h

by freesayan

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1. a

Moonlight bounced off the rooftops and spires, creating a glowing veil over the city. Merrick Ryd paced the balcony, waiting. By the end of the night, the King of Feldor would be dead, and he would be the one to kill him.

Merrick appreciated his perch from atop his tower of stone. Lanterns illuminated the stone streets of Felting, and the Felavorre River shimmered in the distance. The bustle of the day had settled to a trickle of people making their way through the city at night. He stood tall, like a ruler surveying his domain, untouchable in his walled fortress.

He looked across the city to the castle. Soon, the king would receive an urgent message. After reading it, the man with more compassion than brains would get in his carriage and ride through the streets to his cousin, the one who would desperately need his help. Merrick and his men would be waiting.

What a fool, he thought with a smirk. He felt at his hip to make sure his sword was there—it always was. Time to begin.

Merrick walked through the open doorway, and a blanket of silence fell over the men inside. A lone candle burned on a table, but the light from the moon outside illuminated the room where eleven men waited. Some worked for him at the Ryd Shipyard. Others had similar business interests. All

would willingly give their lives for him. He looked through the crowd, taking his time to lock eyes with each of them.

"I'm sure most of you are curious as to why I called you here. Tonight, the king will die, and I will take his place." Merrick spoke in a calm voice as he let each word stand in the silence. Evil grins formed as heads nodded around the room and Merrick began to pace. "For years, King Wesley has held us back. He doesn't want us to prosper. He doesn't think it's right for us to work hard and enjoy the fruits of our labor. Last season, his minimum wage edict took away our ability to pay our workers an amount that reflected the work they did. Now, these unskilled laborers are using our rightful money to buy nice clothes and bigger houses to live in." He stopped and looked around as a low grumble flowed through the room.

"I didn't burn down Felavorre Shipping or kill the Lord of Trade to allow this to happen. Wesley and his charity are a stain on this city. For the sake of our businesses and everyone in this city who doesn't have the guts to stand up to him, we will do it for them." He looked to a short man with thick arms on the far left. "Adriel, are your men in place with the roadblock?"

"Yes, sir," Adriel replied, standing rigidly.
Merrick nodded as he scanned the crowd. "Let's go."
He walked past his men to the stairs at the far end of the room, but no

one followed or even pivoted their heads. When he turned to see what held their attention, his face froze along with the others.

Standing in the balcony doorway, silhouetted by the moonlight, were three figures wearing hooded cloaks. Merrick couldn't see their faces obscured by shadows, but all three held swords and stood ready to fight.

"Merrick Ryd?" said a female voice coming from a slender figure with long hair escaping her hood.

"Who are you?" Merrick puffed out his chest, masking his unease. How did they get past my walls and guards? How did they get up here?

The figures moved toward him, but Merrick's men stepped in the way, drawing their swords.

The intruders halted, and the tallest one with broad shoulders said in a deep voice, "Our issue is not with you men. Leave now if you do not wish to die."

Ryd's men laughed. The mocking response echoed off the walls of the stone room and settled Merrick's disquiet. His men fanned out and surrounded the intruders while Merrick watched from outside the circle.

"Very well," the tall man said. The three figures stood back-to-back, crouched with their swords pointed outward above their heads.

Adriel moved first, swinging to knock the woman's sword out of the way. Expecting to hear the clash of steel, Merrick gasped as the weapon hit nothing but air, and the woman's blade already stuck into Adriel's chest.

How did she do that? I didn't even see her move. Merrick inched his way backward. Something's not right here.

As he tried to understand what happened, all three figures moved like blurred shadows. Before his men could react, they fell victim to the intruders' lightning-fast swords, receiving fatal wounds one by one. Cries of anguish erupted as blood sprayed through the air. Merrick blinked in time to see the woman pull her sword from the neck of the last of his defenders. The entire fight was over before Adriel's short body even hit the ground.

Blood pooled together from the eleven bodies strewn across the floor as the three figures turned and strode to where Merrick cowered in the corner.

"Who are you? Wh—what do you want?" he asked, holding his shaking sword in front of him.

The hooded figures glanced at each other. The third man spoke in an aged voice as he nodded at the man next to him. Wrinkles on his face were barely visible in the moonlight. "William?"

"We are the Shadow Knights, and we serve the kingdom," the tall man said as he moved his arm slightly.

A glint of candlelight reflected off something fast and metallic. A flash of pain ran through Merrick's body before he felt no more.

I

The Beginning

Ten years later

1

The Tailor's Shop

Veron stood on the roof and looked at the city surrounding him. A collection of buildings in various shapes and heights jutted up unevenly. He imagined the streets and alleys below that flowed together like a collection of streams. Lanterns lit in the main streets gave Karad a glow as if a muted serpent of fire snaked its way through the city's wealthy areas. Behind him, the Bottoms where he called home was completely dark.

"What's the worst that could happen?" Fend asked.

"Seriously?" Veron replied, looking at his friend. "That's your pitch? Getting me to imagine the worst that could happen?"

Veron peered over the edge of the building at the long drop to the empty street below. The wind picked up and whipped his hair, causing him to feel unsteady.

"Come on!" Fend said. "This place'll be the best we ever hit! You seen all the fancy outfits he sells from his shop. You can't find fabric like he sells anywhere south of Split. He's gotta be loaded. Plus, neither of us ate in days. You know you want this!"

As if on cue, Veron's stomach growled. He was hungry. He did want this.

"We'll watch our backs like we always do," Fend continued. "If anythin' goes wrong, we get out of there."

"You 'member the lender's office we hit after we ran away?" Veron asked.

"Yeah. What about it?"
"That was sposta be the best ever, and we left there with nuthin'!" "That's 'cause we had to run. Your shaggy hair stuck out from behind

the wall and gave us away!" Fend punched him on the arm. "Look, Veron, you're thirteen and aren't gettin' any younger. We can't count on people pityin' us and givin' handouts anymore. We need to take care of ourselves."

A gust of wind sent a chill through Veron. His tattered clothing did little to keep him warm, especially during the frigid season of wiether. "What if someone's there?" he asked.

"I told you, no one's home. I saw the tailor and his family pack their wagon this mornin'. I even talked with the girl and asked her where they was goin'. She said they're headin' down to Felting to buy supplies—fabric or somethin'. Won't be back to Karad for three days."

Veron surveyed the city again, trying to avoid deciding.

Under every one of these rooftops is someone with money and food, Veron thought. I'm tired of bein' hungry. I'm sick of this city gettin' the best of me.

He looked back to Fend and nodded. "Okay, let's do it."

Fend set down the sack of supplies he had been carrying and took out a metal wire. "Hold my legs while I get the latch on the window," he said as he crouched at the edge.

Veron sat on his legs, letting the older boy dangle upside down from the second-story roof.

"Got it!" Fend whispered after a moment from over the edge. His hand appeared at the edge of the roof, and Veron pulled him up.

After looping a frayed piece of rope around a nearby chimney, Fend held onto it as he made his way over the edge, feet first. Although he tried to appear confident, his breath quickened as his body lowered. Soon, he disappeared.

Veron waited and listened. For several seconds, all he could hear was his heart beating and the sound of the wind. He tapped absently at the medallion hanging beneath his shirt as he strained his ear forward. Finally, a whisper confirmed it was his turn.

Even though Fend made it look easy and Veron had done it countless times before, he was still nervous. What if the rope breaks? What if I slip and fall? What if someone's in the house? Despite the fear, Veron grabbed the rope and worked his feet over the edge. When his foot rested on the wrought-iron sign below, his nerves settled a bit, but only when he made it through the window and landed inside the building did he feel in control again.

The two boys stood at the end of a short hall. A sliver of moonlight revealed one door frame on the right and two on the left. The staircase at the end would lead down to the shop below. Fend had his ear against the first door on the left, listening. So far, everything was silent.

After a seemingly endless wait, Fend motioned for them to go. The first room was an office with a full bookcase and desk. Veron rifled through the ledgers and papers, but nothing looked valuable. In the far corner, he

spotted a chest, and his heart raced. He tried to open it, but it didn't budge. A keyhole on the front stared at him, taunting him.

With a grin on his face, Fend handed him a small pry bar and whispered, "Your turn."

Veron took the pry bar and worked on the chest, doing his best to be silent. The wood groaned as the chest fought back. The sound was quiet, but it felt like an alarm bell to him. Sweat beaded on his forehead from both the noise and the effort as he strained to open it. He was about to pass the bar to Fend when the lock broke with a loud crack. Veron froze, his ears strained for the slightest noise. The silence soon returned, and they each let out their breath.

Veron's heart raced as he opened the chest, but his smile disappeared and shoulders slumped when he saw it was packed full of papers. Both boys rummaged through the stacks of official-looking documents and maps. The scent of dried parchment clung to Veron's nose—the smell of disappointment and squandered hope.

"What a waste," Fend said as he threw a handful of papers down.

Why would a tailor have so many documents locked away? Veron thought.

Hoping for something more, he continued to dig through the chest until he found a velvet bag at the bottom. A clink sounded as he picked it up. Opening the bag, he emptied it into his hand. Coins—six copper tid and four copper pintid.

"Whoa!" Veron exclaimed, forgetting the need to be quiet.
Fend looked over his shoulder. "Nice!"
Veron had never held that much money in his life. We could live for

almost a season on this. We could buy supplies, bread, fruit—meat even.

Maybe we could get real beds and blankets? Not wanting to hang around any longer than necessary, he put the coins back in the bag and stuffed it in his pocket.

"Let's keep lookin'," Fend said.

The next door down the hall creaked when opened to reveal a kitchen, including shelves with food. There wasn't a lot, but to the starving boys, it was a feast. Veron's stomach growled as if calling out to it.

"Jackpot!" Fend said.

Both boys grabbed what they could, gorging on bread, salted pork, and carrots. They laughed at the unexpected bounty as they took turns shushing each other between bites. After their eating slowed, they stuffed their pockets with as much as they could carry. The pocket space ran out long before the food did.

"If they're gonna be gone three days, why don't we take what we can, then come back tomorrow and get more?" Veron asked as he chewed on a tough piece of pork.

"Yeah, that's a great idea," Fend said with a grin. "Let's get out of here."

They went back into the hall, and Veron grabbed the rope dangling outside the window. Fend remained in the hallway, standing by the remaining door.

"Whatcha doin'?" Veron whispered.
"I wanna see what's in here first."
"We can't carry any more. Let's go."
Fend eased the door open, and Veron sighed as he let go of the rope and

joined his friend. The room was dark, with the only bit of light coming in from the window. Shadows covered the floor from the outline of two beds.

One bed was bare, and the other held a pile of blankets. A bookshelf stood at the end of the room with what looked like two bronze candlesticks on top.

"Whoa!" Fend said as the boys crossed the room. "Those hafta be worth a silver argen apiece!"

With one foot on the edge of the bed and the other on one of the shelves, Fend extended his arm, but the first candlestick was barely out of reach.

"What do you think you're doing?" a deep, unfamiliar voice asked.

Veron spun around and froze. A body stood behind them—a body shaped like a pile of blankets. Veron cursed himself for not being more careful when they came in.

"What are you doing?" the bundle of blankets repeated with growing intensity.

"I—I saw the tailor leave this mornin'. I thought the house was empty," Fend said with a wavering voice.

"The tailor?" the other man said. "His shop is next door. You thought you could take his stuff while he was out?"

Veron glared at Fend. "You got the wrong house?" he muttered.

Before Veron could think of what to do, Fend yelled as he ran at the man and collided with his body square in the midsection, knocking him backward over the bed. Veron's heart raced as he and Fend ran for the stairs.

Desks, books, papers, and files filled the shop below. We must be in the tax assessor's shop next door to the tailor's. That explains the chest full of documents.

Veron reached the door first, and his stomach dropped—locked. He frantically looked around. They were trapped. He froze, unable to think as

fear set in. His paralysis shattered along with the window as Fend threw a chair through it, spraying glass and splinters of wood into the street.

"Let's go!" Fend said, motioning.

The boys scurried through the broken window. Glass shards tugged on Veron's clothing, hands, and legs. He ignored the pain as they stumbled onto Market Street at the edge of Karad Square.

"Thieves! Stop them! Thieves!" a voice shouted from above.

Veron looked up. The tax assessor leaned out the upstairs window where their rope dangled limply. He pointed at them but looked across the square to where three soldiers stood staring back. Veron's heart sank as he recognized the tallest soldier. Captain Mortinson—the last man he wanted to see.

The boys took off. Running from soldiers, shopkeepers, or anybody he tried to steal from was nothing new to Veron. He was fast and able to climb up and squeeze through places few people could. They turned left at the first alley, but the soldiers had already closed half the distance. Futile calls for them to stop echoed off the stone walls and streets.

Fend led the way with Veron on his heels, fighting to keep up. The bulk of the food stuffed in their pockets made running difficult, but they didn't slow, even when items began falling out.

Veron glanced back as they left the alley and crossed Split Street. To his dismay, the soldiers still pursued and were even closer. Why do they hafta be so persistent?

On the other side of Split started the Bottoms—a labyrinth of passages and alleyways. Buildings grew on top of buildings, many of which were falling over and unsafe to inhabit. Veron and Fend knew the neighborhood

better than anyone, and in seconds, they would disappear in the maze of dark streets and buildings.

Fend ducked down a narrow passage as they entered the neighborhood, dodging between buildings. After emerging onto a larger street, a crumbling stone staircase led to the third floor of an abandoned building. Veron followed Fend up, taking two steps at a time. Many years ago, the building and those around it made up the Benevorre Lumber Mill. Years before, the Great Fire destroyed much of the city, including most of the mill, which was never rebuilt and left to fall into ruins.

The rickety door at the top of the stairs was off its hinges, revealing a decrepit room inside. Much of the walls had crumbled. The roof eroded long ago, and the rains had done their damage to the rest of the structure. Holes dotted the floor, which looked and smelled of rot. On the opposite side of the room through a busted window stood the remains of a stone wall.

Veron panted, trying to catch his breath as he peeked around the doorway to see if they'd lost their pursuers. Fend joined him in the opening as Mortinson and the others emerged from the tight passage on the street below.

Before the boys had a chance to duck back, one of the soldiers pointed at them. "Up there!"

"This is no good, Fend. They won't stop," Veron said, voice shaking.

Fend's mouth twisted in a smirk. "Let's see 'em follow us here!" The older boy laughed as he crossed the room, dodging the holes, and stepped through the window frame to walk the precarious path on top of the wall outside.

Veron wasn't about to be left behind, so he forced himself to step out after him. The wind picked up, and he held out his arms to keep balance. Blood from the shop window cuts dripped down his arms as he walked. The stone wall consisted of rocks and mortar jutting out in no regular pattern, making balancing difficult. On the left, the ground was barely visible in the darkness below. On the right, across a small alley, was the roof of another building. When he was only a few steps onto the narrow wall, the soldiers arrived at the window behind him.

"Stop! Come back!" one of them yelled.

Veron kept moving. "Uh . . . Fend? Where we goin'?" he asked as he looked ahead. "This wall doesn't go much more."

"Just keep movin'," Fend told him.

After a dozen more steps, the wall ended abruptly. Fend stopped and peered over the end, muttering a curse to himself. Veron turned around to look for other escape options. The roof to their right was not far away. Made of slate, it held up against time better than the others around it and appeared stable. The soldiers remained at the window behind them. Mortinson's formidable frame in the opening caused Veron's legs to wobble.

Veron looked to Fend. "The roof?"

"The roof," Fend replied, his usual jovial state replaced with a grim expression.

One of the soldiers stepped onto the wall. Veron's pulse raced, and he suddenly felt dizzy from the height. Steeling his jittery legs, he leaped.

Clearing the gap, he landed hard on the slate and fell to his knees. The impact was jarring, but the roof held. Fend came next, effortlessly covering the distance, but as he landed, a slate tile shifted from the sudden impact.

He staggered and cried out as his body fell backward. Out of instinct, Veron reached out and caught his flailing arm.

Fend leaned precariously over the edge while Veron held tight. The two boys froze, and for a moment, Veron thought he had saved his friend until his grip began to slip. The blood covering his hand was too slick for him to hold on. Fend's eyes pleaded with him. The uncharacteristic fear he showed unnerved Veron. He tried to hold on with all his strength until Fend's arm slipped from his grasp. Their eyes locked in terror as the older boy tumbled backward over the edge.

"Fend!" Veron yelled into the darkness. "Fend!" He listened for a moment but heard nothing. Using a drainpipe on the far side of the building, he scurried to the ground.

The alley was dim, lit only by the moon high in the sky. The stone walls, blanketed in a mossy green, smelled damp from years of water and neglect. Fend lay at the base of the wall, looking at Veron in anguish. He lay on his side, breathing fast, shallow breaths.

Veron knelt next to him and put his hand on his shoulder. "Fend! You okay? Can ya get up?" he asked.

