, who began dragging the other children away.
Kutha clenched his jaw. "Hey, I asked you a question, bastard." He spat on the ground, turned back to the girls, and, after a moment, snorted. "At least you're twins. That will bring me luck. May the Mother not see me. I'll need it."
Kamva stared at the wailing children as they were being dragged off. She swallowed and edged closer to Kawe.
"Where are they going?" she whispered.
"To die," answered Kutha. "Not you. For now. Follow me."
He turned and walked away. The twins exchanged glances, and Kawe squeezed her sister's hand.
"We will live," she whispered.
They crossed the central district, where buildings rose three and sometimes even four stories high. Murals covered the facades: faces of nobles, scenes of daily life, stylized men and women. Some slowly shifted in color, creating surreal and unsettling effects.
Kutha drew hostile glances and returned them with hate-filled stares. Some people touched their cheeks, tapping them with a finger.
"Yes, I have the scars!" he yelled. "And that one over there, we made it! You should be grateful!" he added, pointing to a mural.
When they passed a street, the difference was stark. Here, the buildings had opaque, membrane-covered windows, the calcifications at the edges cracked, and the air hung heavy with a pungent odor. People kept staring at Kutha, murmuring.
They continued walking. The smell of decomposition grew overpowering. The walls were withered, coated in growths that oozed fluids.
Kutha stopped before a two-story structure wedged between two equally run-down buildings.
"Home," he said, opening the valve-door.
The ground floor was a single room: a bed, an unlit heatfungus, and a crooked table sprouting directly from the floor. A calcified tissue-formed staircase led to a loft. Every surface was cluttered with instruments, jars, and membranes in various stages of processing. The smell, though intense, was different now—a blend of pigments, organic fluids, and fresh membranes.
"You sleep up there," Kutha said, pointing to the loft. "My laboratory is sacred. Touch anything without permission, and I'll rip your fingers off."
He moved to the table and swept the instruments and membranes to the floor, searching for something. He grabbed a sphere of fluid, lifted it to his mouth, sucked out the contents, and belched. The sharp scent of winefluid filled the room.
"Starting tomorrow, you'll train," he announced, his voice slurred. "You'll become artists."
The twins climbed up to the loft. The bed of dried membranes was large enough for both of them. They sat together, holding each other close.
"What does an artist do?" Kawe dared to ask.
Kutha snorted, irritated, but his eyes flickered with a hint of pride.
"We create beauty," he said. "We manipulate living membranes, extract colors from glands, shape the Mother's tissues into something that strikes both the eye and the heart."
He lifted the sphere again, sucking down the last of the winefluid. Staggering, he gripped the table.
"I need luck," he muttered, his eyes clouding.
The following day, the three of them ate on the floor. Kutha had warmed a few pieces of dry green bread and set out a bowl of fluid. He drank most of the bowl himself, leaving the rest for the twins, who began eating and jostling for food.
"Careful with the bowl," warned the artist. "Don't break it. It's the only one I have. You're like two savages. Didn't your parents ever feed you?"
Kawe stopped eating, and her sister seized the opportunity to grab the bowl and gulp down the contents.
"Our parents gave us plenty of food," she told him, her voice edged with irritation. "And we each had our bowl."
Kutha shrugged. "Well, now your parents are dead. And this"—he leaned over and snatched the bowl from Kamva—"is the only one we have. Don't play with it."
A while later, they left the house. A humid, salty wind hit them, carried by the currents rising along the Greater Membrane of the Sac. Kawe glanced upward. The Vault loomed far above, hundreds of meters overhead. Its protuberances twisted together in jagged shapes, barely visible in the dim light and warped by the trembling air.
Kawe walked with confidence, her jaw clenched. The wind tousled her curly hair, but she didn't care. Beside her, Kamva wrapped her tattered cloak tighter around herself, shivering. Occasionally, she cast an uncertain glance at her sister, seeking reassurance.
