The greatest benefit of being an electus is the effect that the Cor Heart has on my physical body. Alessandra does not come to visit me before I am allowed to leave the infirmary, but that also takes less than two days.

Patricia removes all the stitches from me, except for the deep cut in my upper right chest, where I trapped the assassin’s blade. But even that wound is mostly healed, if a little tender still.

Several of the cuts became infected, turning red and inflamed, but to my delight, I was able to burn the corruption out of my body with Unrelenting Fire the same way that I scoured the poison out of me in Bellona’s Arena. I do it at night, before any of the medici have a chance to see.

I am not allowed to spar, but that hardly makes a difference. I am still under strict orders to be. The task which had become so comfortable now chafes at me worse than the bandages I wear. When I first began baking bread, it changed me. For a moment, I was a different man who went down a different path. Instead of breaking things, I made them.

But that is not who I am. It was a fantasy, a fiction that I embraced. I snort in disgust as I realize that I’m doing it again now. Somehow Hiro and Pliny have pulled me into their philosophic game and, for a moment, it made me forget who I am.

In a way, I am grateful for the wounds that I bear. They do not let me hide any longer. Every movement I make burns with the pain of a warrior. I may be baking bread, but I am not a baker. I carry too many Symbols meant for war to be anything other than that.

You are a soldier of the Iron Legion. You do not bend. You do not break. I smile fondly, remembering Durus even now. His words do not rule me like they once did. Like the bread, they are a part of me, but not the whole. I have become something more.

That’s probably what this whole exercise is about.

A tremendous moment of clarity descends upon me, stopping me in my tracks. Of course it is. I have Ascended so quickly that my own understanding of who I am has fallen behind.

When I first gained the Iron Symbol, I was Castor the Boy. Then I became Castor the Legionnaire. After finding Ancient Frost that changed again, turning me into Castor the Abominatio. Now I am a gladiator with three Symbols. What does that mean?

Am I still the Castor who seeks revenge? Yes, I must be—the prickling weight of the votum reminds me. When I made that oath with my brothers from Segesta, I had nothing else. I thought that was all that I was. Now I realize that I am not one singular thing, but a jar that holds many.

I am bound by a multitude of oaths. They pull me in multiple directions, and the weight of these things tears at my own weak foundation. If I do not know who I am, how can I bear up under the strain of the gears that seek to crush me?

Who am I?

I am the son of Evander and Julia.

I am Iron.

I am Ancient Frost.

I am Unrelenting Fire.

I am a baker, a legionnaire, a gladiator, a slave, and a friend.

A vision of Nemesis, the tall woman with blindfolded eyes flickers in my mind. There is another piece to my puzzle. Another thing that must be in the jar to fill me up.

I am Vengeance.

All of these things are pieces of me, not the sum of the whole. I have been trying to be all of them with my whole self. But that is impossible—there is only one of me. I cannot be spread so thin and succeed. Something inside of me clicks, like a joint popping back into place.

I have done it. A broad smile flashes across my face as I feel—not whole, but less fragmented than I have since I first became an electus. Pride runs through me as I realize I have accomplished Hiro and Pliny’s task. I have won their game.

Now I am free.

A baker may not be all of who I am, but there is nothing else I am allowed to do. So, I return to the kitchens, using my left hand to knead the dough to keep from tearing open the hole in my chest. The cooks do not comment on my bandages—that is from a world they want no part of. I respect their distance, leaving my violence at the door.

I have begun to understand who I am, but I have also finally learned how to bake a loaf of bread worth talking about. I eye it with a practiced air as I judge that it needs only a few more minutes in the depths of the oven.

Excitement rises in me like dough. I feel like a journeyman preparing his masterwork to prove his worth. This is my proof, my explanation that I have learned what my teachers want me to see. This will earn me my place among Hiro’s apprentices.

Now! I use a long, flat paddle to slide under the bread and pull it out. I lean in close, inspecting the round loaf, looking for any visual imperfections. There are none. It is perfect—perhaps the best I have ever made.

Grinning from ear-to-ear, I wrap the still-warm loaf in cloth to keep it warm and scoop it up. I feel Palina’s eyes on me as I trot out of the kitchen. I give her a wave that she does not return. She has still not forgiven me for forcing my way into her domain. She has little to fear; I doubt I will have much time to bake any longer.

I follow the path Contessa showed me to the Nihon house hidden in the back of the garden. When the door comes into view, I square my shoulders and fix a smile on my face. My heart races with excitement. When the lanista first brought me to this place, I believed that I was unbeatable. My encounter with the tellus-bearing sicarus has shown me just how much I have to learn. Properly humbled, I approach the domain of a master, eager to become his greatest student.

The bread is still warm.

