Bolin’s hissed curses followed Ferda as they sprinted around a corner in the alley. Once they’d broken line of sight, Ferda vaulted onto a nearby dumpster and tapped their fingers together to release hooked claws from beds beneath their nails. The print shop directly in front of them had a slate roof, which wouldn’t do, so Ferda jumped onto the planter box in back of a tea-shop with a thatched roof. Not a second later, the dusty ground of the alley started to writhe and shift as Ferda’s cousin searched for them. Gritting their teeth, Ferda sank their claws into shop’s wall and scrabbled upwards.

            Shenaise War Singers—soldiers who had mastered both martial arts and litanies across all seven elements—were feared the world over for a good reason. Ones who specialized in ground litanies, like Bolin, were a particular pain in the ass because they could track a fleeing enemy for kilometers through their very footsteps upon the earth.

Even back when Bolin had been first learning his craft, when he was chasing after Ferda in a child’s game rather than a pursuit with any stakes, Ferda had already begun to feel the difference in power between them. Bolin’s parents could afford combat masters, library entrance fees, and litany tutors; Ferda’s couldn’t. But, Ferda was no quitter. So, they’d learned to climb.

The Vana barely managed to pull themself onto the roof before the stone wall beneath them started to ripple along with the ground. Bolin wouldn’t be able to catch Ferda with it the way he could with the earth—wouldn’t look good for a royal employee to damage private property on unofficial business—but he could still track their movements with it. The thatched roof would deaden the impact of Ferda’s feet, but not forever. After a quick scan of their surroundings, they jumped, caught the ledge of another roof, and dragged themself upwards.

“Stop being difficult, Ferda.” Bolin’s shout followed them as they rolled away from the lip of the roof, out of sight. Chancing a glance backward, Ferda found their cousin had run into the side alley. He must’ve picked up on Ferda’s old location somehow, but he didn’t seem to know where they were now. “Give me the hand break. You’ll get a slap on the wrists and we both get to go home safe, just as we always do.” It was never actually that easy. Ferda crawled to the other side of the new roof and launched themself towards yet another perch.

The chase from roof to roof continued like this for long enough for late afternoon to dip into evening. As the impatience and exhaustion built, Ferda began to make mistakes. Simple ones, easily corrected: a foot in the wrong place, rushing a jump, misjudging an angle. And Bolin just kept getting closer. The bastard must’ve gotten better at sight tracking. Ferda scowled as they wiped sweat out of their eyes. How else could he keep finding me?

Letting out a frustrated scoff, Ferda rose from their crouch, and found their feet wouldn’t move. Branches of thatch, glowing with a heather light, had grown around their ankles. Plant litanies weren’t Bolin’s style, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t use them. Ferda had lingered too long. Spitting curses in both the languages they knew, Ferda tore at the rough tendrils with their claws. Though the talons were built more for climbing than damage, they still sliced into the thatch. The brown light pulsed and more pieces of thatch bent themselves to grasp at Ferda’s wrists. They jerked away and grabbed a knife. If Ferda didn’t leave soon, then—

“The game is over, Ferda.” Bolin clambered on to the roof, tiredness evident in the lines of his scarred face. “You’ve but up a great fight, but you can’t run away anymore.” He walked over, just out of Ferda’s striking range, and held out his hand. Ferda just glared at him. Bolin shook his head. “Cough it up, or I will leave you rooted here like the world’s most annoying weather vane.”

“Why are you going through all this trouble anyway?” Ferda gritted their teeth. “Princey can just buy another hand break.”

“You need to learn some respect before you piss off someone less forgiving than I am.” Bolin said, nodding to his hand. 

Ferda barked a laugh. They already worked with ‘less forgiving’ people on the regular. Not that the pride and joy of the Abate family would deign to know anything about the unwanted extra cousin. Still, a lost game was a lost game. The Vana pulled the hand break from within the folds of their tunic and dropped it into Bolin’s hand with a bitter scoff. “I’m not apologizing,” they spat.

“I wouldn’t expect you to.” Bolin’s face held none of the smug satisfaction that would be expected from a victory, only resignation. He flicked his gauntleted wrist and the plants around Ferda’s ankles relaxed. “You can’t keep doing this, Ferda. Eventually, someone’s going to actually kill you.” With that, the bodyguard left.

Letting Bolin have the last word burned in Ferda’s chest, but all their energy drained out of them when they opened their mouth. So, they closed it, kicked dust in vaguely the same direction Bolin had gone, and stalked off. What complete bullshit. Ferda was done with today. They’d just go home and…right.

Ferda allowed themself a moment of slumped shouldered exhaustion before shaking themself and tearing off with no particular destination in mind. After the embarrassment they’d just been dealt, no way was Ferda going home to beg their dads for mercy that wouldn’t be given. Fuck that. They’d just find somewhere else to sleep for a few days.