"It'll be cold today," muttered Kutha, lifting his collar. "Those damn cartographers said the wind wouldn't arrive for another two weeks. They're useless."
They walked toward the Gatherers' district. The streets here were wider and more orderly, and the dwellings less dilapidated. Around them, men and women in dark green tunics headed to work, nimbly climbing the pulsating backs of transport worms. The creatures waited motionless, their slimy skin exuding a thick liquid that reflected the Sac's dim light, a viscous substance oozing from the pores on their backs, helping them glide along the organic corridors.
Kawe watched them, fascinated; there were none in her district.
In my old district, she thought sadly.
Kamva stepped back when one of the worms suddenly jolted and murmured, "I don't like them."
"They're just beasts," retorted Kutha, then asked Kawe without concern, "Is your sister always this afraid?"
Kawe didn't respond, and Kamva lowered her gaze in shame.
They reached a three-story building with a wide, uneven facade. An unfinished painting of a human face with pierced earlobes covered much of the wall.
"Who is that?" asked Kamva, pointing.
"The noble who's paying us," replied Kutha.
Kamva's eyes lit up. "We work for nobles?"
Kutha sniffed. "Everybody works for nobles."
"Yes, but"—Kamva pointed again at the painting—"we do that for nobles?"
"There's nothing special about it. Once, when we artists were still a Profession, we had public funds. Now, to avoid starving, we take these." Kutha gestured toward the painting with a tired hand, no enthusiasm in his voice. "Commissioned work," he said, as though cursing. "Now, let's move."
A scaffold made of two levels of dried membranes, one above the other, was supported by thick calcifications. Above the first level, about halfway up the building, three artists were recognizable by the scars on their cheeks painted in bright colors. Only one nodded at Kutha in greeting, while the others glanced at the girls.
Kawe and Kamva followed their uncle up a ladder with rungs so soft they buckled beneath their weight. They reached the first level and stopped opposite the other artists, who were gathered near a heatfungus. Several strips of membranes lay roasting on it; occasionally, one twitched, as they had likely been on the heatfungus for quite some time and were now dying.
One of the artists, a man with a square jaw and pigment-stained hands, turned toward the twins and smiled, jerking his chin toward their uncle. "I'm sorry for you," he said. "You've ended up with an old drunk."
"How dare you?" growled Kutha, stepping toward his colleague.
The man gave a disdainful smile and pinched his nose shut with two fingers. "Don't open your mouth too wide, Kutha. Your breath could kill someone."
With bloodshot eyes, Kutha lunged at the man, who dodged easily. Kutha staggered and fell to the ground with a groan. Kamva covered her face with her hands, frightened, while Kawe held her close, watching the scene.
"Enough!"
Everyone turned to see a guardian approaching at a steady pace, brandishing a vesicular stick.
"Stop all of you," he ordered in a low, menacing tone. "If you want to end the day with all your bones intact, get to work."
Kutha clenched his jaw and forced a smile for the guard. The guard stared at him for a moment as Kamva helped him to his feet.
"It won't happen again, guardian," said Kutha, bowing.
The guardian regarded him for a moment, then nodded and walked away. Kutha shot a hateful glance at the other artists before turning toward the wall.
"You two watch and do as I say," he told the twins. "Take those Sacs, and let's go up."
The twins looked to where their uncle had pointed. A group of Sac lay piled behind the ladder. They walked over and lifted them, grunting from the weight. As soon as she hoisted hers, Kamva felt something shift inside. She dropped it with a dull thud and stepped back.
"Careful, idiot!" snapped Kutha, turning on her.
Kamva kept her eyes on the writhing Sac, her face twisted in disgust.
"There's something in there!" she cried, backing away. "It's moving!"
The artists on the other side of the platform began to laugh. With heavy steps, Kutha closed the distance, seized the little girl's wrist, and was about to strike her when he noticed the other artists were watching. He froze, then broke into a nervous, unconvincing laugh.