The door slides open before I finish crossing the glade. Hiro’s granddaughter stands in the entryway once more, watching me approach with a small frown. Today, she is wearing a set of red and black silks, embroidered with creatures I do not recognize. Some mythi from her part of the world, perhaps. Her expression fails to give me pause; after seeing her a few more times in the kitchen, I’ve come to suspect that is just what her face looks like.

“What?” Her voice is brusque, but not cold.

“I’ve come with a gift for Sensei,” I say, trying to copy the bow that I saw the other electi use the last time I was here. A sardonic part of my brain is amused at how much easier it is for me to bow now. I am grateful that the price of that lesson was only a few scars.

The woman’s eyes flicker from my face to my bread without changing her frowning expression. After a moment, she tilts her head to the side, inviting me inside. I do not have to be told to take off my shoes.

There are no other pieces of footwear sitting in the entryway, which relieves me a little. I would hate for poor Pyrus to witness me displacing him in the master’s training group. I feel bad, but I have Censors to kill.

Without a word, Hiro’s granddaughter turns on her heel and leads me through the empty house, toward the garden in the central courtyard. I follow her, distracted as I study the house, full of things from another world. A three-piece painting made of flat panels of wood hangs from a wall, depicting a trio of armed men riding horses through a forest of thin trees.

Golden statues sit on shelves, depicting heroes or gods that I do not know. It is a marvelous thing to see something so different and yet so familiar. I wonder which human first learned to sculpt and then passed the idea through the world, or if art is so ubiquitous that a thousand different people found it on their own? A small smile crooks the corner of my mouth as we pass the wall. I think that such questions are further signs that I am being.

“I still don’t know your name.” I break the silence, speaking to her back several paces away. Her pace does not falter, but she seems surprised. We walk another dozen steps before she responds.

“I am Rin,” she says at last.

“It is nice to meet you, Rin,” I reply warmly, feeling like I have made some progress. Another good sign for my future. “I am Castor.”

“I know.” She is almost as cold as Ancient Frost, but there is no malice to it. It cannot be easy to be here, trapped between two worlds, belonging to neither.

There is no more time for questions before we emerge into the center courtyard of the home. I spot Hiro immediately. He kneels in front of the pond, staring into nothing. His blindfold is still on, and I am struck by the similarity between him and Nemesis, the blind goddess to whom I am bound. What more proof do I need that her specter pushes me toward him?

We approach him silently, and he does not react to our presence. Rin stops several paces behind him, and I copy her, moving to stand by her side. She does not look at me, but a solemn weight settles over the courtyard as I resign myself to waiting.

This must be another test.

Before, I was rash and impetuous. I must show that I have changed and learned patience. I square my shoulders and assume the casual stance of a legionnaire on duty. This is not the first time I have been ordered to wait. Once more Durus’s lessons come to my aid. I miss that old man like a second father. I hope his end was quick and painless.

The three of us stand in silence for a long time.

The shadows begin to shift as Sol moves above us, beginning his afternoon journey toward his nightly rest, and still Hiro does not move. I can feel my bread growing cold as time passes. Surreptitiously, I tap the Symbol of Unrelenting Fire, bleeding a tiny amount of heat back into the loaf, just to keep it fresh.

I glance at Rin to see if she noticed anything amiss, but her eyes are closed. For the first time, her face looks serene and expressionless. Suddenly, I wonder if I am missing part of what is going on here. I have been patient, but I don’t think we are doing the same thing. I am enduring, but she is merely existing. There is a difference that I do not fully understand.

Sol fades behind the horizon, and with it, most of my confidence. But my stubbornness remains, and it has seen me through more dire circumstances than this. If the old swordsmaster thinks that he can wait me out, then he will be sorely disappointed. I may be more than just a man bound by an oath of Vengeance, but that is the most important part of who I am. I will not fail; I will not turn away.

At last, Hiro stirs. He rises gracefully from his kneeling pose, not showing the slightest bit of discomfort after not moving in hours. I stiffen, like a soldier who sees an officer coming down the line. I must have finally passed his test. He twitches in surprise, as if startled to find Rin and me waiting for him.

“I have brought you bread that I baked myself, Sensei,” I announce, extending it forward and bowing at the hips. It is no longer warm; I gave up on trying to maintain it with Unrelenting Fire. It has been so long that at this point it would only be suspicious. But it is fresh, and I am certain that it is my best work yet.

Rin translates, her voice moving quickly in the foreign tongue. I cannot imagine learning something that sounds so different from my own. Our ancient dialect is a mother to the Imperial one that we speak now. In some ways it is easy, many of the words are the same.

Hiro responds with one short question and then begins to walk away, no longer looking in my direction. My heart crumbles before Rin even translates. Somehow, I have failed again.

“Why would I need bread?” she says for him, but her voice is far gentler than it has ever been before. I cannot look in her direction. The loaf tumbles from my numb fingers, and I leave it in the grass.