WayWocket rises early in the morning as he always does, down in the basement surrounded by his potions, concoctions and half a dozen workbooks, with many more jammed into the bookshelves surrounding his basement bedroom and lab.

Each book is perfect in content, from the penmanship to the use of language, filled with reminiscences from his college days. With his mind always in constant motion, having clear and logical recordings helps him focus. At his last count, he has amassed over fourteen hundred workbooks from his past.

Time now to distil his next batch of medicines. The drip-drip of the flask persists, his magik-treated stone providing the required heat for the evaporation of the liquid. Picking up three large dusk balls, Way blows on them once, each turning into a floating wyrd-light and giving off dull blue, red and yellow colours. When he thinks the command word, they come together to create pure white light.

Glancing over at his central bench, he spots his morning medicines in the carry box he packed last night. How he dreads every morning. The mere taste of these elixirs makes his mind wander but also makes it brilliant, with the ability to see past, present and future probabilities as well as the auras of people.

Why would he need all of these? One reason and one only; survival, not just his own but that of his ‘family’: Joan Stillwater ‘Pure Soul’; the person is known as Lone Solo ‘Dawn Rising’; Gunnar ‘Green Heart’ and soon, Pela ‘Blooded Legacy’. He knows this clarity will flee once he takes the blue potion, and like always he dreads the insanity of the black, despite the boost it offers. Without all six, Way would be lost, drooling, trapped in his own mind.

He throws off his blanket and looks at the crisscross map of the burns and scars on his body. Even though he’s in withdrawal from last night’s rest—his headache like a rusty nail being pushed into his temple—he knows that there’s a more significant concern. He must use and clean his urinal instrument to ensure the runes he inscribed into the pipe do not fade, as they create an illusion that covers the ragged scar of his late genitals.

As WayWocket finishes the cleaning, he turns his attention to the Trinity awful brewing migraine that lets him know that the potion is needed. As his vision becomes blurry, he stumbles across the small spartan room, grabbing his daily doses off the chest of drawers, checking that each elixir is intact and the different coloured liquids are in order.

Taking out the amber vial, he holds the glass tube to his wyrd-lights as they come together. Remarking on the contents, WayWocket sighs, pondering on how the need for this elixir outweighs the wants of ordinary life. Quaffing the amber liquid, euphoria and insight hit his mind, recalling recent days when he’s worked on analysing the spoons—the job contracted to the Rejects.

Leaving the basement, WayWocket takes the stairs to the kitchen. He hears a soft singing voice, a regular occurrence in the Stillwater household. The smell of freshly cut flowers permeates the air as he moves closer to the singing. Standing in the middle of the kitchen is Joan Stillwater in a light, pale peach dress. She swirls around the kitchen watering the various flowers, singing a melody so gentle and sweet it seems strange coming from such a large, muscular woman. Even in the dress, her muscles are apparent, but she looks carefree. Her aura flashes with contentment in the way of yellows and pinks.

As she swirls once more, WayWocket’s golden eyes watch as a double image appears, one turning to him, the other continuing to dance.

Stillwater’s eyes land on Way's still form. Her dancing and singing stopped abruptly. “Good, you’re awake.”

WayWocket looks at Stillwater, his mind moving faster and more precisely as the first of his drugs take hold. “Sun is up, new day… When will we move towards the next path?”

Stillwater is taken aback by WayWocket’s question. Even after all these years, his immediate queries or statements always catch her off guard. She guesses he’s only taken his amber vial so far.

“Way, what do you mean? We’re meeting up with Lone and Gunnar later today, but we have no plans other than that.”

Way wanders over to a drawer, opens it and grabs a spoon. “We have a path.” He brandishes the spoon at Stillwater. “The path of next is clear, must follow it.”

Stillwater’s mind puzzles over the brandished spoon, but it sparks a memory. They were given a job, by someone about something. The details aren’t precise, as the Rejects have had multiple interviews with Inquisitor Dale’s investigators about Zlata and the Watch.

“What does the spoon have to do with our path, Way? Have you had all your concoctions this morn?”

Not waiting for his reply, Stillwater collects a bowl from the bench and grabs a ladle, scooping up some porridge. She needs to get food into WayWocket as soon as possible.

WayWocket watches Stillwater as she grabs his breakfast; not that he needs or wants the food, but it’s easier to make her happy. “Two to come, oats to follow and moving towards the spoon!” he says.

Placing the bowl in front of Way, Stillwater takes another deep breath to ask him what cutlery has to do with anything, but instead, she lets the breath out as a long sigh. Gunnar or Lone can remind me, Stillwater thinks to herself.

“Eat up, Way, and then we’re off to meet the others at the Hall.” Stillwater walks back over to the sink, rinsing the pots from earlier.

WayWocket looks down at the porridge, knowing that he must eat but preferring not to waste his energy on chewing food. A liquid diet is far more functional.

“The Dawn with the Green will be ones to remind of the Heart’s path. Amber, Pink, Blue, Gold and most of all Silver.” With a shiver, “Black.”

Stillwater knows WayWocket’s ritual too well: he picks up his spoon, holds it to the light, sniffs it and then proceeds to slowly extend his tongue to taste. Once he’s repeated that three more times, WayWocket eats the spoonful. Then the process happens again until the bowl is empty.

“Faster, Way. We don’t have all day.” Should have made him start earlier, she thinks. “I’m going to get ready, and that bowl should be finished when I’m done.”

WayWocket’s eyes follow Stillwater’s retreating form, then he picks up his spoon and peers at it. “Not so shiny, where did you go? Is there a silvery trail to follow?”

Another sniff of the porridge, looking at the glint of metal under the gooey mess. There must be a path!