Halfway down the lower part of Fend's leg, the torn, light-colored fabric was dark and glistening where a smooth stick impaled his calf. Veron grimaced. He put his hands under Fend's arms to try to lift him, but Fend yelled and grabbed at his leg. Veron paled as his stomach turned. The object wasn't a stick. It was a snapped bone.

Veron fought back the urge to retch. No! I have to be strong for Fend! Suddenly, he remembered their pursuers and looked up to the abandoned window. Where are they? He glanced around, finding nothing but empty passageways. They could be here any second!

"We hafta go!" Veron said, trying to lift Fend again.

"Just go!" Fend said, pushing him away. "I can't move anywhere. Just leave!"

He wouldn't leave me, and I'm not 'bout to leave him. I need a plan. The empty alley offered no help, but he could check the building.

"Hold on! I'll be right back," Veron said before darting into the building. "There's a cart here!" he whispered forcefully over his shoulder. His arms ached as he wheeled a heavy wooden cart across the room. "Fend, I think we can—" Veron stopped when he looked up.

Fend lay by the wall, but something was wrong. His eyes were wide, and there was a slight but definite shaking of his head.

"Well, well, look who we have here," said a voice, coming down the alley. "I guess jumping off a roof to get away isn't such a good idea, huh?" The three soldiers came into view through the open doorway.

"Where's your friend?" Captain Mortinson's deep voice cut through the darkness as he stood over Fend.

The sight of the captain turned Veron's blood to ice. His trimmed beard framed a face as hard as flint. Veron set the cart down and crept to the edge of the building behind some crates. In the shadows of the building, the soldiers wouldn't be able to spot him.

What are they gonna do? Maybe if I run up from behind and grab their swords . . . ?

Mortinson leaned close to Fend, speaking in a calm, ominous voice. "I said"—he put pressure on Fend's leg—"where is your friend?"

Fend screamed, tears running down his face. His head shook from side to side, but he refused to answer or even look at the soldiers.

Veron shook with rage. How can they treat him like that?

"Do you find it amusing to steal?" Mortinson asked as he straightened. "This city is defined by people who contribute. They do what they're told and follow the rules. And you? You do nothing but contribute to its filth and decay. One day, if I get my way, I'll run all of your kind out the gates."

The captain looked at the other two soldiers and nodded before turning and walking back up the alley. The two soldiers didn't follow.

They're gonna look for me!

Where he hid was dark, but they would find him if they looked. Another doorway on the opposite side of the room gave Veron hope. He inched his way in that direction as he glanced back at the soldiers, ready to spring into action. They hadn't moved. Somethin's wrong. They're not searchin' at all.

Suddenly, he stopped. His heart beat rapidly again as his hands grew clammy. The world slowed as one of the soldiers drew a sword from its sheath. The metallic shriek sounded like screaming in his ears.

No, they can't! His chest convulsed as he watched the soldier run Fend through the chest with his sword, drawing a cry of anguish from him. Veron tried to scream, but no sound emerged. He grabbed his own chest to numb the pain while his arm shook uncontrollably. He covered his mouth with the other hand.

The soldier put his sword away, and the two of them left. Rocks skittered off the walls of the alley as their laughter grew distant.

When they were gone, Veron ran to his friend. "Fend! Are you—?" He choked back the next words.

Fend held the wound on his chest, but the pool of blood was already too large. He looked at Veron with sad eyes that knew what came soon.

"I'm so sorry," Veron said. "If only I'd . . . I could've . . ." He shook his head, unable to find the right words. He fought tears as Fend shook his head

with him.
"Not your fault," Fend said before a fit of coughing took over. Blood

stained his lips from the effort. "I shoulda got the right shop." He managed a weak smile. "Promise me . . ." Fend took several labored breaths. "Promise me you'll be more than this."

Veron leaned back. More than what?

"Don't be a thief. You're better than this. Don't end up like me. Promise!" Fend said before coughing up blood again.

Veron sniffed and wiped his eyes. "I—I promise." He took Fend's free hand and held it tightly. They both managed a weak smile. After a moment, Fend's chest stopped moving. "Fend?" Veron gently shook him by the shoulder—no response.

Sobs racked Veron's body as he sat on the ground. He no longer felt the chill of the cold night, and he couldn't smell the must of the decaying alleyway. All he thought of was wishing he could have held on. Veron had no idea what to do next. His only friend in the world was dead.

2

The Streets of Karad

Fend deserved better than his body rotting away in some alley, but Veron didn't have the means for a proper burial. The next best option was the river.

His arms shook as he labored to carry the body down the dark street toward the water. Thankfully, it was close. He choked back tears as reality set in. What am I goin' to do on my own? he thought. As his friend's blood stained his own clothes, Veron struggled to keep him from slipping. It feels wrong to carry him like this.

Arriving at the water's edge, he set Fend's body in the river and gently pushed him away from the shore. Veron sat on the bank and watched through blurry tears as the body caught the current and disappeared, downstream. He wiped his eyes, but the loss he felt remained.

Veron wanted to do anything but go back to the abandoned building they'd made their home over the last few years. It would feel too empty without Fend, so he aimlessly wandered the dark streets in a daze. All he

could think about was Fend's body on the ground . . . the sound of the sword . . . his bloody handprint on Fend's arm.

If only I held on, or fought 'em off, or called for help. In all his life, he'd never felt so alone.

Veron walked up Gate Street as the sky began to lighten and people started to get up and around. Due to the high traffic of the main road, eager shopkeepers lived along the way and set up goods outside in the street to tempt those passing. Being the first day of the workweek, shop owners opened early on Marketday. They were eager to get started after being closed Weekterm the day before. The clatter of vendors assembling wooden stands and calling out exuberant greetings to each other bounced off the stone street.

After meandering for a while, Veron arrived back at Karad Square and turned left down Market Street as if some force pulled him there. The square was mostly empty so early in the morning. Veron shuffled along with no real destination, passing the baker, grocer, butcher shop, and empty benches in the square. He stopped for a moment outside the window of the cobbler's shop, the older man already hard at work by the light of a lantern.

I wish I could do that. I could wake up early and work hard makin' shoes . . . if I knew how to do it.

He continued along the road a few more steps until he was stopped suddenly by the sight of the tailor's shop. Seeing it made his stomach turn. Veron hated the shop. The door was closed, and all the lights were off. As if taunting him, a sign hung in the window. Although he couldn't read, he knew enough to tell it said they were closed.

Above the sign was a window on the second floor. To the right of it was the one he went through the previous night. Beside that window, a wrought-

iron sign hung flapping in the light breeze with a picture of coins, identifying it as the tax assessor's office. The tax office window on the ground floor was already boarded up, but broken glass and wood still littered the street.

Veron wasn't worried about being noticed because of the darkness of the previous night. The real truth was he didn't even care if they did. The longer he stood there, the more the memory hurt. A cramp developed in his side, and his chest tightened. As his eyes watered, he knew he was losing control and had to leave.

Veron backtracked the way he came, past the market. Smelling the scent of the bakery, he wished he hadn't lost his bread as he ran. I have money! he thought suddenly, perking up slightly.

Veron entered the bakery, and the owner gave him a suspicious look.

"One loaf of bread," he said, standing up tall, acting as if the blood staining his clothes was normal.

The baker scowled and grabbed a loaf to hand to Veron. "Two pintid."

Veron laughed to himself. I could buy thirty-two loaves if I wanted! He reached in his pocket to pull out the bag of money. Oh no! His heart sank as he realized it wasn't there. He patted his pockets and looked at the baker with wide eyes.

The man immediately pulled back the bread he was extending toward him. "No money, no bread."

Veron's heart sank as his face flushed. He kicked the counter in frustration. The feeling of shame was familiar. He had grown accustomed to it over the years. But this, on top of being hunted by soldiers and losing his friend, was too much to handle.

"Yeah, well, I didn't want your stupid bread anyway!" he snapped.

Veron went back to the tax office and retraced his steps from the night before, looking to see if the coin bag lay on the ground somewhere. Six tid and four pintid. How could I lose that?

As he searched, he kept looking over his shoulder, expecting a soldier to appear with a sword at any moment, but there were none. He found the remains of the bread that had dropped from their pockets surrounded by a swarm of mice. He looked everywhere they ran but found no trace of the money. He was once again a coinless street kid. A strained laugh trickled out as Veron shook his head and wiped the corners of his eyes.

Everything is lost. Fend died for nothing.

Knowing he couldn't avoid it forever, Veron finally returned to the rundown room where he stayed. The one-room building had been empty for many years before he and Fend discovered it. To get to it, they had to climb through the remains of another collapsed building. A roof covered only some of the room, and weeds grew as tall as trees through the spaces where windows used to be. Plaster was missing from most of the walls, but they remained standing. On each side of the dusty floor was a pallet of straw where each boy slept with threadbare blankets. Their prized possession sat in the middle of the room—one rickety chair.

Other than the clothes on his back and his chair, the only possession he valued was his father's medallion. Made of pewter, the round medallion displayed the letters SK and a sword pointing downward. It hung around his neck on a leather cord, nestled against his chest. Veron didn't know his father's name but assumed SK were his initials. When he sat in thought, he often traced the line of the sword absently with his finger.

Veron never knew his mother and only had a vague memory of his father who would visit him monthly at the orphanage when he was young. He was the only kid who had any parent visit, so it made him feel special until it ended suddenly many years ago. He assumed his father either died or forgot about him, which was part of the reason he ran away.

Veron sat in his chair and stared across the room at the empty straw pallet where Fend had slept. He didn't want to go near it. He pictured Fend sitting there as they recounted their adventure.

"Fend, that was a crazy night, last night, huh?"

"Sure was, Veron. We showed those soldiers we could run, didn't we? I can't believe I got the wrong house, haha. Maybe next time I should let you pick the job?"

Veron smiled at his friend until a bird outside the window drew his attention away. When he looked back, Fend was gone, and he remembered he was alone.

How am I sposta provide for myself? I don't know how to decide what places to hit. Fend had always been the driving force behind their team, coming up with plans and ideas.

His hands started to shake. His chest hurt as he tried to fight back the tears.

I hate this city.

Veron perched atop a roof, looking out on Kulling Square on an unseasonably warm afternoon for the fourth week of wiether. Usually, the thirty-week season was well into frigid temperatures by this point, but Veron didn't complain. He always counted the weeks down until the warmth of suether returned.

One of Veron's favorite things to do was to climb buildings and check out the area from up high. From the rooftops, not only could he look for potential places to rob, but he also simply enjoyed the peace and solitude. In the crowded city, it was a land all to himself. Walking through the streets surrounded by people, he felt alone and inconsequential. When on a building, even though he was the only one there, he felt like he belonged to something. He was the most important person around.

Fend had been gone for several weeks, but the pain was still fresh. For the moment, Veron was content to rest and observe the city. Pigeons chased each other while people came and went in the square below. Children ran around, laughing, watched by adults who sat together and talked. Although the Bottoms was a poor neighborhood, people still carved out a meager living for themselves.

A woman emerged from an alley and walked up to a man by a vegetable cart. She gave him a box of food, and he gave her a small pouch that she put in her pocket. After a quick kiss, she turned and walked away.

A wife bringin' her husband fresh food from a garden, Veron thought. No one else saw the interaction, and he smiled, feeling part of it in a small way.

The woman walked back down the alley the way she came, but before she turned out of sight around the corner, two men jumped her, causing Veron to flinch. He couldn't hear because of the distance, but he could see it all. One grabbed her from behind, and the other punched her in the stomach. When she fell to the ground, the men wrestled with her to take the pouch in her pocket. Veron tensed out of instinct. The sight of conflict made his pulse race and body freeze as unpleasant memories came to mind. He assured himself he was too far away to help the lady, but he wouldn't have even if he were close.

As he watched the scene, two soldiers walked up the alley. The tall bearded one he could recognize anywhere. Captain Mortinson. Veron's blood boiled. The soldiers spotted the lady and ran to her, chasing away the thieves, who fled empty-handed before they could be caught.

After helping the lady back to her feet, the soldiers talked with her. Although Veron couldn't hear, he could tell the conversation was heating up from the animated gestures. Mortinson slapped the lady across the face and took the pouch out of her pocket after a brief struggle. She bent over, holding her face as the soldiers walked away around the corner.

Veron shook his head, disgusted, but he wasn't surprised. They would've thrown those men in prison had they been caught, but the soldiers are no better.

That was normal for life in Karad. No one trusted those in charge. Given a chance, they cheated because they were selfish. As a result, people learned to depend on themselves. If they didn't make something good happen, it never would.

A life devoted to stealing wasn't without consequences, and the city provided regular reminders of it. A week before, another street kid named

Reed tried to steal money from a merchant in East Fairren and got caught. The soldier who caught him took him directly to Karad Square and, to the horror of everyone watching, proceeded to chop off his hands as penance. Veron also knew of several street beggars who simply disappeared. No one knew exactly where they went, but most assumed they were forced into slavery. For someone who lived on the streets, the choice was either to give up and die or keep begging and stealing to survive.

I'm tired of this, Veron thought, exhaling heavily. He gazed across the rooftops of the city. Somethin' needs to change. I need to be more than this. I can't grow up bein' a thief. But what can I do? I don't have any skills or abilities. What I need is money. If I had money, I could stop bein' a thief. But how can I get enough money? If he kept stealing small things, he would eventually be caught. His heart started beating faster as he formed an idea. He needed a big job—something he could do once and be done. Then he could start an honest life.

Veron smiled at the thought as he got up and dusted off his pants to head home. Tomorrow, I'll start lookin', and I have an idea of just where to begin.

3

Young Lord of Commerce

Anyone who saw him knew Brixton Fiero was from an affluent family. His clothes were richly colored, clean, and well pressed. His straight blond hair was perfectly kept and trimmed. When he walked, he stood tall, projecting confidence. Despite the refined outward appearance, being a fourteen-year-old boy, he had an unpolished excitement to him—a sparkle in his eye.

It was late in the morning, and the sun had risen well above the city wall to the east, taking the morning chill away. Brixton stood on the edge of Karad Square, bouncing on the balls of his feet, waiting. The smell of warm bread from the bakery wafted through the air, causing his mouth to water even though he had already eaten. He watched his father, standing next to him, surveying the square, and waited on the instruction he knew was to come.

His father, Raynor Fiero, had been Karad's Lord of Commerce for the last five years. In appearance, his hair and features were similar to Brixton, but the years had taken a toll on him. Lines recently began to cover his face,

and his shoulders had started to sag, but the slowly fading exterior did not embody who he was on the inside. Raynor was not a man to be crossed or even questioned. He got where he was by being ruthless and would not stand for being second-guessed.

Brixton spent most of his young life learning with private tutors—math, science, economics, reading, writing, even sword fighting. When he wasn't learning elsewhere, Brixton often shadowed his father.

Raynor pointed to a man with a cart in the middle of Karad Square. "Do you see the vendor selling candied nuts over there?" he asked, and Brixton nodded. "Why do you think he's selling from a cart rather than from inside a store?"

His father frequently asked him questions. They often made him feel stupid as if he should already know the answer, but he was eager to try on the chance that his father would be impressed. "Um . . . I don't know. Maybe he couldn't afford a store?" Brixton replied.

His father huffed in response. "No, the rent for a storefront would be higher, but there are a lot of advantages to offset that cost. Higher security, less hassle to set up, and you don't need a place to keep a cart. If someone wanted a store, there are some cheap ones out there they could find."

Brixton thought again but couldn't come up with anything else. He shrugged.

Raynor exhaled in frustration. Brixton didn't share his father's natural intelligence in the area of commerce, so to make up for it, his father pushed him extra hard. "Think about it. Why does anyone go to a store?" Raynor asked.

"Because they need to buy something?"

"Yes. They need something, so they go to the store that has it. No one ever has candied nuts on their list of needs. Rather, as they walk across the square to do something else and see the candy in front of them, they may want to buy some. Consider how that works if they hide their store down a back alley. How many people go out of their way to buy candied nuts?"

"No one?" Brixton asked.
"So, why do you think he sells from that cart?"
"Well, with a cart, I guess he can set up where he wants—along the

busiest streets, or by the docks when boats arrive, or in the middle of the square on festival days. He'll probably want to set up where he'll be noticed and could get people to buy when they weren't planning on it."

"Finally!" Raynor shook his head as he turned to head up High Street.

Brixton did his best to remember each time he learned something new. He tried never to make the same mistake twice.

An older lady walked by them going in the opposite direction, carrying a flat of turnips. Her clothes were ratty and face dirty. Brixton could smell her even before she passed. Having just turned around, Raynor collided with the turnip vendor, knocking her over and sending the vegetables rolling across the ground.

