Stain's Arc

Chapter 1 of 4

Stain wanted to win the great footrace of Horaes, and his shoes would ruin him. He stood outside his home, a stone shelter crowned with a smooth blue dome, and studied his feet. His silver gladiator shoes gleamed in the morning light. They were made for standing at feasts, not for running. The thin straps already showed cracks from yesterday's practice. One hard sprint would tear them apart. He took three steps and pushed into a run. His thin racehorse legs carried him fast across the dirt. The silver straps bit into his pink scales. On the fourth stride, the left shoe split. Leather flapped loose. Stain stumbled and caught himself on his hands. His cobalt eyes stung with frustration. The race was eight days away, and he could not finish one lap. He pulled the broken shoe off and threw it. No cobbler in Horaes made shoes for running. They made shoes for show. Stain needed something new, something that would not betray him mid-stride. Near his den stood a towering tree with pale violet bark. Lime green baskets hung woven among its branches, glowing soft and steady. Stain had passed that tree a thousand times. Today he saw its hanging growths differently. The baskets were tough. They were woven tight. They bent without breaking. He climbed and cut one loose. The woven fiber was light and strong in his hands. He tore it into strips and began to wrap his feet. He pulled each strip snug across his sole and knotted it at the ankle. The green fiber hugged his scales without cutting them. "You'll ruin a sacred tree for a pair of socks." Stain turned. An albino iguana stood watching him, draped in a crimson robe. A fringe of purple feathers crowned his head and neck. His large dark eyes missed nothing. This was the keeper of the glowing tree, and every runner in Horaes feared his sharp tongue. "My shoes broke," Stain said. He held up one wrapped foot. "These won't." The keeper stepped closer and studied the wrapping. He pressed a claw against the fiber and felt it hold. His feathers lifted. "Those baskets took me nine years to grow." He paused. "But I've never seen a man make them into feet." Stain stood and tested his weight. The fiber gripped. He ran a short burst across the dirt. Nothing split. Nothing cut. For the first time, his stride felt clean. The keeper watched him circle back, breathing hard and grinning. "If you mean to run on my tree," the keeper said, "then you run as my runner. Win, and you honor it. Lose, and you've shamed nine years of my work." Stain looked at his wrapped feet, then at the crimson keeper. He had traded a broken problem for a binding promise. His shoes would no longer fail him. Now he carried someone else's pride into the race. "I'll win," Stain said.