"Of course it moves. It's chromatic peat!" He saw the puzzled looks on the twins' faces and snorted. "It's alive," he said, walking over to a Sac and pulling it open.
The dense, semi-liquid material inside was yellowish. Kamva pulled back as the Sac throbbed faintly, like an exhausted heart. In contrast, Kawe stepped closer, bent down, and examined it with curiosity.
Their uncle dipped his index finger and thumb into the Sac and rubbed the substance between his fingers. A thin network of golden filaments appeared briefly on the surface before being reabsorbed into the liquid.
"This is a symbiotic colony," he explained, "composed of anaerobic bacteria, pigment-bearing molds, and regulatory microfauna. They work in synergy: the bacteria degrade the organic substrate, releasing enzymes that activate the—" He stopped, noticing the confused looks on the girls' faces. "What is it?"
Kamva blinked. "I didn't understand a word."
Kutha sighed. "Inside here are tiny creatures that work together to create color." The substance gave off a faint glow as he moved it into a shaft of light. "See? They're photoreactive; they react to light, understand? And they never fade or change with humidity. But if the colony dies, everything collapses. The color frays. Crumbles."
He swung the Sac toward them. "Without this, every work would fade in three days. Now move, and this time, don't cause any damage."
The girls obeyed, each taking a Sac in their arms. They climbed the steps with care and, after reaching the second platform, set the Sacs down, gasping for air.
Kutha arrived moments later, saw them catching their breath, and clapped sharply, making them jump.
"Move!" he barked. "There are nine more Sacs to bring."
They made four more trips. On the fifth, only Kawe went down, her knees trembling, while Kamva collapsed on the scaffold.
"There, put it there," Kutha ordered when Kawe returned to the second level yet again.
Kawe set the Sac down and dropped to all fours beside her sister, whose eyes were closed while she panted through her mouth. Kawe braced herself for their uncle's scolding, but when she looked up, she saw him standing before the wall, lost in thought.
Then Kutha snapped his fingers and rolled his neck, humming a tune. He bent, scooped green pigment into one cupped palm, dipped two fingers of his other hand, and began tracing delicate lines.
He seemed to have become someone else entirely, every movement deliberate and precise, without a hint of hesitation. His hands worked swiftly, each gesture confident, as Kawe and Kamva watched, unable to grasp the meaning behind those seemingly casual touches.
"The red peat—quick," he commanded, pointing to the containers at their feet.
Kamva grabbed the nearest one and handed it to him. Still looking at the wall, Kutha dipped his hand into the container, then stopped, frowning. He looked down, cursed, and without warning slapped Kamva across the cheek with his paint-covered hand.
"Open your eyes! If you get the pigment wrong, you ruin everything. Take that one, idiot."
Kawe stiffened, while Kamva lowered her head and silently took the correct container.
Kutha went back to work. He scooped up the dense fluid and spread it across the wall with his hands. The second layer reacted with the first, creeping forward and devouring parts of it. The face of the guardian who had threatened them earlier began to take shape, solemn, almost noble. The twins sat back in silence.
Kutha studied his work and nodded with satisfaction. He turned to the twins and smiled, this time without mockery.
Kamva had lain down several minutes ago and seemed to have fallen asleep. Kawe stood and moved closer to the wall. She reached a hand toward it, but her uncle's voice stopped her.
"Touch it, and I'll throw you off the scaffold," he warned.
Kawe barely reacted and kept watching the different pigment colonies battling each other in a microscopic game of life and death.
"Wonderful," she whispered, eyes wide.
A mixed colony of green, brown, and gray suddenly recoiled near her mouth. Surprised, Kawe whispered the word again and saw the colony retreat even faster. She made a guttural sound, and other groups of color pulled away—except one, which advanced toward her. It was a red-and-black colony.
"Is that how they're controlled?" she asked her uncle without looking away from the mural. "With the voice?"