"Watch where you're walking, you imbecile!" his father shouted.
"I'm so sorry, sir," the lady mumbled. "I'll try to be more careful." Brixton bent down to help the lady gather her turnips.
"Thank you, son," the lady said with a smile as Brixton finished. Brixton smiled back while the lady walked away. As he turned around,

his gaze met the scowl of his father.
"If that's the way you want to live, so be it," Raynor said. "But

remember this well, son. Elevating yourself in life will require someone

else to fall. If you help others up when they need it, they'll either pull you down with them or pass you up altogether. You need to consider what status you want to attain in life."

Why would it hurt for me to help that lady? That's not going to bring me down. I like helping people . . . but I also want to be successful. Brixton grinned as an idea grew. I'm going to prove to him that I can do both! His eyes lit up, and feet felt light as he followed his father up the street.

It didn't take long for them to make their way up High Street. Halfway between the square and the castle stood the office of the Department of Commerce. Like all the other buildings on High Street, the old stone structure was well maintained. The shutters on the windows were black in contrast to the light gray stone. The angles of the door and windows were sharp, giving it an imposing look. For someone who lacked confidence, the building would be intimidating to enter.

Brixton entered with his father to the familiar smell of the office, ink and paper. The large room contained several desks where the commerce clerks worked, keeping track of all commercial information in the city. The job was a busy one and was well suited to those proficient in keeping detailed records and working with numbers.

"Brix, it's good to see you!" the man at the first desk said as they entered the office.

Tucker Waystone was a somewhat heavyset man in his mid-thirties who had served as head clerk for sixteen years. The other two clerks, Roland and Heath, both acknowledged the Fieros' presence with a nod.

"Tucker, write up a fixed price declaration on iron ore to take effect in two weeks," Raynor said, pausing beside the clerk's desk.

"Sure, at what cost?" Tucker asked as he began to write.

"Three tid per pound."

Tucker's head shot up. "It's currently trading around 1.7 tid. Are you sure you want to go up that much?"

"Why do you think I said it?" Raynor said with force, drawing the attention of everyone in the office. Silence hung awkwardly until he offered further explanation—his voice noticeably softer. "The market has been soft due to competition, and suppliers aren't even covering their procurement costs. As it is now, iron is set for a massive supply emergency unless we can bring prices up."

Tucker nodded and turned back to his work while Brixton followed his father to his separate office in the back of the building. Compared to the clerks, his father was seldom in the office. It seemed to Brixton that most of his work was simply to tell the others what to do. He got involved with disputes or when pricing needed regulating, but he usually just spent his time looking over reports.

"So, what'll you work on today, Father?" Brixton asked as they sat down.

"I have some new license applications to review. I'll spend some time checking tax records. Later today, I have a meeting with Charles Marshall."

Brixton squirmed in his seat at the mention of the Lord of Treasury's name. Maybe I can skip that meeting somehow? That guy gives me the creeps.

"I also need to choose the Gold Crown winner for this year," Raynor added.

The Gold Crown Award was what all shopkeepers in Karad desired, but only one shop per year earned it. The winners received a seal to mount over their door, which they kept as long as they lived. Once awarded, their taxes

dropped, and sales usually increased due to the prestige. At the time, only seven businesses in Karad held the honor out of almost 300 licensed shops.

Brixton's father handed him two stacks of papers. "Here, check out these applications for new business licenses and let me know what you think."

All right! A chance for me to prove I can make decisions! "Cheel Lovingood . . . applying for a blacksmith shop in the Docks . . . requested building unoccupied," Brixton said aloud as he reviewed the documents. "No personal business experience but apprenticed under a master in Karondir. Wants to make horseshoes along with weapons and armor. Starting assets are iron, steel, vise, anvil, hammers. Only one other blacksmith in the Docks currently." He looked up from the papers. "Sure, I think this looks good."

"Anything there give you pause?"

"Not having business experience isn't the best, but I imagine that's the case for a lot of people. Plus, apprenticing could make up for that. With only one other in the area, there shouldn't be an issue of there being enough work to support him. Yeah, I'd say it should be fine."

"What would you post his seasonal license fee at?" Raynor asked.

Every business owed the Department of Commerce a license fee, which varied depending on their size, due the premweek—the first week—of each of the two seasons, wiether and suether.

Brixton rechecked the papers. "It's a single-story shop, small, in the Docks . . . maybe five silver argen?"

"Not bad," Raynor said, nodding his head. He took the top sheet from Brixton and scribbled a few words on it before giving it back. "Hand that stack to Tucker. Tell him, six argen fee."

Pretty close! Brixton beamed with pride as he left the room to pass the message on to Tucker and give him the papers.

Sitting back in his father's office, Brixton looked to the second stack. "Muriel Dalstrom, applying to operate a clock shop on Market Street. Ran one in Felting for five years and has just moved to Karad. Starting inventory is good. Shop recently vacated. Two-room living space above the shop. This one definitely looks good."

"Really? Nothing stands out as a flag?" his father asked with a raised eyebrow as he leaned back in his chair and fingered his chin absently.

Brixton had a sinking feeling in his stomach. I'm missing something! But what?

"What about the fact that she's a woman?" his father asked.

Brixton pursed his lips and tilted his head. I don't get it. Why does that matter? Maybe I'm about to learn something important!

"Take your mother, for example. She takes care of us—me, you, and your sister. We need her to do the things she does." Brixton leaned forward and nodded. "And I work and earn money. You need me to work, and you need your mother at home. So, can you see how it might be a problem to allow a woman to operate a clock shop?"

"I guess, but"—Brixton shuffled back through the papers—"it says here her husband died, which is why she moved to Karad—to be near her son. She'll need to be able to make money somehow, right?"

"But what sort of message does it send if we allow her to have a shop?" Raynor asked. "Then, other women will want to have their own shops, and who knows where it'll stop? Her son can take care of her."

"So, you're going to deny her for being a woman?" Brixton fought back a laugh. "That's ridiculous, Father!"

Raynor leaned his head back and stared down his nose at Brixton without responding. The clock on the wall marked the seconds as they passed, each tick making Brixton more uncomfortable.

"No," Raynor said. "Of course not." He snatched the sheet from Brixton's hand and wrote on it, the scratching of the pen drowning out the clock. "I'll approve her application," he said with tight lips. "Maybe she'll be successful. Tell Tucker to approve—four gold sol for the fee."

Brixton's head popped up from watching the paper, his face screwed in confusion. "What? She'd never be able to pay that much."

His father smirked. "Well, if that's the case, then that solves our issue, doesn't it? And if she somehow is able to pay, that's more income for our department."

The treasury office was nearby on the other side of the street four buildings down. Its facade was unique in that it was the shape of a large coin— impossible to miss. Brixton and his father entered the small space inside. Two clerks sat at their desks facing the door, but Raynor ignored them as he walked directly to Marshall's office in the back. Brixton followed.

Lord Charles Marshall was intimidating to Brixton—not in the way a soldier was because of their size and strength but rather because he always seemed to be up to one scheme or another. His wrinkled skin made him appear much older than he actually was. Brixton hated shaking his bony hand. When he stood up straight, a defined crook to his back left him short in stature. Being in his presence made Brixton feel uneasy.

Although he was supposed to gain experience through listening, when the men droned on about rates, caps, and lenders, Brixton rarely paid attention. He sat in the office, staring at the walls while the men talked. He

counted the seams in the boards and read the titles of the books on the shelf —all of which looked boring. The sound of children laughing penetrated the walls, and Brixton found himself longing to be out of the stuffy room.

I can't see myself doing what Father does every day, Brixton thought. What do I want to do? He thought back to the variety of people in the square, all with different jobs. His mouth watered as he remembered the smell of the bread. I can learn to knead dough and bake bread and pastries to sell in the square! I could eat whatever I wanted and have the biggest and fanciest bakery in Karad! What would Father think though? Would he be disappointed if I became a baker? He pictured the rows of goods to sell. He imagined his wife with flour covering her baby bump, helping him take trays out of the oven. Customers waited in a line that went out the door. Yeah, I could do that.

He opened his eyes with a start when he realized they were closed. I must have drifted off. I don't even remember falling asleep.

The men were still engrossed in conversation and appeared oblivious to his presence or lack thereof. They talked in hushed tones. "Do you think it'll hold?" Marshall asked.

"Of course, that's what we do. It'll be fixed at three in two weeks," said Raynor.

Marshall had a wicked grin on his face. "Excellent." "When will your mine start producing?"
"We started shipments last week."
Raynor nodded. "And the coins?"

"Next week."

Both men smirked in an odd way. Marshall's eyes flicked to an awake Brixton, causing him to fidget in his seat.

"Brixton, you're awake, I see," his father said, glaring at him. "I think it's time to go."

Brixton followed his father out of the office, nodding at Marshall as he left. He was relieved to go but nervous about how his father would make him regret falling asleep. A smile came back as his mind returned to his imaginary bakery.

4

Walls of Opportunity

The opportunity to steal much of value was rare in the Bottoms and Upper Sherry. Veron often found himself wandering the alleys on the other side of Split, looking for scraps, loose coins, or anyone who would take pity on him.

Other than Gate Street, Split Street was the largest in the city. It ran from the East Gate straight to the river. Its official name was Archibald Street, named after some baron from long ago, but everyone called it Split because it split the city both physically and economically. The wealthy merchants, nobles, bankers, and anyone with money lived north of the road. Dockworkers, laborers, beggars, and thieves lived to the south.

Although he usually avoided looking for food south of Split, the place in front of him with its tall stone wall and solid gate in Upper Sherry had been on his mind for a while. Maybe this could be the job? he thought. With a wall like this, surely there are plenty of valuables inside. He paced the alley, evaluating the barrier for weakness. The wall was in disrepair and had chunks falling out of it, but it had been enough to keep him out so far.

At one of the corners, he used the cracks in the stones to raise himself high enough to see inside the complex. A wooden house stood two stories tall with several windows on both floors. Almost double the size of most places in the south of the city, it appeared well kept. To the house's right, a garden filled with heads of lettuce, green verquash hanging from their stalks, carrots, and several other foods made his mouth water. The garden alone looked worth a visit, but what he imagined was inside the house excited him more.

A house that large has gotta have treasures inside. Coins. Gold. Silver. I could be rich! This is it. This'll be my job!

Several hours after darkness fell, Veron walked the alley a couple of times. The moon was almost full, lighting up the street and the wall. The luminous space left him feeling vulnerable, but no one was around. After climbing the wall, he paused to scan the area. Everything seemed dark and quiet, so he dropped to the other side.

The garden tempted him. He smelled the freshly turned dirt and saw the plant stalks with vegetables ripe for harvest. His hunger begged him to take some beans and verquash and run, but he stopped himself. He wanted money and could come back for the food later.

Veron crept to the house and peeked through a window. The wooden shutters that neatly framed it stood wide-open, but nothing was lit inside. He tried the front door. Unlocked!

Inside, the house smelled crisp and clean without the odor of mold. On the right, an empty sitting room held three chairs and a short table. A bookshelf stacked with books leaned against the back wall. He walked through the room quickly but didn't see anything of interest. On the left side

of the house, opposite the stairwell, a kitchen held some food, which Veron would pilfer as he left. The far side of the kitchen led to a room at the back of the house. As Veron walked into it, his mouth dropped.

The room was enormous. It ran the width of the house and had an impressively high ceiling. A window sat at each end as well as two more on the long side. At the far right, a door led back out toward the garden. The only furniture was a long narrow table against the back wall. In the back right corner, chains suspended a large log from the ceiling that looked like it had been beaten to death from years of abuse.

What held Veron's attention was the various weapons that covered the walls. Swords, daggers, shields, a battle-ax, several wooden poles, and clubs. He had never seen so many weapons all in one place. One sword was particularly stunning. It had a ruby in the hilt and ornate scrolling along the blade.

Wow, should I take this and leave? He quickly dismissed the thought. He needed to find coins or something easier to sell. What type of person lives here? Either a collector of weapons or some sort of warrior. The consideration gave him pause. Maybe this isn't the best house to be stealin' from? Veron looked around as sweat beaded on his forehead. He took a deep breath and shook his head. I don't have a choice. I have to try.

Veron returned to the front part of the house and crept up the stairs. A few of the steps creaked, but when he paused, nothing stirred. Two closed doors greeted him at the top. He opened the one on the left, revealing a small room with nothing but an empty bed and a small table. Over the bed hung an old painting of a castle, which sat by a calm lake that reflected it like a mirror. He wasn't interested in taking artwork, so he quickly left.

Whoever lives here must be in this last room, Veron thought as he turned the handle of the final door and pushed it open a bit at a time. Visions of a warrior in full armor, carrying a sword and waiting for him flashed into his mind. His arms felt weak as he moved the door, which didn't make a sound.

The open doorway revealed a bedroom similar to the other. Moonlight slanted into the room, lighting up the center of the floor. No warrior stood waiting, but someone was in the bed. Most of their body was covered by a blanket, but the face revealed a bald head and wrinkles—an elderly man. Rhythmic breathing confirmed he was asleep. Veron smirked.

To the left of the bed was just what Veron looked for—a chest. His heart raced at the sight. This could be what I need! The wooden box was mostly black with a silver trim. The front contained intricate designs. It was the most ornate chest he'd ever seen. Is this real silver?

Veron kept an eye on the sleeping man while he attempted to open it, but the lid held fast. Locked. A cold shudder ran through him as he flashed back to the last locked chest he opened. Unbidden, thoughts of Fend falling from the roof and being killed by the soldiers came to his mind.

No, that was different. It's not gonna be that way this time.

He tested its weight with his thin arms, straining from the effort. Giving up, he stared at the obstacle and frowned. I couldn't get this out of here without bangin' it around. Maybe I should give up on the chest and just take what food I can from the kitchen and garden? The more he thought about food, the hungrier he grew, and the more content he became with the idea.

As Veron reached the door, he paused, glancing back at the sleeping old man. This guy has plenty of food and money. He'll probably be dead soon anyway, so it wouldn't really matter if I took what's in that chest. What'd

this guy do to deserve living in a nice house while I live on the street? It's not fair! I need that money to be able to start a regular life like I promised Fend.

He would take what was in the chest one way or another.

The weapons! If he wakes up, I can knock him back out. Then, I'd be free to take whatever I want! he thought.

Veron snuck back down the stairs to the room with the weapons and stood in front of the swords, weighing his options. He settled on a wooden staff that was longer than his body.

He lifted it off the holder on the wall. It was heavier than he expected. The smooth surface and number of marks and dings along the wood proved it had seen some action. Resolved to do what he must, he turned to leave the room. Before he even took a step, Veron froze.

The old man stood in the doorway, watching him. He wasn't much taller than Veron even though he stood up straight with a posture that belied whatever age he must be.

"What do you plan to do with that staff?" the man asked.

From years of instinct, Veron turned toward the door to run but then stopped.

He's the only thing standin' in the way between livin' on the street and freedom. He's the reason I'm hungry every day. He's the one who forces me to be poor. He's why Fend is dead.

Veron's breath grew rapid. He tightened his grip on the staff as he stared down the old man. Yelling, he ran and swung the staff at the man's head, but he deftly ducked. Veron's momentum threw him off balance and carried him into the wall. He spun around and jabbed at the man who dodged to the side. Frustrated by his misses, Veron swung again with all of his might at

the man's chest. To his surprise, his opponent caught the staff with both hands and pushed down at the end. Veron lost his grip as the opposite end of the staff flew up and caught him under the chin. The force of the blow knocked him down, stunned.

The old man stood above him, holding the staff like a walking stick. "What is it that you want?" he asked.

Veron scrambled backward into the wall of weapons and grabbed the closest thing to him—the ruby sword. He stood up and pointed it at the man.

"I'll use this!" Veron yelled. The sword trembled as he held it out.

The man smiled and chuckled, his shoulders bouncing. He took one swing with the staff, knocking the sword out of Veron's hands and across the room. The man hit Veron in the stomach with the end of the staff, causing him to double over in pain. Another heavy blow slammed into the left side of his chest and next on the right. Veron struggled to take a breath or even stand up. Pain exploded through his skull as the man hit him on the side of the head.

The final blow sent Veron sprawling onto his back. The room spun as the man walked up and stood over him. He held the staff out and pointed it at Veron's chest. Veron flinched, closing his eyes, but a blow never came. When he opened them, the man was frozen in place, staring at his chest with wide eyes. Veron looked to see what he was staring at and found the end of the staff under the leather cord of his medallion.

"No!" Veron said and hit the staff away with his hand, rolling out of reach. He's not takin' this!

He jumped to his feet and ran outside into the cold night air. He scaled the cracked wall with difficulty. Veron's chest and head hurt, but he forced

himself to ignore the pain as he climbed. Before he turned to drop down the other side, he glanced back. The old man stood in the doorway. He leaned on his staff, watching Veron go with a puzzled look on his face.

Back at his abandoned building, Veron ached as he lay on the straw. His sides were bruised, and his head hurt. How embarrassin'. I got beat up by an old man. While he traced the outline of his father's medallion, all he could think about was the disappointment of losing whatever was in that chest. Gems, jewelry, rare artifacts . . . could be anythin'! His stomach hurt from the beating he took and the hunger that was always there—a bitter reminder of another failure.

Veron slept fitfully. Aches from his injuries woke him throughout the night, and the next day, he hurt even worse. Early morning sunlight pestered him as it peeked through the missing windows. He longed to stay in bed, but the pain of hunger and ache of cold demanded he move. His inadequate clothing and blankets did little to fight the chill.

Although the city didn't care about the poor, it did operate a food dispensary in Upper Sherry, which gave food out once a week on Prefinday. Commonly known as the Trough, the offerings were always meager. It wasn't nearly enough to live by, but it allowed the city officials to claim generosity. Even though they often had no more than a moldy scrap of bread, Veron fought through his aches to crawl out of his shelter and see what they had to offer.

Dock Street connected the Bottoms, the Docks, and Upper Sherry—the three poorest neighborhoods in Karad—and was not a pleasant road to walk down. The heavy foot traffic meant there were shops with food and goods for sale, but the atmosphere was grim. People were dirty, and buildings were streaked with black where the rain had run down the sides for ages. Weathered traders hawked black market wares from their seedy-looking storefronts. After years of neglect, the paved street was more dirt and filth than stone. The smell of mud, trash, and animal waste was offensive to anyone unaccustomed to it. Veron didn't even notice it as he walked along.

When he arrived at the heart of Upper Sherry, a line of people already stood outside of the Trough. Usually, a line meant they actually had food that day, so he was hopeful. The boy ahead looked slightly younger than him and was in a talkative mood. He was short and thin with blond scraggly hair.

"Cold night last night, huh?" the boy said, turning to Veron. "I hear they have boiled chicken today! I'm excited cause I haven't eaten a thing in four days! My name's Tatum, what's yours?"

"Veron," he mumbled as he avoided eye contact, looking up at the buildings around them.

"Veron, I like that name. It reminds me of my uncle Geron. Maybe you know him? He lives across Gate Street from the docks."

Veron shook his head. Just leave me be, kid. Go talk to someone else.

"He's a great guy. You'd love him!" the boy went on. "I sure hope they don't run out of food. I'm literally starving. Did you know I haven't eaten anything in four days?"

"Would ya shut up?" Veron snapped, glaring.

Tatum's eyes widened, and he stopped talking. "I'm sorry," he said before turning around and facing the rest of the line.

Veron felt a little bad for snapping at the boy, but the beautiful silence that came after was worth it.

The line shuffled forward as the day warmed up. After about an hour of waiting, Veron made it inside. They didn't have chicken, but they did have bread, cheese, and apples served by a gruff looking man.

Ahead of him, Tatum resumed his upbeat attitude. "I heard you had boiled chicken today, but I guess not, huh? That's okay. This bread looks great! I haven't eaten an apple in half a season. Thanks for being here. I really appreciate you!" he said.

The man snorted but refused to smile as Tatum left the room. Veron took his food without saying a word and left. With the sun out and the air warming, he decided to find a quiet place to eat. He put the food in his pockets and headed to one of his favorite rooftop locations where he could watch the entire city.

Walking along Porter Way, a commotion caught his eye down an alley. Three older men surrounded something on the ground, and one was kicking an unseen object. Veron stepped closer to get a better look. It was Tatum, and he clutched a piece of bread in his hands. An image of Fend helpless on the ground in front of the soldiers flashed in his mind.

"Hey! Leave him alone!" Veron shouted before he had a moment to think.

The three men stopped and looked at him, and Veron regretted speaking up once he recognized them.

Coffin was tall with greasy hair and scars on his arms and the back of his neck. He held an apple—presumably one he took from Tatum. Bruiser

was the largest of their group. His arms and shoulders were as massive as his thick beard. Veron knew what it felt like to be on the other end of one of his blows. Slash, the unofficial leader, stood back and watched the other two. Being the shortest of the three, he was not as physically intimidating, but he made up for it by his ability to instill fear in his targets. Veron was more scared of Slash than even Captain Mortinson simply because he never knew what the man was capable of doing.

"Veron," Slash said with a sneer, his voice raspy and harsh. "We haven't seen your ugly face in a while."

"Look, he got some too," Bruiser said, pointing at the bread sticking out of Veron's pocket.

Veron backed up as the men approached. Before he had a chance to turn around, Coffin was already pushing him into the wall. Between the men's bodies, Veron saw Tatum stand to his feet. The boys locked eyes for a second before Tatum turned and limped away in the opposite direction.

"Give us your food," Slash said.

Veron saw what they did to Tatum, and he knew he would not be able to get away. "Here, take it." He handed them his bread and apple but kept the cheese hidden.

"What else ya have?" Bruiser asked, snatching the food, and putting it in his pockets.

"Nothin'. That's it," Veron told them.
"He's lyin'," Coffin said.
Bruiser grabbed Veron as Slash stepped up in his face and pulled out a

dagger. "Are you lying to us, street trash?" Slash asked, holding the dagger up to his cheek.

Veron felt the edge of the steel and smelled Slash's noxious breath as tears came to his eyes. Coffin rifled through his pockets and found the cheese, handing it to Slash.

"Nothin', huh?" Coffin said with a sneer. He took a bite from his apple before punching Veron in the stomach, making him double over in pain.

"That's whatcha get for not listenin' to your elders," Bruiser said. "And this is whatcha get for bein' scum!" He punched him again in the stomach, followed by a hit to the face.

Veron's nose broke, and blood gushed down his face. The pain was sharp and blinding. He fell to the ground with his face in his hands. Slash's laughter bounced off the walls as an unseen kick caught him in the side. He writhed in pain but couldn't get away. The metallic tang of blood in his mouth made him gag. The blows and laughter kept coming as his senses grew duller. Finally, he passed out.

All Veron could feel was the pain. His body hurt all over, his nose and jaw throbbing with each breath. The ground beneath him felt different—softer. A pungent smell filled the air, which he couldn't place—like some of the herbs they sold at the market. He heard nothing except the steady beat of his heart and blood rushing in his ears.

After much effort, he cracked an eye halfway open. Through swollen eyes and blurry vision, the edges of a small room came into view. He lay on an unfamiliar bed. A window confirmed it was night, and a lit candle rested on a table next to him, burned almost to the end. Veron tried to sit up but couldn't. His side felt like it was being stabbed with a knife.

As he lay back, something on the wall above his head caught his eye. He turned as much as the pain would allow him, and his stomach dropped. I know that paintin', Veron thought.

His heart raced. His legs felt like cold water ran through them. He could not forget the old painting of a castle from the house he tried to rob.

5 Artimus

What am I doin' here? Veron thought. How'd I get here? What's the old man gonna do to me? He wanted to run, but he couldn't even sit up.

Footsteps echoed outside the room, and the door swung open. Veron's heart pounded as the old man stood in the doorway.

"How are you feeling?" the man asked, carrying a lantern with a hint of a smile on his face.

Veron stared with a slack jaw, caught off guard. "My face hurts," he replied.

The man entered the room. "I'm sure it does. That was quite a beating you took." He carried a bowl with some liquid and a rag in it, which he set down on the table. "Here, let me see your face." He grabbed the rag to wipe Veron's wounds.

Veron recoiled as it touched his nose. The pain was sharp and radiated through his nose and jaw. "Argh, that stings!" he said through clenched teeth.

"Yes, but it will help. It's my magic water," the man said with a chuckle. "It's a special mix of water, sage, turnfoil root and antispurn petals."

Antispurn. That's the smell, Veron thought, remembering it in the market but never knowing what it was used for.

The man spent the next few minutes soaking the rag and wiping Veron's face, chest, and arms. The bowl turned from clear to a shade of red. The pain of Veron's injuries slowly changed from a sharp pain to a mild tingle to where he eventually felt nothing.

"Why'm I here?" Veron asked.

The man cocked his head. "You were hurt, and I'm helping you get better."

"But why? Why d'you care?"

"You need to rest. I'll bring you some food in a little while," the man said before leaving the room and closing the door.

As much as Veron wanted to know how and why he was there, all his body really wanted was rest and food. His head spun. Why is this man takin' care of me? He doesn't even know me! I don't have anythin' to give him, so what does he want? Veron clutched his medallion. I hope he's not thinkin' of takin' this as payment.

As the pain lessened, he soon fell asleep again. * **

Light shone through the window when Veron woke. His nose told him something warm and salty was near, and he quickly discovered the steaming bowl of soup on the table next to the bed. The pain in his side was dull enough to where he could sit up. He downed the soup, ignoring how

hot it was. It was mostly broth but had carrots, beans, and a small amount of chicken along with herbs in it. As he finished, the door opened, and the man came back in.

"Feeling any better?"
"Yeah. A lot."
"I thought you might be. That magic water can work wonders." The

man winked.
"How'd I end up here?"
The man took a slow deep breath. "I brought you here."
Veron looked at him, expecting something more—something that would

fill in the gaps. How'd he know I was attacked?
The man took the empty bowl and got up to leave. "Get some more

rest."
"Wait, but—" The door closed, cutting Veron off. Outside the window,

Veron heard people walking down the alley. If I yell, maybe they'll come and rescue me? he thought but quickly ruled it out. I was in trouble the other day, and it seems this man is the one who saved me already.

He lay in bed for a few hours alone with his thoughts. Lying still made him anxious, so he decided to try getting up. Sitting up was more manageable than before since the pain in his sides had lessened. Standing took a moment, but once up, he felt strong enough to walk.

Veron opened the door to find himself at the top of the stairs he snuck up the other night. His thoughts went to the chest he knew sat in the other room, but he shook the image away.

The motion of going down the steps hurt more than he anticipated. He inhaled sharply at the pain to his ribs and legs, causing him to second-guess his decision to get up. He kept going, using the walls to help support him.

Downstairs, the sitting room and kitchen were empty. Veron recognized the smell of herbs and chicken and saw a large pot cooling over the stove. He shuffled his way into the room with the weapons. The staff and sword were back on the wall in their places as if they'd never been touched.

Walking through the outside door, he found the old man on his knees in the garden, pulling weeds. His back, stained with sweat, faced Veron as he worked. As Veron shuffled closer, the man turned and stood. "Finally awake, I see. And you made it downstairs on your own!" he said, dusting off his knees. "I'm Artimus. How about you?"

Should I give him my name? Maybe I shouldn't say anythin'? "Veron," he said after a pause.

Artimus nodded. He indicated toward a wooden bench looking out onto the garden. "Would you like to sit, Veron?"

Tired from the effort of coming down the stairs, he winced as he sat. Pain had returned from the movement, so he was happy to rest again.

"I 'preciate what you're doin' for me, but . . ." Veron hesitated. "I was here to rob you the other night. I even tried to attack you. Why are you helpin' me?"

Veron watched Artimus' face for a reaction, but it gave away nothing. The man walked over and sat next to him on the bench. He pointed at Veron's chest, touching his ratty shirt and pressing the medallion against his skin. "That's why."

My father's medallion? he thought. "What do you mean?"

Artimus' gaze wandered over the garden. "Many years ago, I joined a group in service to the king. Our job was simple—to protect the realm. When a threat required . . . special skills to address it, we acted. Known for our stealth, speed, strength, and intelligence, we got where others couldn't

and accomplished things they weren't able to. We called ourselves the Shadow Knights."

Veron's eyes grew wide. "I've heard of the Shadow Knights. They're supposed to be the most fearsome warriors in all of Terrenor. I heard they live forever and can conquer entire armies with only one man! And they can walk up walls and even fly!"

Artimus raised his eyebrows and laughed. "Unfortunately, I have to admit none of that is true, but we were pretty fearsome warriors." He looked at Veron with a glint in his eye. "There were ten of us, including me. We weren't used during battles, but rather, we helped prevent them. For almost thirty years, I lived in Felting, trained with the Knights, and served the realm. As my skill and experience increased, eventually, the group chose me as the Shadow Master. I was in charge of training, discipline, and the well-being of all members. Do you know the name Edmund Bale?"

Veron's blood ran cold at the mention of the name. "Yeah, of course. Bale, King of Norshewa?"

"Yes, the same one, but he wasn't always their king. Many years ago, he was commander of their army. Bale led Norshewa in war with both Feldor and Rynor to the south. It was no secret that Bale had aspirations. He wasn't content to just lead their army—he wanted to rule. Bale used the army to take the crown of Norshewa in a bloody coup. Once he became king, he declared his goal to take over all of Terrenor."

Veron shuddered at the thought, having heard plenty of stories about the brutal ruler. I can't imagine someone like Edmund Bale takin' over Feldor.

"One day, Bale led a company of soldiers in attacking a small town in the north of Rynor. After the town surrendered, a woman approached him and said he'd never rule Terrenor. She had seen it in a Dream."

Veron's eyes widened. He had heard of people having Dreams, which were predictions of things to come. In the mornings, he often racked his brain to remember if he had Dreamed. He wanted to be able to see things while sleeping, but it never happened.

"Her Dream foresaw that Bale would be killed . . . by a shadow knight." Artimus stopped for a moment as a pained expression crossed his face. "Bale was furious at the prophecy and sent spies across the land to search out this shadow knight. That search led him to us. One night seven years ago, thirty of his best men attacked our compound while we slept. They killed most of us before we even woke. A few put up a fight, but the element of surprise and their sheer numbers were too much. I don't know that the prophecy was anything more than gibberish, but Bale believed in it so much that he was willing to kill because of it."

Artimus hung his head and stopped talking. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes.

"So, how'd you survive?" Veron asked after a moment of silence.

"Oh, they killed me—at least they thought they did," Artimus said, looking Veron in the eye and forcing a half-smile. "It's not easy to kill a shadow knight." He sniffed and wiped the edges of his eyes. "The other nine weren't so lucky. With our group destroyed and realizing it was no longer safe to be known as a shadow knight, I spoke with Wesley. We decided—"

"Wesley? You mean King Wesley?" Veron shook his head. That's just crazy.

"Yes, King Wesley and I decided I should go into hiding, so he gave me money to make it happen. I moved up the river to Karad, bought this place, and have lived in obscurity ever since. After the Shadow Knights were

gone, Feldor turned on itself. Wesley is still king, but his influence wanes, especially outside of the capital. Greed rules now. It's only a matter a time before Bale shows up and finds the land ready for the taking."

That sounds too wild to be true! Still, why would he make it up? It has to be true. But the Shadow Knights? I was sure they were only stories. Wait . . . The king gave him money? "So, you're rich? All your money is from the king?" Veron asked.

"Oh no, that money ran out long ago. Now that I have a place to live, my garden provides most of my food. I make some money selling what I don't eat, but I don't need much anymore."

Veron frowned as the image of piles of coins disappeared. "So, what does all this hafta do with why I'm here?"

Artimus took a deep breath and exhaled before continuing. "The Shadow Knights had a rule that you must remain unmarried. Since we served the realm, there could be no other attachments that competed with our loyalty. One young knight named William Stormbridge fell in love with a woman of Felting named Julia, the only child of a stonemason in town whose wife had died several years earlier. One day, her father was killed in an accident on a job, and she was left alone.

"William knew he was not allowed to marry, but since he couldn't stand the thought of the girl he loved being left on her own, they wed in secret. I learned of their marriage while Julia was alive. Although William tried to be secretive, he was too honest of a person to be convincingly deceptive." He laughed softly as he shook his head. "It was my job to punish him, but . . . I loved someone once who I lost. I couldn't do it to William." He sighed. "I allowed it to continue as long as they kept it quiet.

"A couple of years later, she became pregnant with a child but, due to complications, died in childbirth. William couldn't care for the child on his own, so he did the only thing he knew to do—give the child to the orphanage along with whatever money he could scrounge up.

"As the boy grew, William kept asking me if he could bring his son back to live with him and the other knights, but I kept putting him off. 'One more year,' I always said. William loved him dearly. I went with him occasionally to visit. I remember being there on his fifth birthday when William gave his son a gift—his Shadow Knights medallion."

Veron's throat went dry as Artimus turned and looked him in the eyes. His heart pounded, and his hands felt clammy.

Artimus pointed at Veron's chest. "And that medallion is hanging around your neck."

Veron stopped breathing. His mind scrambled but felt empty at the same time. Visions flashed in his mind. He saw his father handing him a gift, wrapped in cloth. He beamed as he put it on even though it hung below his waist. His father stood tall as he left, promising to be back soon.

SK—Shadow Knights. William was my father. My father was a shadow knight! "What happened to him? What happened to . . . my father?" Veron almost choked on the words.

Artimus hung his head and spoke softly. "William was killed by Bale's men in the attack, three days after we last visited you."

Veron was stunned. He stared ahead, unsure of how he should feel. For a moment, neither Veron nor Artimus said a word.

"We have plenty more to talk about," Artimus said, finally. "But I need to go out for a bit to run some errands, and you need to go back upstairs and rest. We can chat more when I get back."