The other artists began climbing the stairs with their pigment Sacs. The last one struggled under the weight of the heatfungus. Kutha watched them pass by and head to the far end of the platform, where they set down their materials and began studying a new section of wall.
Kutha shook his head, glanced at Kawe, and nodded. "With time, patience, and microdoses of stimulants. Some adjust acidity; others manipulate pheromonic compounds. Then there are the fools,"—he gestured dismissively toward the artists who had just climbed up—"who use heat. I manipulate vibrations instead." He touched his throat with two fingers. "Acoustic impulses, calibrated resonances. Each colony has its response frequency: stimulate it at the right point, and it reacts. It changes composition and releases different pigments. It's like playing a living instrument."
Kamva frowned. "You sing to make them change color?"
Kutha let out a short, guttural click. The Sac trembled slightly. He turned toward the wall and made three more clicks, the second one being sharper. The painting burst into primary and secondary colors.
"Oh no," Kamva exclaimed, covering her mouth.
Kutha laughed and produced another series of clicks, the third one strong and deliberate. Slowly, the colors returned to their final form.
"I don't sing," the artist said happily, still gazing at the wall. "I resonate. Every tissue has a vibrational signature. And even if they're different species, all pigments share a base memory: once they learn a signature, it's theirs for life. So for the artist, it becomes simple: you learn the signature, repeat it, and guide it. Low frequencies move the structure; high ones alter enzymatic cycles. If you get it wrong… everything collapses. But if you do it right…" A small smile crossed his face. He raised his voice. "You can create nuances no other medium can match. These are the secrets of our Profession."
From the other side of the scaffold, the other artists froze.
"Shut up, idiot!" one of them hissed.
Kutha shrugged and shouted back, "What? We once had our tower, like every Profession. We were respected, we had dignity! Now, just because—"
"What's happening?" Kamva asked, stirring awake.
Kawe caught her uncle's arm and tried to calm him. "Uncle, stop. It's not worth it."
Kutha tore free from her grip and shoved the girl to the floor. "It's always worth it!" he bellowed. "I won't be insulted by these membrane-warmers! They're more artist than—"
A shout cut him off. The guardian from before was staring up at him from about ten meters below. "You! Don't move." While the other artists resumed their work, pretending indifference, the guardian climbed quickly onto the scaffold and approached Kutha with a tight smile. His teeth were almost all serrated. Kutha, who a moment ago had seemed unshakable, now looked deflated.
"You again," the guardian said sharply. "Talking about fallen Professions is a crime. I'll report the infraction, and you'd better pray that—" He stopped suddenly when his eyes fell on the mural, leaving him gaping.
"Is that me?" he asked.
Kutha nodded. "You had such a dignified bearing that I felt I absolutely had to paint you."
The guardian lifted a hand to touch the fresco.
"No!" Kutha's voice was sharp with fear.
The guardian looked at him, then raised his stick to strike. Kutha dropped to his knees and clasped his hands. "If you touch it, you'll ruin the pigment. The work will lose its beauty. I painted you like this to preserve you. Please, don't touch it."
The guardian hesitated, lowered his stick, and turned back to the painting. After a long moment, he stepped back. "This time, I'll turn a blind eye. As filthy an artist as you are, you still know your craft."
He descended from the scaffold and left. Kutha exhaled in relief and turned to the girls. "Get me the winefluid sphere from my backpack."
While he drank, the other artists came over, their faces hard.
"You're crazy," one snapped, snatching the winefluid sphere and throwing it off the scaffold. "You'll get us all killed."
Kutha now looked weary. He stayed silent, regarding his colleague with disgust.
"You are not artists," he said flatly. "You never were."
The artist who had thrown the winefluid sphere stepped back, unsettled by Kutha's tone. He glanced at the twins, shook his head, and tried to keep his composure. "I'm sorry for you. You've got an uncle who'll lead you to your death."