Veron felt separated from his body. He wanted to continue talking, but his ribs were in pain, and most of his aches had returned. Exhaustion hit him as the weight of everything settled on his shoulders. He allowed Artimus to help him upstairs, remaining quiet as he wrestled with the questions in his head about his past, about the Shadow Knights, and about his father.

Lying on the bed, Veron felt his chest tighten. He covered his face with his hands and barely managed to not fall apart. He always figured his father had died but hearing what happened affected him more than he expected.

So that's why he stopped visitin'. I wasn't abandoned! He smiled and wiped away the moisture from his eyes. I had a father who loved me and would still love me if only . . . Veron's smile melted away into a hard line. Bale. Bale did this. I wish I could make him pay.

Veron didn't know how long he slept, but when he woke, he was hungry again. As he sat up, he found his ribs hurt less, and his nose no longer ached. He made his way downstairs, where Artimus sat in the kitchen.

"There you are! Are you hungry?" Artimus asked as he grabbed two bowls from the counter.

"Yeah, starvin'!" Veron said.

They sat at the small table in the kitchen, and Veron made quick work of the soup. The warmth comforted him on the inside. He looked longingly at the pot on the stove as he licked the last drops of soup from his lips. Artimus chuckled as he took the empty bowl and refilled it.

For a while, they ate in silence until Artimus spoke. "I'm sure you have questions."

Veron nodded as he swallowed a spoonful. His eyes were wide, eager to hear more. "Can you tell me more about my father?"

"I knew William Stormbridge well—since he was around your age. Even though you've grown, I have no doubt you're his son. Your eyes and nose look like his, and your hair is identical."

Veron couldn't help but smile as he ran a hand through his hair. He'd always hated the bushy, unkempt brown hair, but now he relished it. All his life, he'd felt alone, with no connection to anyone. Veron Stormbridge . . . with the bushy hair . . . like his father.

"Growing up, he was brash and arrogant," Artimus said, causing Veron to adjust his head back and blink. "He learned things quickly and couldn't stop himself from making sure everyone else knew it. He annoyed me to death, always making up ridiculous songs that got stuck in your head. When he sat, he bounced his leg constantly, which drove me crazy." Artimus laughed softly and smirked. "Still . . . William was my favorite. He settled as he grew older and more mature. I never heard him say a bad word about anyone. He encouraged everyone around him, and when we went on a mission, he always volunteered for the most dangerous part but never showed fear. William saw every day as a new opportunity—a new adventure. It was rare to see him without a smile on his face.

"Most of the other men in the Shadow Knights were crass and crude. Don't get me wrong, they all were great men who did their job well, but when they were off duty, they spent most of their time at the tavern— throwing dice, drinking ale, and chasing after women. That wasn't your father though. I never saw William drunk, and he didn't have eyes for any

woman but your mother. He never apologized for being different and wouldn't compromise who he was."

"How'd he die?" Veron asked. "I figure it was Bale's attack, but what happened?"

Artimus' smile vanished, and he shook his head. "We don't need to discuss that."

"Please! I've spent all my life not even knowin' who my father was." He paused. "I wanna know."

Artimus paused. Eventually, his eyes drifted to the floor as he spoke. "William was on guard duty that night. While we slept, he would've been at his post outside when the men arrived. After Bale's men believed me to be dead and left, I stumbled away to get help. I came across your father's body in the hallway outside the common room. He had five arrows sticking out of his chest and legs, and his throat had been slit. In the hallway around him were the bodies of nine of Bale's men, all dead."

"Are Dreams always predictors of the future?" Veron asked. "Are they ever wrong?"

"Sometimes they're a vision of the past. As far as whether or not they're always true . . . I can't say. I've never had one, myself."

"If you're the only shadow knight who survived, does that mean you'll have to be the person to kill Bale like the prophecy said?"

Artimus stared at him with a grim expression. "I don't know. I guess we'll see."

I can't imagine someone as old as Artimus defeatin' anyone like that. Veron's mind spun from all he had learned. His father, the Shadow Knights, who Artimus was. "I'm sorry I tried to steal from you," Veron said.

"Ha! I'm glad you did. If you didn't, I don't think I'd have found you." He put his hand on Veron's arm and looked him in the eye. "And I forgive you."

Veron felt a weight lift off him. Although he had only known Artimus briefly, he felt safe in a way he hadn't his whole life. Other than Fend, this was the first time Veron felt anyone cared about him.

"So . . . your job was to teach people to be warriors or somethin' like that, right?" Veron asked. "Can you teach me to fight?" He imagined himself walking up walls and flying as he faced off in a sword fight against Edmund Bale.

Artimus stroked his chin and gazed at the ceiling. "I am the Shadow Master . . ." The corners of his mouth broke into a crooked grin. "Come here."

Veron stood, and Artimus led him into the large room at the end of the house. The table at the far end now held two hourglasses, a large one and a small one. In the corner of the room, the suspended, beaten-up log had been replaced with a brand new one. Veron also noticed a pile of stones outside the door leading to the garden that he couldn't remember seeing before.

"This is my training room," Artimus said as he walked over to a pile of clothes on the table and handed them to Veron. "And these are for you."

Veron's eyes opened wide, and he looked at Artimus. "Really?" What he currently wore was given to him by a lady in the Bottoms whose son grew out of them. They were tattered, stained, and falling apart. Tears came to his eyes as he grabbed Artimus and hugged him. "Thank you. So, you'll teach me to be a shadow knight?"

"No!" Artimus said, pulling away as Veron recoiled. The old man's face was stern until he sighed. "I'm sorry." He lowered his voice. "No, I won't

teach you to be a shadow knight. As long as Edmund Bale is alive, that title isn't safe, but I will teach you to fight."

Veron smiled, relieved.

"But that's not all you'll learn. You'll also learn about finance, politics, and commerce, which are even more important. You'll learn—"

"To read?" Veron asked.

Artimus stopped and cocked his head. "Yes. You'll learn to read and write." He stared at Veron. "This won't be easy. You'll need to work hard every day, and I won't accept anything less than your best. Do you agree to give me this?"

I've never thought I'd be able to learn so much, but I'm willin' to try.

Veron nodded. "Yeah, I do."
"When I tell you to do something, you do it. When you're tired, and I

tell you to keep going, you go. When your muscles hurt, and you want to stay in bed longer, and I tell you to get up, you get up. Agreed?"

Veron's eye caught on the sword with the ruby hilt. The gem glistened, tempting him to revert to the only life he had ever known. His heart rate increased. Can I do this? he thought. Can I actually change? It would be easy to take that sword and leave in the night. Maybe I should stick with what I know? Fend lying on the ground flashed into his mind. No. I don't want to be that anymore.

"Agreed?" Artimus reiterated.
Veron swallowed hard. "Agreed."
"How does your body feel?"
"Good—still sore, but the worst is gone."
"Good," Artimus said. "Keep resting. We'll start in a few days. Before

we do, I want to do some tests so we know where you're starting from."

"What sort of tests?" Veron asked.

"Balance, agility, strength . . . a variety of things. Don't worry. It will be painless."

Artimus always woke early. It was a habit he'd developed over many years of discipline. That morning was different though. For the first time in as long as he could remember, his nerves were on edge. He hadn't trained anyone in years.

Do I still have the ability, or am I too old? Guilt weighed on him from living when William did not. He rubbed his shoulder, where a coarse scar marred his skin. I'm doing this for William.

He peeked out of the window and saw the faintest hint of light peeking in the east—time to start. He looked forward to the shock on the boy's face. After giving him a few extra days to rest and let his body recover, it was time to begin training.

Artimus left his room and opened the door across the landing. "Time to get up!"

Not hearing any grumbling, he sensed something was wrong. "Veron?" He walked to the bed and felt it. Empty. Is he already up and waiting for me? he thought.

Artimus walked downstairs and looked around. "Veron?"

His stomach sank when he noticed food missing from his kitchen shelves. He continued into the training room. No one. The hair on the back of his neck stood up before he saw the blank spot on the wall. His sword with the ruby hilt was gone, and so was the boy.

Artimus hung his head as he shook it. I just wanted to help. I thought I could fill in where William couldn't. Suddenly his body jolted as a thought came to him. No, he couldn't have—

Artimus raced back to the steps and ran up as fast as he could. Back in his room, he knelt in front of his chest with the silver trim and examined it. Nothing looks broken. He removed a cord from around his neck and grasped the key that hung from the end. The familiar feeling of the lock catching as it turned in the keyhole was reassuring. He slowly lifted the lid as his heart raced, afraid of what he may find.

Artimus stared into the chest as the lid sat open. A long sigh of relief escaped his lips as he lowered his chin to his chest. Closing the lid and relocking it, he went back downstairs. The beat of his heart settled as he considered what to do next.

6

Trapped in Privilege

Chelci grabbed the branch above her. "Come on, quickly!" she said to Emma. She climbed higher into the sugar maple tree with her friend right behind.

The early afternoon sun beat down on the garden below them, but the colorful leaves shaded them. Being the fourth week of wiether, some of the leaves had fallen, but enough remained to shield them from view. The red velvet dress she wore was streaked with dirt, and her brown hair, ruffled from the branches, blended in nicely. When they couldn't climb any higher, the choreman, Jensen, appeared in the garden below. The two girls giggled as they hid amongst the leaves.

"Chelci!" Jensen shouted as he searched. "Chelci, where are you? Your mother will be furious!"

The old tree in the garden behind her house was Chelci's favorite place in the world. Nothing could touch her there. Even if found, no one could make her come down if she didn't want to.

Chelci held Mr. Butters under the crook of her arm. The stuffed cow was never far from her ever since her father had given it to her on her fifth birthday. Even though no other girls her age kept stuffed animals, she refused to say goodbye to him. Originally stark white, now that she was twelve, his color was closer to brown. His tail and one of his horns went missing long ago, but both stitched on button eyes remained. No matter how hard the servants tried to keep him clean, he found a way to get dirty again. After all, her stuffed friend loved adventure as much as Chelci did.

Below the girls, Jensen gave up looking in the garden and exited through the eastern stone gate that led back to the manor.

Chelci breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm so tired of those classes! They make me practice stupid things over and over, like how to hold my teacup and what things I can say at dinners. It's so dumb!" She readjusted her feet on a thin limb.

"Well, at least you get classes at all," Emma said. "My parents don't even care. I'll probably end up marrying a butcher's son or some ugly boy with warts all over his face." Both girls laughed. "I wish I could learn all that you do."

Emma smoothed her dress as she sat on a branch. The fabric was green and dull and cheaper than Chelci's, lacking the ornamentation typically found on expensive clothing. Tears at the edges that were never mended grew whenever she followed Chelci on her adventures.

"Trust me. It's not that exciting," Chelci said. "When I get married, all I'll care about is that he's rich, so we can have servants because I'm not about to cook or clean anything. Well, I'd probably be happy either way— as long as he didn't have warts all over his face." She nudged Emma, and both girls laughed again.

Emmalyn Barton was Chelci's closest human friend, and they spent nearly all of their time together. The daughter of a lawyer who lived nearby, Emma's family was only barely of a high enough class for Chelci's mother to allow the friendship. Although her clothes weren't as nice, Chelci was jealous of Emma's curly blond hair.

With Jensen gone, they made their way down the tree and snuck inside the house. The girls crept through the large manor, trying to get back to Chelci's room without being spotted. The sitting room was empty, so they dashed through it to the stairs on the other side. Mr. Butters helped Chelci peek around the corners to make sure the path was clear.

"There you are!" A female voice boomed down the corridor as they stepped into the upstairs hallway.

Oh no!

The girls turned to see Luciana Marlow storming toward them, her long face set in a sharp line as her lean legs carried her down the corridor. Chelci froze at the grim look on her mother's face, immediately regretting the moments of fun.

Chelci's mother grabbed her by the arm. "Where have you been?" she asked. "Your lessons were supposed to start an hour ago! Emma, it's time for you to go home."

Emma hung her head and waved before shuffling back down the stairs with drooped shoulders. Chelci dragged her feet as her mother pulled her down the hallway. They paused in the doorway to the room where all of her lessons occurred. She hated it there. The room was large with high ceilings, but she felt confined. A window looked out onto the garden below, displaying her sugar maple on the far side, reminding her of what she was missing.

"If I find you skipping lessons again, I promise you'll be sorry," her mother said as she pushed Chelci into the room and closed the door behind her.

Chelci clutched Mr. Butters and grumbled to herself. One day, I'm gonna do what I wanna do, and she's not gonna push me around anymore.

"There you are," said her teacher, Margaret.

Chelci sat down and prepared herself for the upcoming lecture on poise and posture or some such nonsense. Margaret traveled the city, tutoring young upper-class girls whose families could afford it. Chelci didn't like her because she was mean and always had her doing stupid things she didn't want to do.

"Go and grab your notebook," Margaret said, pointing to the shelf of supplies against the wall.

"No. If you want me to use it, you get it," Chelci replied, crossing her arms and leaning back in her chair.

Margaret raised an eyebrow and stared.

"My parents pay you to teach me. Do you want me to tell Luciana you won't?" Chelci asked with a smirk. "I'm sure she'd love to know about that."

After staring for a moment, Margaret walked over, grabbed the notebook, and brought it back to her before launching into her lecture. Chelci smirked. She loved getting people to do what she wanted, especially annoying, old teachers.

The lecture was boring, as expected. Chelci did her best to appear attentive, but it was difficult. As time went on, her gaze drifted to the leaves blowing outside, calling to her. She loved being outdoors. She enjoyed

leaving the city and exploring the woods beyond, but she could only do that when her parents were gone.

Chelci was the only daughter of Darcius and Luciana Marlow. Her father was the High Lord of Commerce in Felting—one of the most prominent positions in the kingdom of Feldor. Although her father held the title, the real authority in their family was her mother. If Luciana Marlow set her mind to something, it happened. Darcius, weak-willed by nature, was helpless to resist anything she wanted him to do.

Being in such an esteemed family, they frequently entertained wealthy guests, so they expected her to be on her best behavior at all times. Half of her life involved lessons on how to become a proper woman. The other half was being a showpiece for her family. She hated the lectures and resented being shown off.

"Chelci? Hello?" Margaret waved her hand in front of Chelci's face, forcing her to blink.

She'd been staring out the window and didn't remember anything her tutor had said. "I was lost in my thoughts, I guess," Chelci replied.

Margaret shook her head. "Well, that's it for today. I'll see you next week," the teacher said with a sigh.

Chelci squealed with joy as she jumped up and left the room to head downstairs. Every Postday and Prefinday, her older brother, Jackson, received fighting lessons in the afternoon. Her mother didn't like her to watch, but she didn't care about her mother's opinion. It was exhilarating.

The sparring room was outside, at the opposite end of the garden. After exiting the back door, Chelci hiked up her dress as she ran through the winding path between the foliage.

"Chelci?"

The voice brought her to a halt. She turned to see her father, sitting on a bench among a circle of trees. She often found him there and suspected he used it to escape from the hubbub of the house. He had been reading from a thick book, but Chelci held his attention.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Hello, Father." Chelci tried to shrink her shoulders as she looked down, unwilling to admit her destination.

He motioned for her to come to him. "Are you heading to watch your brother?" His eyebrows were raised as she stepped toward him.

She glanced down the garden path toward the building at the end. "Um . . . I . . . I was just walking through the garden."

"It seemed to me that you were running," Darcius said while tilting his head. Chelci adjusted her weight on her feet as she looked down. "Your mother doesn't want you spending time watching his lessons, you know."

"I know, Father."
"We better make sure we forget to tell her."
She looked up to see him wink with a smirk on his face.
"What do you say about you and I spending some time together this

Weekterm?" he asked. Chelci's eyes lit up as a broad smile covered her face. "Maybe we could take a walk through the woods. I could probably even sneak some practice swords along with us and show you a thing or two."

"Yeah, that would be great!" she said, bouncing on her feet.

Her father motioned with his head in the direction of the sparring room. "Go on now. I think they're just getting started." After she turned to leave, Darcius called her name. "I love you," he said with a comforting smile.

The words warmed her inside as her smile grew. "I love you too."

After skipping the remainder of the way through the garden, she arrived on the side of the building where a small tree grew that Chelci could climb. She stepped onto the roof from the branches and entered through a window that led to a small loft they used for storage. From there, she watched without being seen.

The sparring room was large and open, with high ceilings and plenty of space. The wooden flooring was rich mahogany, but large windows kept the space well-lit and airy. Jackson would never be in the army because of their family's status, but her mother thought it was vital for him to learn how to fight. He practiced various disciplines, but Chelci liked watching when they used swords the most. Her brother got hit a lot, which made her laugh.

She tried to get Emma to sword fight with her using sticks, but her friend didn't want anything to do with it. One day, her mother found her fighting on her own against a tree with a stick, and she was furious, insisting a lady didn't do such things. Chelci went to bed without eating dinner that night.

Chelci curled up behind the slotted loft railing as Jackson and Barlan, the fight master, sparred. Barlan had retired from the army many years ago. In his older years, he trained young men from upper-class families. Even with age, he was fast, strong, and strict.

While Chelci watched, she mimicked their moves with Mr. Butters, moving his arms and legs as if he had a sword. I wish I could learn to fight with Barlan every week! I know I'd be great.

In addition to learning to fight, Jackson also was taught about mathematics and the sciences. Chelci loved the idea of using numbers and learning about systems—like how plants and animals worked and what the parts of the human body were—but she was never allowed.

It's not fair that he gets to learn interesting things while all my lessons are stupid!

That night, the Marlow family sat around the table for dinner while servers bustled in and out, bringing dishes. Chelci's father sat at the head of the table. She always wondered how and why he and her mother ended up marrying. Darcius was kind and loving, traits she never witnessed in her mother. Luciana pushed him to have political aspirations, but to Chelci, it seemed like he probably would have been content to be a farmer or a merchant. Stress had eroded her father away over the years, but her mother seemed to thrive in it.

Chelci picked at her food as she bounced her foot under the table. Biting the side of her lip, she mentally rehearsed what to say before taking a deep breath and sitting up straight. "Father, I know I have a lot of different areas that I'm trained in, but I would like to sit in with Jackson during his lessons about science and mathematics . . . if that would be okay?"

Darcius's head drew back suddenly at the request. "I guess that should be fine," he said, glancing at Luciana before continuing. "I'll speak to his teacher about it."

Her mother held her fork frozen in mid-bite as she stared at Darcius with her mouth fixed in a hard line.

Chelci smiled, but the churning feeling inside only increased at the thought of what came next. After looking at Mr. Butters on her lap for courage, she cleared her throat. "I'd like to have weekly lessons in sword fighting as well."

"Absolutely not!" her mother said as her fork clattered against her plate. "Sword fighting has no place in the life of a lady." Darcius didn't try to

interject.
"Why not?" Chelci asked, scowling.
"Because I said so!" Luciana's face was tight as she glared across the

table. Her voice grew even louder as she projected herself to anyone listening in that half of the house. "If I find anyone has been practicing sword fighting with my daughter, they will find themselves with an appointment at the whipping post." She looked around at the servants dotting the room. "Do I make myself clear?"

Chelci assumed the servants nodded or bowed, but she only stared at her father, watching him swallow hard and bury his attention in his food. So much for him showing me a thing or two.

Chelci ground her teeth as she fumed. Her boldness grew, and she stood to her feet, trying to make herself as tall as possible. Her hands clenched in fists by her side, but her legs shook. Chelci lifted her chin and stretched her neck as far as it would go. "I will participate in sword fighting." She tried to sound strong, but a waver in her voice betrayed her fear.

The chair scraped on the floor as Luciana stood. She moved around the end of the table, her eyes shooting daggers, and stood in front of her daughter. Pain exploded from the side of Chelci's face as her mother's hand struck. Chelci cried out as she grabbed her cheek to lessen the pain and Mr. Butters fell to the ground.

"You will not speak back to me. You don't even realize how good you have it," Luciana said with a twisted face and a low, menacing voice.

Chelci stood as still as a stone, not daring to move. Tears formed at the corner of her eyes from the pain and humiliation.

Her mother bent down and picked up the stuffed cow. "If you insist on growing up, then it's time to put childish things behind you."

Chelci's eyes grew wide as her mother grabbed Mr. Butters' head. Her breath caught in her throat. No, she wouldn't!

Chelci screamed as her mother tore off his head, the seams popping one at a time. Once the head was off and the stuffing visible, she strode toward the fireplace, carrying the torn parts in each hand. "No! No!" Chelci yelled.

She ran after her mother, hitting her with her arms. Luciana didn't look back as she tossed the remains of Mr. Butters into the fireplace. Chelci fell to her knees, sobbing. Through blurry eyes, she watched as the flames consumed her friend until he was nothing but a gritty, black lump among the logs. The sulfurous odor stung her nose and made her feel nauseous. She wiped her face with her long velvet sleeve and sniffed to clear her runny nose. She looked helplessly back at her family, eyes red and puffy.

Her mother had sat back down and wore a smug look of satisfaction on her face as she chewed on a roll. Her father watched her with sadness, unable to do anything. Jackson sat quietly, looking down at his food.

"You're excused to your room for the rest of the night," Luciana said.

Chelci knew better than to argue and turned to leave. As she passed her seat at the table, she picked up her plate and threw it against the stone wall, scattering the food and breaking the dish. Immediately, servants appeared to clean it up as she stomped away.

Upstairs in her room, Chelci curled up against the headboard of her bed. She wrapped her arms around her legs, tucking them tightly to her chest. The tears returned once she stopped moving. She had often considered running away from home, but now she wanted to more than ever.

She sat in her bed for hours, waiting for someone to come. Maybe Father will say how much he loves me? she thought. Perhaps he'll promise

to get me a new stuffed animal? Maybe Mother will apologize for burning Mr. Butters or will rethink letting me train to fight?

Muffled conversations and shuffling feet sounded up and down the hall. "Luciana, I want to go and make sure she's okay." It was her father's voice, barely audible through the wall. Knowing he was there and wanted to come to her made her smile. More mumbles followed as two people talked, but Chelci couldn't make out what was said. She leaned forward on the bed and watched the door.

Father, where are you? Her hands tightened around her blanket until her fingers hurt, but no one ever came in. That's the last straw. The tears were finished, and so was she.

After wiping her eyes, Chelci got up and gathered a few of her things— an extra dress, a warm green cloak, her favorite comb, and a handheld mirror. She carried them in her arms as she opened the door, peered into the empty hallway, and left her room.

Chelci snuck downstairs to the empty kitchen in the basement. She found a burlap bag in the storeroom and stuffed her things in it. Food lay everywhere, so she gathered enough to last her a few days—bread, cheese, apples, and dried meat. She decided to wear her cloak and was about to leave when a knife on a cutting board caught her eye. Not sure what she might need it for, she wrapped it in a cloth and put it inside a pocket of her cloak before slipping out the servants' entrance to their house.

Tap, tap, tap. Chelci knocked on the window.
The window creaked open, and Emma popped her head out, rubbing her

eyes, her hair tousled. "Chelci? What's wrong?" she asked.

"I'm doing it, Emma. I'm running away!" Chelci replied. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach as she said it out loud.

Emma's eyes widened. "What? You—You can't just run away! Your mother would kill you!"

"Shhh," Chelci said, finger to her lips as she looked up and down the street to make sure no one was around.

Emma continued in a loud whisper. "You're the daughter of a high lord! You have everything you could ever want!"

Chelci's face grew serious. I don't have the one thing I want more than anything—freedom. "I feel trapped. I can't stay there anymore."

"Chelci—"

"Come with me!" Chelci said, eyes pleading. "You and me, we can do it! We can live in the woods. We can build our own lives and be whoever we want to be!"

"Um . . . I don't know, Chelci," Emma said. "I don't know how to live in the woods."

"I brought some food, and we can build a house!"

"I don't think I want to live in the woods," Emma told her as she shrugged. "And I doubt it's that easy. I don't think you can just . . . build a house."

Chelci fixed her jaw. "I don't care—I'm going with or without you."

"Think of all the snakes and spiders. You could run into a bear or even a valcor!" Emma said.

The thought of creatures in the woods made Chelci shudder but didn't deter her.

"Please, Chelci, don't do this! Don't leave!" They stared at each other in silence until Emma shook her head, tears forming. "I'm sorry. I can't. I

can't go with you."
Chelci stared at her, hoping she would change her mind, but she didn't.

"Fine," she said with a tinge of bitterness. "Have a good life then."
The emptiness of the city surrounded Chelci as she walked away from the Barton house, hearing her name called behind her. She didn't even look

back.
"Some friend she is," she muttered as she walked the darkened streets. I

need to do this for myself, whether Emma is with me or not. Nothing is going to stop me now.

Passing through the gate out of Felting, Chelci left behind fear and pain, taking nothing with her but hope.

7

Into the Woods

The flat, dusty road made putting distance between her and the city easy. Chelci followed the moonlit path north out of Felting, walking as quickly as she could. The Benevorre River flowed on her left, and to the right lay the woods. During daylight, the trees were inviting and magical, but they were a black wall of the unknown at night. Her stomach churned as she considered entering it.

As soon as they find I'm gone, they'll send riders out to search, so I need to get off the road soon, she thought.

Before long, her legs grew heavy, and her steps stumbled as her eyelids drooped. When the fatigue was too much to handle, she took a deep breath and stepped off the road to find a place to sleep.

Traveling through the trees was difficult in the dark. Chelci's clothes snagged on invisible branches and briars as unknown sounds surrounded her. The smell of the woods felt foreboding. Her steps crunched on fallen leaves and discarded branches. The uneven ground caused her to trip and fall several times.

Deciding she was far enough off the road, Chelci cleared some sticks away and lay down, covering herself with the cloak. The ground was hard and cold. Rocks embedded in the dirt poked into her back at odd angles. She rested her head on her bag of clothes and stared at the bright stars peeking through the trees. Even though it was a far cry from her bed back home, she was so exhausted that as soon as her eyelids closed, she fell fast asleep.

Chelci woke to the sound of a horse whinnying. Her heart skipped a beat as she opened her eyes and sat up. It was light out, and she could finally see the woods around her. She heard the horse again, but the sound was far away. Looking in the direction of the noise, she realized she had not traveled as far through the woods as she imagined. The road was still visible, and on it were two soldiers on horseback, riding away from the city. She ducked, holding her breath. When she checked again, the road was empty.

Feeling safe, she stood and stretched. Her back and right leg hurt from the way the ground had poked into her. Her body was stiff and exhausted from the uncomfortable night, but between the brisk morning air, the sun on her face, and the hope of what was to come, she had never felt so alive. After fishing a chunk of bread out of her bag to eat, she continued into the woods with a spring in her step.

Progress was much easier during the daytime. Chelci walked up rolling hills and down into valleys on the opposite side. She jumped over streams

and clambered over rocks. Trees taller than anything she'd ever seen littered the forest with limbs contorted into curious shapes.

I wish I had those back in my garden at home. They would have made great climbing trees.

With her legs tired and her stomach growling, she stopped to rest at a stream to eat some food and take a drink. She kicked herself for not grabbing some sort of container for storing water when she left home as she licked her dry lips. Using her hands to scoop the cold water, she drank her fill.

When I settle on a location to build my house, it'll need to be by a stream or a lake so that I can have water.

Rather than leave the water source, Chelci continued her journey uphill along the stream. Scrambling over a large boulder, she spotted two bunnies munching on grass and wished Emma were there to help her chase them.

I can't believe Emma tried to talk me out of going! If only she had come and seen how amazing it is, then she wouldn't be afraid. I wonder if Mother and Father think I'm afraid . . . because I'm not. I hope Mother is sorry for how she treated me. She smiled as she imagined the look on her face after discovering she was gone.

On her third night in the woods, Chelci woke, not to the sun or a horse, but to the pitter-patter of rain falling on her face. It began lightly but steadily grew in intensity. The drops were disorienting as they dragged her from sleep, leaving her tired, irritated, and wet. It was still dark out, and it took her a moment to fumble around and gather her stuff.

There wasn't a roof she could stand under or a cave she could hide in. Her cloak was on, and her bag was packed, but she had nowhere to go. Tired, discouraged, and waiting for daylight, she stood underneath a tree. It didn't wholly keep her from getting wet, but the drops were lighter. She dug another apple and some bread out of the bag. No matter how much she ate, she was always hungry, and it seemed to grow stronger each day.

I could go for some roasted meat about now.

When the daylight broke, the shower increased its intensity. Realizing she would get wet under the tree or not, she hiked the bag over her shoulder and walked into the rain.

Every layer of clothing was soon soaked. She stayed warm enough when moving, but whenever she stopped, a chill caused her to shiver. Her shoes were soggy, and blisters covered her feet.

When she first set out on her journey, she didn't have a destination in mind—all she wanted was to get away. Now that she was "away," she considered what it was she sought. The perfect piece of land to build a house? A small village looking for a girl to teach them about etiquette? A magical castle to live in with parents that love me? I'll know the right place when I find it.

Around midday, she opened her bag to get food but couldn't find anything. She dumped her dress, mirror, and comb onto the muddy ground in hopes of finding the bread or dried meat hiding at the bottom, but there was nothing. Her breath started to quicken. I'm sure I haven't eaten it all.

Chelci glanced around the woods for something to eat. Plants grew everywhere, but she had no idea what was edible. She hadn't seen an animal all day, but even if she had, she wouldn't know how to catch

anything—much less cook it. Her stomach growled and twisted uncomfortably.

It would be nice here if I had some food and a house to rest in out of the rain. The idea struck her. This is it! I can build my home here! The ground is flat and clear. The stream is close, and that clearing ahead could hold a garden.

She wasn't sure where she would find servants to take care of things, but she imagined that would come in time. The idea perked her spirits, but it only lasted a moment as her thoughts turned.

I have no idea how to build a house. She wrinkled her brow as she looked around. Where can I get polished stone blocks to make the walls? How do I create a roof? Where can I find a bed and chairs in the middle of nowhere, and what would I even buy them with?

Her heart raced again as a sinking feeling grew in her stomach. I'm in trouble. I can't build a house or gather food, and no one is here to help me. She swallowed hard as a dizzying thought hit her. Unless something changes quickly, I could die out here!

Emma was right. Living in the woods was not easy.

Chelci hated her mother and resented so much about how she grew up, but given a choice, she would rather live at home with her family rather than die alone in the cold. I don't want to but . . . I guess it's time to go home. At least there it's dry and I have food and a comfortable bed. Plus, I'm sure Father misses me. I miss him too. She turned around, her feet dragging and shoulders slumped in defeat, and headed back the way she came.

Soon after turning around, the rain strengthened. The pelting drops were distracting to the point of madness.

I can't take this anymore, she thought.

A shallow rocky outcropping came into view on the side of a hill. Rather than trudging through the rain, she decided to wait it out. Chelci sat under the rocks, wiped the water off her face, and hugged her knees to her chest in an attempt to stop her body from shivering. Her heavy cloak did little to keep her warm after it became soaking wet, but at least the rocks above her kept the rain off her head. The excitement of the new adventure was long gone now that she was cold, wet, and starving.

If I follow the same route back, a full three days of walking should get me to Felting.

Her stomach writhed in pain with intense hunger, but she had nothing to feed it. She lay back against the rock to keep the faint feeling at bay as her hands shook.

I miss my servants. I used to give them an order, and they would bring me anything I wanted. She squirmed in her rocky seat. I can't believe how I used to send food back when it was cold or even slightly overcooked. What I wouldn't give for that food now . . . and some dry clothes.

As she sat thinking, her feelings toward her mother began to soften.

Maybe I was too rash in my decision to leave. Father really is kind, and Mother means well, even if she is harsh. I wonder if I could just talk with her, maybe she'll listen to how I feel?

The gray clouds began to recede, taking the rain with them. Gold and pink streaks from the setting sun painted the sky through the trees. Great! Now it stops! Chelci thought, sneering at the beauty taunting her. I can't sleep now. If I follow the sound of the stream, maybe I can keep moving at night? That

would get me back home a day sooner! Willing to take the chance, she grabbed her stuff and left.

Within an hour, the sunlight was gone, replaced with a partial moon that provided only a faint light. Stumbling over rocks, Chelci's progress was slow as she followed the stream. Even so, she was thankful to be moving, knowing that each step brought her closer to home and safety.

I was so stupid to run away—thinking I could build my own house in the woods. I wish I were back home already.

Chelci walked all night, stopping only to drink from the stream. Tired and disoriented, she could barely form a thought. She continued marching in a daze, stumbling and scraping her legs and arms on rocks.

By the time the sun returned, her legs were weak from exertion and lack of food, and her feet ached from water-logged blisters. The pain caused her to limp. The progress she made gave her the motivation to keep going through the next day despite her condition.

When dusk arrived, Chelci came across a small waterfall. Something important nibbled at her tired mind, and she frowned. I don't remember seeing this. I didn't walk past where I started, did I?

Staring at the rushing water, she watched it fall with her head tilted. Suddenly, her heart raced, and sweat beaded across her forehead.

I went the wrong way! I was supposed to follow the water downstream, not up! Now I'm further away from home instead of closer. Her breaths came quickly, and her legs wobbled as she fell to her knees. What am I going to do now? I'll never make it home!

She clutched her stomach as it painfully rumbled, and she began to cry. As if cued by the falling tears, thunder boomed, and drops of water fell

from the sky, landing in her tangled hair.
Chelci considered how things couldn't possibly get any worse when a

howl cut through the air over the sound of the waterfall and the patter of rain. Her head shot up. She stood and stepped tentatively forward but couldn't see anything through the woods. Another howl sounded behind her. She spun around but saw nothing. Chelci continued to circle.