Kamva straightened, her fists clenched. "He saved us yesterday. Show some respect for Uncle Kutha."
The artist laughed. "Then die with him, foolish child." He gestured to the others, and they returned to work.
Kutha studied the little girl. "So, you do have some courage," he said, pushing himself to his feet.
Kamva smiled faintly, but the artist had already turned back to his work, forgetting the exchange.
It was late evening. The glowstones in the Vault had dimmed to a soft, uneven glimmer.
Back home, the sisters washed and tidied themselves, worn out. The bioluminescent veins running along the walls lit the room in a pale glow. Kutha sat in a dilapidated fungus-chair, reading a membrane so old it was nearly transparent. He traced the engraved markings on its fragile surface with his bony fingers.
After a while, he motioned for the girls to come closer. Without a word, he showed them the parchment.
"Can you read?" he asked, his voice flat.
Kamva lowered her gaze. "No…" she admitted.
Kutha laughed—an empty, joyless sound. "Ignorant."
To Kawe, it didn't sound like an insult, only a statement.
Then Kutha tapped a finger on the membrane. "You will learn. These are the glyphs of the artists lost since our Profession was abolished. But I remember—and I pass them on—like every true artist."
He paused, then added, "You still have time to leave."
The twins exchanged a confused glance.
Kutha sighed. "Becoming an artist is a voluntary path. I cannot force you." Silence filled the room as Kawe and Kamva looked at each other, then back at Kutha, and finally at the membrane. Too much time passed for Kutha's liking, and he snorted impatiently. "Come on! You must decide!"
Kawe lifted her chin, her expression firm. "There's no decision to make, Uncle!" She pointed toward the door. "Out there, without work or someone to help us, we'll starve. Or we'll get sick, and the healers will choose us for the Selection." She fell silent for a moment, then said in a steady voice, "I accept."
Kamva hesitated, glancing at her sister before murmuring, "Me too."
Kutha nodded, stood, and went to his bed. After rummaging underneath, he pulled out an object and returned to the table. It was a petroclast blade, dark, gleaming, its matte edges catching the faint light of the bioluminescent veins.
"Cut yourselves." He touched his cheek with a finger. "One straight cut per cheek, and you'll be initiated. In a few years, a second line will mark you as an apprentice. It will take time to earn all three, but this is the first step. Once your cheeks are cut, there is no going back."
The twins' eyes widened. Kutha, unmoved by their unease, held the blade out to them.
"Will you make up your minds?" he asked gruffly. "Either you cut your cheeks, or you leave. There are no half measures."
He offered the blade to Kamva first. She stepped back, shaking her head. "I don't want to."
Kutha's gaze hardened. "Then leave."
Kamva looked desperately from the man to her sister, but no one spoke. At last, she turned, walked to the door, and stepped into the night.
Kutha exhaled and looked at Kawe, waiting.
She took the blade… and walked out after her sister.
Kutha frowned. "What are you doing?" he shouted, hurrying after them.
Outside, under the pale glow of the Vault's stones, Kawe reached Kamva. Kutha watched as she shoved her sister to the ground and held her there with brutal strength.
"Let me go! Let me go!"
Kamva struggled and screamed, but Kawe's grip didn't loosen. She drove the blade into the soft flesh of Kamva's cheeks. Her sister's scream tore through the night.
Kawe rose, leaving Kamva sobbing in the dirt, and strode back toward Kutha.
The man stared. "And you?"
Though her chest was tight and her breathing ragged, Kawe met his eyes. She lifted the blade and carved two deep lines into her cheeks, eyes squeezed shut against the pain. Blood ran hot down her neck, but she never broke his gaze.
Kutha stood speechless, stunned. Then, slowly, his expression shifted. A smile crept across his face until finally, he threw back his head and laughed.
"You'll bring me luck."
He glanced at Kamva, still trembling on the ground, then back at Kawe. A more resolute smile spread across his face. "You'll bring me luck."