Finally, she saw them—three sets of glowing yellow eyes visible through the trees in the dim light. Shaking, she reached into her pocket and fumbled around in search of her small knife. Her heart beat wildly as she found the hilt and pulled it out, holding the blade in front of her with white knuckles. Chelci backed up until a low growl rumbled behind her. She whirled around and saw another set of yellow slits just on the other side of the stream. This set was even closer and belonged to a large gray wolf.

Chelci dropped her bag and ran as fast as she could. Her feet hurt, and her body felt stiff and weak, but she pushed on, having no idea where to go. Several howls sounded at once as the animals gave chase. Her foot caught on a root, twisting it sideways and sending her sprawling headfirst onto the muddy ground. She cried out in pain as her hands scraped on the rocks. Chelci scrambled to her feet, her leg screaming at her as she glanced back. The wolves were still coming. She tried to keep running, but her knee couldn't bear her weight without buckling.

Something collided into her back as she limped away, its claws ripping through her clothes. She was on the ground again with a wolf on top of her, snarling and snapping. Its hot breath covered the back of her neck as she thrashed, trying to escape. The weight of the animal pushed the breath out of her lungs, and she struggled to breathe.

Chelci stabbed blindly behind her with the knife and managed to catch the animal in the leg. It yelped and dashed away for a brief moment, giving her the chance to turn around on her knees. Before she could stand, the wolf sprang at her. Holding her free arm in front of her, white-hot pain seared through her as the wolf's jaws found her forearm. Her flesh tore as the beast locked on and shook its body.

Desperately holding on to the knife with her other arm, she managed to plunge the blade deep into the animal's neck. Its jaws loosened as the animal collapsed with its full weight on her. She screamed as warm blood spurted on her body. The wolf was silent but spasmed as Chelci used all her strength to roll it off of her.

Free from the animal, she stood up and winced from the pain shooting through her leg and the throbbing sensation in her bleeding arm. Three other wolves emerged from the woods, crouched and growling as they surrounded her. The rain fell heavily as she held the knife, slippery with blood, out as far as her shaky arm would reach, glancing between the three. Her eyes were wide, and she limped as she pivoted.

"Back! Stay back!" she shouted.

The wolves took turns, darting and snapping at her as she waved her knife. While fending off one in front, another grabbed her leg with its jaws from behind. The pain was excruciating as the teeth clamped down. She spun toward the animal and tried to kick it off, but it wouldn't let go. To the side, the other two animals approached.

As they were about to leap onto her, a long scratchy howl pierced the darkness from deep in the woods. The sound was powerful and unnatural. The pressure on her leg lessened as all three wolves froze and stood up

straight. The animals glanced at each other before backing up. A moment later, they turned and slunk off away from the new sound.

Where are they going? What was that noise?

Chelci kept spinning and looking, waiting for more to attack, but they never came. Her cuts were deep and bled heavily. The trees spun around her, and her legs wobbled as she stumbled. Exhaustion took over, and she sunk to the ground. Her vision blurred. She tried to stay awake, but the pull of oblivion was too strong.

Trapped on the edge of sleep, Chelci felt weightless, like she was floating on a cloud. While her body urged her to rest, her mind fought to wake. The blurry image of a man's face hovered over her when she managed to open an eye. As she wondered whether she was dead or alive, the desire of her body slowly won, and she drifted back into darkness.

8

Dinner at the Castle

While the servant finished straightening his collar, Brixton admired himself in the mirror, leaving the sleek black coat unbuttoned so his green tunic of finely woven wool and white puffy shirt were visible underneath. His leggings were uncomfortably tight, but his mother always insisted he wear them for formal occasions. His belt was straight, and the buttons were polished. He looked sharp. Brixton went downstairs to the lounge, ready and excited.

Baron Rycroft had invited each of the four lords of Karad and their families to a dinner at the castle in celebration of his wife Eliana's 52nd birthday. Brixton looked forward to what was sure to be a fine feast. For events like this, it seemed his family spent half the day getting ready. They had to make sure they were washed and cleaned, and their clothes were perfect down to the last button.

Arriving in the lounge, he found his father sitting in his chair, dressed in his nicest purple and black silk tunic. "How do I look, Father?" Brixton asked as he spun with a smile.

"You look like a slob. Fix that scuff on your shoe," Raynor said.

Brixton's smile faded as he glanced at his shoes. The right one contained a mark on the leather. A servant appeared shortly with a rag to buff it out.

"Where's Mother?" Brixton asked as the servant worked.

"She insisted on re-doing her hair," Raynor said, leaning back in his chair and tapping repetitively with his fingers.

Elenor Fiero, Brixton's mother, was the perfect foil to his father. Calm and loving, she tried to spread peace wherever she was. She never raised her voice, and she never spoke poorly of Raynor even when he worked himself into a fit.

Sensing his father wasn't pleased to wait, Brixton walked with spotless shoes to the window to avoid confrontation. Out in front of their house, Mila, his younger sister, was already dressed and running around the courtyard with one of the servant's kids.

Brixton looked at the castle up the hill. Thick walls ran around it and met up with the city wall on the backside. Two towers rose into the sky. The blue and gray flags of Feldor lined the top of the walls at regular intervals.

I'd like to live in a castle someday. Maybe I could be the baron's personal baker? I wonder what Father would think of me then?

As they waited, Raynor gave up sitting and began pacing the room, occasionally muttering to himself. Out of breath and face flushed, Elenor finally stepped into the room.

"It's about time. It's an honor to attend this, and you're going to make me late." Raynor said with an edge to his voice.

She fixed a stray hair falling from her elaborate bun. "I'm so sorry. I've been hurrying, but I wanted to look nice, and my hair wouldn't cooperate,"

she replied.
Brixton thought she looked perfect in her elegant dark blue gown.
"If we're late, you're going to be sorry," Raynor said, heading toward

the door.
"Dear, you're being unreasonable. If you want me to look good, it takes

time. I get ready as best as I can."
Raynor glared at her response and approached her with an ominous

look. Without warning, he grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her back. She bent over in pain as he leaned in close to her ear. "You'll be ready when I tell you to be ready. Do you understand?" He pulled her arm farther back.

Brixton tensed. His mother's face contorted in pain, and a cry escaped her lips. He grimaced, knowing there was nothing he could do for her. "Y— Yes, I understand," Elenor said between clenched teeth. "I'm sorry!"

Raynor let go of her arm, and she held it gingerly in front of her as she stared at the ground. Brixton looked away from the scene, hoping the gesture would give his mother a bit of privacy.

"Good, now everyone into the carriage," Raynor said.
Brixton ground his teeth. I hate it when he gets like this, he thought.
It happened frequently. Usually, his mother received the abuse, but

occasionally Mila or he was the target. Sometimes it happened after his father had been at the tavern drinking, but most times he didn't even have that excuse.

After collecting Mila, who was oblivious to the source of the tension that remained, they climbed into the carriage. Raynor insisted it was the only way for someone in his position to arrive. As they rode, Elenor rubbed her arm. It wouldn't be broken—his father was too careful to let that happen —but red marks were still visible from his grip. Raynor looked out the

window, paying no attention to the rest of them. After only a few moments, their coachman opened the door, and the Fiero family walked out and up the castle's steps. Baron Edward Rycroft and his wife Eliana waited at the entrance to greet them.

Unlike the other three kingdoms in Terrenor, titles were not passed down from father to son in Feldor. The king in Felting selected the baron of each city, who in turn appointed his city's lords. Even the king himself was chosen by Feldor's high lords after the death of his predecessor. Baron Rycroft was selected five years ago by King Wesley when the previous baron died unexpectedly. Brixton's father never spoke with him on the topic, but he got the impression from the furtive glances and hushed conversations at the time that something sinister was behind the death.

The baron was a doughy sort of man who spent more time eating delicacies than dealing with city issues. His hair had receded, and wrinkles covered much of his body. He understood little about what it took to run a city and was the last person a soldier would want by their side in a battle— or possibly the first if they wanted to distract the enemy with an easy target. His position commanded respect, but nothing else about him did. According to Raynor, Rycroft only got the job because the king owed him a favor.

His wife was quite the opposite. Eliana put a great deal of effort into her appearance. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, her face was smooth, and her body was trim and tight. Even at the age of fifty-two, she barely looked a day over thirty.

"Welcome, my friends!" the baron said with open arms.

Brixton's father was all smiles, his sullen mood vanishing. "I thank you for your hospitality. Happy birthday to you, Eliana!" He bowed and kissed

her hand. "You look particularly beautiful tonight." She blushed in response.

They made their way to the parlor where the other families had already gathered. It was an exquisite, hexagonal room that was sunken two steps down. Ornate windows looking out into the courtyard took up three walls. Velvety blue and gray fabric draped the other three, giving the illusion of secrecy as if something exciting were about to happen.

Thomas and Ethel Turnbill sat in a large cushioned seat. Thomas was the Lord of Justice—a position he had held for twenty years.

Seated next to them were Gareth Billings, his daughter Hailey, and Vivian—his most recent mistress. Years ago, Gareth was one of the greatest soldiers in Felting's army—the youngest ever to achieve the rank of captain. A battle injury left him unable to walk without assistance, but his respect earned him the title of Lord of Defense for Karad. His daughter, Hailey, was easy to spot with her bright red hair and was good friends with Brixton's sister, Mila.

Charles Marshall was the lord Brixton knew best because of the frequent dealings with his father. He and his wife, Josephine, were there with their two sons, Logan and Oliver, who were in their twenties and co- ran a local lending house.

Brixton's heart beat faster as his family entered the room. I hope I make a good impression! Having a good relationship with these men and women could be valuable as I get older.

"Now that we're all here, shall we enter the dining room?" the baron asked with a wave of his arm and a broad grin.

The four families followed their host into the large and brightly lit dining room. Brixton had eaten there a few times, and it never failed to

impress. The ceiling stretched taller than his entire house. Flags stood on either side of an enormous stone fireplace at each end of the room. Hanging on the far wall were two sizable paintings—one of the city of Karad and the other of the Korob Mountains. A large table didn't even extend halfway into the room. The hall could seat well over a hundred people if needed. The most dramatic feature was the two large chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Between their light and the fireplaces, the room was comfortably warm despite the cold weather outside. Brixton sat between his mother and sister, directly across the table from Hailey, who swapped silly faces with Mila until his mother put a stop to it.

"Elenor, did you hear about the Marlows' daughter in Felting?" Eliana Rycroft asked while attendants served bread and cheese.

Brixton's mother angled her face to the host. "No, I'm afraid I didn't. Chelci, is it?"

"That's her. She was kidnapped!" Eliana selected some cheese from a platter offered to her.

"Oh my, that's awful!" Elenor said, touching her chest while her forehead wrinkled with concern.

"I know!" Eliana smiled with raised eyebrows, creating an image conflicting with the words she spoke. "They're offering fifteen gold sol for anyone who can return her."

Elenor's eyes were wide. "That's a big reward! I hope they get her back."

"That just goes to show the state our cities are in," Josephine Marshall chimed in from the opposite side of the table. "People used to be good— now, you can't trust anyone anymore."

"I'll send my sympathies to Darcius," Raynor said. He looked at Brixton as he sat up tall, puffing out his chest. "Brixton, Mila, you better not go and get yourselves kidnapped because I'm not paying a tid to any thieves that want to extort me." Raynor finished with a hearty laugh, which was joined by the other men around the table.

Brixton only blinked in response. I wonder what Chelci Marlow would think if she knew what her parents were willing to pay to get her back safely? She'd probably feel loved. The wistful thought made him jealous in an odd way.

During much of the meal, the lords took turns boasting about their accomplishments or discussing city issues.

"Charles, I hear you've recently acquired an iron mine?" Baron Rycroft asked.

"Ah, yes, I did. It's about halfway between here and Felting," Lord Marshall replied. "The previous owner lost money on it, and I was able to buy it for a steal. Rather than send the iron to Felting like before, I've decided to import it here to Karad."

Brixton's father and Lord Marshall exchanged a furtive glance, which caught Brixton's eye. Wasn't iron what Father just fixed the price for? he thought.

"Well, that sounds good," the baron said as he chewed around a large chunk of bread. "Thomas, did you find out who burned down the shops on Archibald Street yet?"

Lord Turnbill shook his head. "No luck yet, but the reports say it involved several men. A similar case just came up in the Docks as well. We'll find them soon, Lord Baron."

The baron nodded before turning to Billings. "Gareth, any word on Bale?" he asked.

Conversations hushed and a few utensils clinked as they were set down at the mention of the King of Norshewa. The heads around the table turned to the Lord of Defense, who dabbed the side of his mouth before answering.

"No news in several weeks, but last we heard, he remained camped at Bromhill. Waves of refugees seeking a safe haven continue to pass through the gap every few weeks. They are anticipating the worst for Rynor."

"Still no signs of Bale's army moving this way?" Rycroft asked.

"No, Lord Baron, but Karondir is ready if they do. Felting has extra battalions stationed there just in case."

While conversation during dinner was lackluster, the food itself was sumptuous. Duck soup followed a bread and cheese plate. Next was roasted garront, which was Brixton's favorite of the game birds. The most impressive course was the whole roasted boar brought out on a large board. Pears, tarrols, plums, and cherries with a sweet glaze completed the grand feast.

During the final course, the baron spoke to Brixton from the end of the table, a few seats down. "So, Brixton, I hear you've been learning about commerce from your father?"

Brixton lit up, eager to be included in the conversation. "Yes, sir!" He said, remembering to make eye contact. "Hopefully, I'll know as much as him one day."

"What do you intend to do next?" the baron asked.

Brixton opened his mouth to speak but froze. His father wanted him to show ambition and follow in his footsteps, but Brixton had his heart set on

running a bakery. More than anything, he wanted his father to be proud of him, but he hadn't shared his bakery vision with anyone yet.

"Brixton will be going to King's Academy when the year starts," his father said before Brixton could speak.

Elenor hit her spoon against the bowl and froze, looking at her food. Brixton stared down the table at his father, his mouth hanging open. What? When did we decide that? He resisted the urge to say anything while he looked at the baron and forced himself to smile.

"Splendid! That's where I went to finish my education as well," Baron Rycroft said.

The conversation moved on, but Brixton couldn't think about anything else. King's was a four-year boarding school in Felting. I don't want to go there. I don't want to learn a bunch of boring stuff I don't care about.

The carriage ride home was silent and tense. Brixton waited for his parents to say something, but they never did. Upon entering the house, Brixton followed his father, who went straight to his study.

"Father? King's Academy?" Brixton said as he stepped into the room.

"Yes, what of it?" Raynor asked while pouring himself a glass of brandy. He sat down at his desk and grabbed a stack of papers.

Brixton clasped his hands in front of him and looked down at the floor. "That's a four-year school, and it's in Felting." He shifted his weight as he looked up. "I was wondering about possibly staying here . . . and living at home?"

Raynor stared at Brixton with narrow eyes. "Oh, you were wondering, were you? You think you've learned all you need to? How long do you plan to leech off me while running around like a little boy?"

Brixton tried to stand straighter as his heart pounded. "I don't think I need to continue school. I had been considering apprenticing with a local bakery, and then one day opening a store."

Raynor slammed the glass down on the table. "Bakery! You want to bake? Like a common servant?"

Brixton stayed silent as his father's fury rose.

Raynor stood and walked toward him. "Do you think I got where I am by accident? No! It's because I worked hard and learned everything I could. I worked as a grocer because I didn't have a choice, but you have opportunity and privilege. I will not sit by and allow you to waste your life and ruin our family's reputation!"

Brixton took a step away and looked back at the ground. "I'm not wasting my life, Father. I—"

"You will go to that school!" Raynor said, his face red as he shook his finger at Brixton. "I won't allow my son to end up a failure! Now, get out of my sight!"

Brixton left at the dismissive flick from his father's hand. He stormed through the house, holding back the emotion that had built. When he made it to his room, tears flowed freely, the large drops running down his cheeks.

A failure? That's all I am to him? I work so hard to get him to notice me, but all he sees is my mistakes. He doesn't even care about what I want.

A drop fell from his cheek onto his leather shoe, perfectly polished and free of scuffs. With an angry yell, Brixton took it off and flung it against the wall where it collided with a mirror, raining shards of glass onto the floor.

When he calmed down, the sound of his parents arguing in muffled voices bled through the wall.

"But we hadn't decided for sure that was what we were going to do!" Elenor said.

"I decided. That was enough," Raynor replied.
His mother said something else, but Brixton couldn't make it out.
"This is my family! If I want him to go to school, then he goes!"
His mother's cry followed a loud shattering sound. Their conversation

grew quieter after that, but Brixton didn't need to hear any more.

He thinks my only hope of succeeding in life is through more education. Maybe he's right? Is baking a stupid idea? Would I be a failure if that was all I did? Brixton thought as he exhaled a long and slow breath. I want to succeed, and I know I can do it. I will go to King's and show Father I'm capable of making something out of my life.

9

Training Begins

Artimus sat alone, eating his dinner. Veron had taken his supply of dried meat, so his meal consisted of vegetables from the garden. All day he struggled with his anger. I did everything I could to help him. I offered to feed him, house him, and train him, but he rejected it. It's insulting, he thought.

As he wrestled with his feelings, a knock sounded at the gate. Artimus went outside and opened it to find Veron on the other side with his head down. The boy held a sack in one hand and the missing sword in the other. Artimus' jaw clenched. His fist balled, but he fought to stop the anger.

After a moment of stilled silence, he motioned for Veron to enter. The boy shuffled his feet as he came through the gate. Inside the house, Artimus hung the sword back on the training room wall while Veron waited in the kitchen. When Artimus returned, Veron held out the bag of food.

"Are you hungry?" Artimus asked. Veron shook his head, looking at the floor. "Why'd you leave?"

Veron shrugged. "All that stuff—the trainin' and all—it sounded great . . . too great, I guess," he said as he kicked absently at the floor. "I don't have a lotta faith in people to do what they say. I learned a long time ago to take care of myself. People look out for themselves, and if someone seems helpful, it's only a matter of time before they take advantage of you too."

Artimus pursed his lips and nodded. He took his dish from dinner and moved to put it away. "Sounds like a tough lesson to learn. Why'd you change your mind?"

Veron looked up. "I made a promise to a friend. I agreed to be more than a thief, but it's tough. If you'll take me back, I'd like to try again."

"I said I'd train you, and you agreed to it. Out of respect for you and your father, I aim to keep that promise," Artimus said.

Veron swallowed hard. "I've been a thief all of my life. I want to change, but I'm worried I'm just gonna steal again!"

The old man shook his head. "I knew you were a thief when I took you in, but that is who you were, not who you are." Artimus paused, holding his gaze, hoping the words would sink in. "You fall back on it because it's all you know, but as you stay here and learn, you'll find there are other ways."

Veron looked down to avoid his gaze, but Artimus pulled his chin up to look at him.

"You have worth, Veron. You may have been told otherwise all your life, but I believe you're in this world for a reason, and it's not for stealing bread and copper coins. You're destined for something great, and I'm going to help you find it."

Veron felt like he had just fallen asleep when the door opened.
"Time to get up," Artimus said. "Meet me downstairs." He left without

waiting on a response.
Veron rubbed his eyes and looked out the window. It was still dark. I

figured I'd be able to get a full night's sleep, at least, he thought, stumbling down the stairs to the training room.

"I was glad to find you here this morning," Artimus said, motioning as he went out the door toward the garden.

Veron hung his head as he followed. "Yeah . . . me too."

Artimus stopped at the garden shed—a small wooden structure with a dirt floor. The crowded walls displayed various garden tools, while clay pots and bricks piled on top of each other on the ground. Next to the bricks sat a stack of small rocks, each with either red or blue lines that looked freshly painted. Artimus bent over, grabbed one rock of each color, and handed them to Veron before they walked back to the training room.

"Do you know where Farrier Street meets the river?" Artimus asked. "Yeah. Why?"
"Just before you get to the water, there's an abandoned building on the

right side. I want you to take that rock and set it inside the doorway on the left." Artimus pointed to the stone with the red mark. "Next, do you know Dock Five?"

"Yeah, of course," Veron replied.

"I want you to take the other rock and set it at the base of the city wall just past that dock."

I don't get it. I must be missin' somethin', Veron thought.

Artimus walked to the hourglasses on the table and selected the larger one. He flipped it over and set it back on the table, the sand falling through.

"And I want you to be back before the sand in this glass runs out."
Veron's eyes were wide as he looked at Artimus. "Those places are at opposite corners of the city! It'd take a while to walk to one of 'em and get

back, much less both!"
Artimus' expression remained neutral. "I advise not walking then." Veron blinked. Is he serious? Artimus' stoic face told him he was.

Veron turned and began to run.
After winding through the alleys of Upper Sherry, Veron eventually shot

out onto Gate Street, heading north. No one else was out on the street early in the morning. It was strange running without someone chasing him—a foreign but welcome feeling.

Having no idea how long it would take the hourglass to run out, he pushed his legs to pump faster. Ignoring the stitch in his side, he passed Karad Square and turned left down Farrier Street. Sweat already began to mark his shirt as he fought to breathe. Although his body felt good before he began, his aches from the recent beating quickly returned.

At the end of the street, the river came into view as he found the abandoned building on the right. He ducked in the open doorway and looked on the left side. The floor was wooden with weeds growing between the rotten boards. He thought the instructions would make more sense when he arrived, but he was still confused. Veron set the red rock down on the floor and left the building, heading toward the Docks.

Between the two drop points, Veron tired quickly. What's the purpose of this? he thought, panting. Maybe I should toss the rock here and head straight back? The old man'll never know. He pictured himself arriving back at the house, acting as if he'd run the whole route. No, I can't do that. Grudgingly, he continued.

Out of breath, Veron arrived at the Docks, a large neighborhood encompassing several streets and hundreds of buildings. In the far corner of the area were five docks that jutted into the river where cargo and trade vessels unloaded. Boats carrying passengers usually moored farther upriver at the end of Archibald Street.

Just off the water was a series of large buildings that held goods before and after shipment. Workers labored sunrise to sundown, unloading boats and carrying supplies. Past the storage buildings were a scattering of residences and shops, catering to the myriad of workers. The neighborhood was dingy and not a pleasant place to live. A lingering smell of fish and garbage permeated most of the area. Although undesirable, it still contained many people because of the availability of employment the docks provided.

While Veron ran, a handful of workers milled about, casting funny looks in his direction. He arrived at the last dock and approached the wall beyond, finding nothing was there. He set the rock on the ground and headed back.

During the short run from the Docks back to Artimus' house, Veron labored to continue. Despite his exhaustion, he forced himself on through the debilitating cramp in his side. He navigated through the crowded streets and found his way back. Panting, he burst through the gate and stumbled into the training room to find Artimus sitting in a chair reading a book. Artimus looked at Veron then over at the hourglass, which had run out.

"How close . . . was I?" Veron asked between breaths.
"Run faster tomorrow, and maybe you'll figure it out," Artimus said. Veron groaned. I don't think I can run much faster.
"Time to eat," Artimus said, clapping his hands together.
Veron followed into the kitchen. Breakfast was simple, some bread and

cheese, which Veron scarfed down.

"How many people did you see while you were out?" Artimus asked.

"No idea," Veron said with his mouth full. "I guess there was a couple on Gate Street—"

"Were a couple," Artimus said, correcting him.

Veron sighed. "I guess there were a couple on Gate Street . . . one or two in the square . . . some around the docks . . . a lot more back in Upper Sherry—I don't know."

Artimus huffed and turned back to his food.

The question is pointless. Why's he upset?

After breakfast, Artimus led him into the sitting room and selected a book from the shelf. "Now, you start learning to read."

Veron's pulse quickened, a nervous smile spreading across his face. I never imagined I'd learn to read. I always thought it was only for rich people. Maybe I'll be rich one day?

Artimus scanned the book and pointed to individual letters, pronouncing the name and how it sounded. The sounds were familiar, but the process of naming and pairing them with a symbol was foreign to Veron as he attempted to repeat after Artimus.

After individual letters, Artimus introduced two and three-letter words. The jump from letters to words was challenging but exhilarating at the same time. Veron's mind soon felt like mush, and all the letters ran together. Thankfully, Artimus decided it was time for something different and led him outside.

The sun was high, and the air felt crisp but comfortable. Veron's fatigue from the morning run had all but faded. Artimus stopped outside the doorway, next to a pile of large rocks.

"Here are fifteen stones." He hit one on the top of the stack with his hand. "Do you know the alley next to the East Gate, just past the cartwright's shop?"

Veron leaned away as he eyed him. "Yeah?"

"Down that alley is a red door. Across from it is a short flight of steps leading to a small pit," Artimus walked back into the training room as he talked. "I want you to take all of these stones and place them in that pit"— he turned over the smaller hourglass—"and the time starts now."

Veron groaned. Not this again! He grabbed the first rock on top of the pile, the weight surprising him. At first, he tried to carry it with both arms in front of his body, but it forced him to walk like a duck. Grunting, he hoisted the stone up to his shoulder, so he could walk normally.

Veron took off at a slow jogging pace. His shoulder, right arm, and legs hurt by the time he made it to the pit. Unsure of how long it took—at least one or two minutes—he tossed the stone down, happy to be rid of the weight, and headed back to get another.

After returning from his fifth stone, the hourglass had already lost half its sand. He still had ten stones left—not a good sign. His legs ached more and more, and his pace slowed.

Before long, he started needing to drop the stone mid-way through the route to breathe and rest his legs. I can't do this, Veron thought, bent over with his hands on his knees as he heard Artimus' words in his head telling him to keep going. But he's not here to tell me, he thought with a smirk. Still, he picked up the stone and continued.

When Veron returned from the ninth trip, the last specks of sand fell through the hourglass. He exhaled with a loud sigh as he sat on the ground, exhausted.

Artimus walked up and stood over him. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"I only got nine of 'em," Veron told him.
"Nine of them," Artimus said.
"Yeah, I got nine of them."
Artimus looked at him, then at the remaining stones. "So . . . what are

you doing?"
Veron's stomach dropped as he realized the hourglass running out would

not save him from having to complete the task.
Forcing himself to stand, he grabbed the next stone. The last six stones

seemed to take twice as long as the first nine. By the time he finished and returned to the house, he could barely walk.

That was the toughest thing I've ever done, Veron thought as he collapsed to the ground in the training room. Thankfully, Artimus allowed him to remain on the floor for a few minutes to rest.

Once he could get up, they went to the garden where Artimus worked and taught while Veron sat on the bench, grateful for the moment to relax. Artimus harvested ripe vegetables while he discussed the concept of wealth and where money came from. He talked about markets and how distribution worked. Soon, selling and distributing goods changed into a discussion on taxes.

"But that's not fair," Veron said. "The baron isn't doing nothin', and—" "Isn't doing anything," Artimus said while picking weeds.
"The baron isn't doing anything, and people have to give him money

just for ownin' land—" "Owning land."

Veron shook his hands and let out a frustrated breath. "For owning land or"—he caught himself—"selling products?"

Artimus smiled. He wiped the sweat off his forehead, leaving a stain of dirt behind. "Many feel that way, but barons would argue that without taxes, a city would fall apart. No one would be there to keep the peace. No one would be ready to fight if the city were attacked. No one would light the streetlamps at night or keep the streets clean during the day. Also, no one would work to create laws to help the city be a better place to live."

"We don't need any of that," Veron said. "We can fight to protect the city and take care of the streets. We don't need their stupid laws!"

"Many agree with you, but a wise man keeps an open mind concerning issues with which he has little experience. Maybe one day, you'll change how you feel. Or maybe one day you'll help change the way things are done."

After his lessons finished, Artimus introduced Veron to a new experience. Bathing. Veron never noticed he was dirty and smelly, but Artimus did. His teacher insisted he bathe once per week. The public bathhouses were not expensive—only one pintid—but when Veron lived on the streets, even that was an extravagance. Artimus walked him through what to do. The fresh feeling after scrubbing layers of grime and dirt off combined with the warm water left Veron feeling like a new person.

Dinner was more of the soup Artimus had served before but included fresh cabbage and carrots from the garden. Veron had an even larger portion this time, the exercises leaving him hungrier than before.

"I'm sorry for not coming back to the orphanage after William died," Artimus said after swallowing a spoonful.

Veron paused with his spoon resting in his bowl, taken aback by the mention of his father. "That's all right. I wasn't your responsibility," he replied.

"I know, but after I fled Felting, I often thought of you—wondering what became of you. How did you end up in Karad?"

Veron looked down at his bowl. "The master at the orphanage wasn't a kind man. He hurt the kids and took our food, so my friend Fend and I decided to leave. Afraid of being caught and taken back, we hitched a ride on a cart and ended up in Karad. Here, we begged some, but that didn't bring in much. We had to resort to stealin'—food or coins, wherever we could find them. Fend was older and always knew what to do. I would've been dead without him."

Artimus sat up straight at the mention of stealing. "What happened to Fend?"

Veron took a deep breath and exhaled. "One day, some soldiers caught him after a job and killed him because of it." He was ready to fight off tears, but they didn't come.

Artimus' shoulders slumped, and his face drooped. "I had a son once." Veron's head shot up. "I thought you weren't allowed to marry?"
"It was before I joined the Knights. I lived in Rynor, just south of the

Gap of Thardor, with my wife, Cora, and our son, Archer. Our village was quiet, filled with farmers and shepherds."

"What happened to him?"

Artimus stared down at his bowl. "Archer was three when the Norshewan raiders came. They burned half of the village after taking whatever they wanted. Some of the people were able to flee, but most didn't survive." He stopped and was silent for a moment as he lowered his chin

and swallowed. "I had been in the fields with the sheep and returned after I saw the smoke, but it was too late. I found Cora and Archer among the burned remains of our home." Artimus sniffed and cleared his throat. "That was many years ago. Not long after, I moved to Felting to join the Shadow Knights."

Veron sat quietly, unsure of what to say. "Archer . . . I like that name," he finally said, giving a weak smile. "I'm sorry about your family."

Artimus nodded.

"So, did people normally join the Knights when they were younger or older?"

"Most were young. We tried to find candidates around your age, but it could be at any time. The oldest recruit I found was forty-five. I was actually discovered by them when I was sixteen, but I didn't want the life of a fighter. Cora had already caught my eye, and I wanted a simple life in my peaceful village. Once my family was gone, my motivation changed. I wanted to be able to stop people like the raiders and make a difference, so I went back to the Knights."

Veron nodded and finished his soup as he pictured a forty-five-year-old man plodding down alleyways, carrying stones and racing hourglasses.

By the time they finished eating, the sun had set. Veron flopped down on a chair in the sitting room and laid his head back while Artimus put up their dishes. I made it through my first day . . . just barely. I don't think I could've taken any more.

"Time for your next lesson," Artimus said with a clap as he entered the room.

"What!" Veron's eyes widened.

Artimus motioned for Veron to follow, which he did with a sigh. The two left the house and went into the alley beyond the gate. Veron's legs were stiff as he shuffled along.

"What do you think the best weapon is that a warrior can use?" Artimus asked.

Veron shrugged. "A sword?" "No."
"A knife?"
"No."

Veron racked his brain. "A bow?"
"No," Artimus said, shaking his head.
"I don't know. What?" Veron asked.
"Invisibility."
Veron stared blankly. Is he jokin' with me?
"If your opponent can't see you, they can't defeat you. If they don't

know you're there, you have the element of surprise. If you're chased, they can't catch you. So, tell me, how is someone seen?"

"I guess by light shinin' on"—Veron corrected himself— "shining on them?"

"Yes! Light gives visibility to an object. But someone can also be discovered by sound or even smell. A guard will know you're coming if your sword clangs against a metal bar or if you haven't bathed in several weeks. Another way to be seen is by affecting your environment—a dog barking, curtains rustling, birds flying away. For someone to learn to become invisible, they need to master all of this. Tonight, we're going to walk the streets of Upper Sherry while invisible."

"How are we gonna—going to do that?"

"Do what I do," Artimus said as he walked down the alley, hugging the wall.

Most major streets in the city had lanterns illuminating the stone paths, but many of the smaller side alleys had nothing. Before getting to the next lamp ahead of them, Artimus turned left down a dark alley, and Veron followed. After only a few steps, Artimus stopped and pointed at the ground.

Small rocks were barely visible in the darkness. Artimus made an exaggerated effort of stepping to avoid them, and Veron did the same. As they rounded a corner, voices sounded ahead. Artimus ducked into a doorway alcove on the right and pulled Veron next to him, placing his finger over his lips. They flattened themselves as much as possible and held their breath. Two men walked by, giving off a musty odor barely an arm's length from where they hid. When the men had passed and were far enough away, Veron exhaled loudly, earning a scolding look from Artimus.

"Why do you think they didn't notice us?" Artimus whispered as he leaned in.

"'Cause they couldn't see us?" Veron replied.

Artimus shook his head. "Wrong. Even though it's dark, if they had turned, they would've seen us. They didn't see us because they weren't looking for us."

Artimus motioned for him to follow as he continued down the street, ducking in and out of shadows and stepping around puddles, broken pieces of clay, and loose rocks while Veron struggled to keep up. They didn't run into any more people as they made their way back to Artimus' house.

"Good job, Veron," Artimus said, clapping him on the back. "Day one of training is complete."

Veron sighed and slumped his shoulders with relief. He was done and needed some sleep.