h

by freesayan

h

4. d

Festival of Lords

Weekterm arrived, and Veron felt terrible about leaving everyone from the market behind. They teased him, wishing him to have a good time with his "rich and famous friends" at the festival. Wearing a new blue and white outfit from Henry and Greta, he walked up High Street and approached the castle gates. Veron had never been inside the castle before, and the prospect was intimidating but exhilarating at the same time. Soldiers stationed at the gatehouse stepped aside after finding his name on their list.

Veron knew he needed to keep up his story as a wealthy merchant used to nice things, but he couldn't help but gawk at the grandeur around him. The walls looked higher and even more impressive from inside than they did from the outside, and they were as thick as two men laying end-to-end.

Continuing along the path, Veron found another smaller gateway that led to a large inner courtyard where the festival attendees gathered. Easily two hundred people filled the courtyard, but it didn't even feel crowded.

Tables everywhere were loaded with food and drink, and musicians played a lively song under one of the archways.

Veron had never seen anything like it before in his life. The green grass was perfectly trimmed, and a maze of bushes and flowers decorated the space. Around the grassy area ran a walkway rimmed with intricately carved stone arches displaying blue and gray banners. At the far end of the garden, a large fountain in the shape of a tree shot water from each of its branches. Each direction he looked had passageways leading to other parts of the castle. Above him, three stories of windows peeked out over the verdant scene below.

"Never been in the castle before, huh?" a voice said.

Veron jumped. He didn't even notice Brixton walk up to him in his crisp black tunic and light gray pants. "Sorry, no—yes, this is my first time here. It's . . . big," Veron said, nodding his head and looking around, trying to downplay how impressed he was.

"It's nothing compared to the one in Felting. You should see it!" Brixton said.

A beautiful and familiar-looking girl with crimson hair and a green velvet dress came up and put her arm through Brixton's. "Veron, right?" she asked.

"Yes," Veron said, unable to place where he knew her from. She sure appears familiar with Brixton.

"You remember Hailey, I'm sure?" Brixton said. "She was at our house when you came for dinner."

"Yes, of course! It's good to see you again, Hailey."

"I hear you've done some great things with that new market of yours," Hailey said.

The compliment brought a smile to Veron's face. "Oh, thank you. Yeah, things have been going well. I'm fortunate to have some great people working there. They've really done all the work."

"Well, I hope you enjoy the festival," Brixton said. "Have you signed up for the quarter-staff contest yet?"

"Um, no, I hadn't. What's that?" Veron asked.

Brixton's eyes widened. "Oh, you have to sign up. Everyone does it! I actually have some skills with the staff," he said, puffing out his chest as he glanced at Hailey. "But you don't have to be good. Most people aren't, and it's still fun. I think it's supposed to start in a few minutes."

Veron had no intention of signing up for the contest. He didn't want to fight with spoiled rich snobs for sport, but he followed Brixton to the table anyway where a woman sat taking names on a sheet of paper.

"I've got one more name for you," Brixton said to the woman.
Veron held up his hand to stop him. "Brixton, I don't know if I—"
He froze mid-sentence. The sheet in front of the woman held roughly

fifty names, and one near the top caught his eye and made his blood turn to ice. Charles Mortinson.

Captain Mortinson is competing? Would I have a chance to fight him? Am I good enough to fight him? Veron thought.

"What's your name, lad?" the woman asked Veron.

Veron pulled himself out of a daze and looked at her. "Veron Stormbridge . . . Yes, I'd like to fight." I'm not about to miss this opportunity.

Veron turned and scanned the crowd. Near the fountain, he found who he searched for—a tall, strong man with a trimmed beard talking with a group of soldiers. Captain Mortinson.

I sure hope we get a chance to fight.

In a matter of minutes, a trumpet sounded, indicating the start of the competition, and the contestants gathered together. A large board holding their names indicated who they were to battle. A well-muscled man with dark hair stood up, leaning heavily on a cane—Gareth Billings, the Lord of Defense. The cane made him easy to pick out.

"Attention all quarter-staff contestants! We now begin the competition! You'll take turns battling one opponent at a time," Gareth said. "To win, you must either knock your opponent down or disarm him. The padded helmets are to protect your heads. Winners will advance until the last man remains. As a reward, in addition to being declared the quarter-staff champion and receiving one gold sol, the winner will receive a kiss from my daughter, Hailey."

He gestured toward Hailey, who stood to the side. She smiled and waved at everyone as the crowd whistled and cheered. Whoa! A gold sol could be helpful right now! Veron thought. He glanced at Brixton, who didn't look pleased. I wonder how Brixton feels about the winner kissing Hailey? They seem to be close.

Forty-nine names were displayed on the board, and it appeared Veron could have as many as six rounds if he won them all. His first was against someone named Worm. He wasn't sure if that was a real name or a made-up one, but they were scheduled to be the fourth fight.

Veron watched the first three battles, which were all pretty short. The first one ended when a skinny man, who didn't even know how to hold the staff correctly, had it knocked away. He laughed about it and shook hands with the man who defeated him. The next two fights ended when men fell

on the ground. A hard blow to the chest knocked one down, and the other tripped on his own feet and fell over before a hit even landed.

Maybe I can do well at this? If everyone is like these guys, fighting shouldn't be too difficult, Veron thought.

Veron put his helmet on and took his staff, which was sturdy and felt like the one he used with Artimus. As he walked into the circle, his face dropped. His opponent didn't look at all like a worm. He was short and stout and had a fierce look on his face. A light breeze danced through the courtyard bringing the murmur of voices with it as he faced his rival.

Worm came at him, swinging with a yell. Veron deftly sidestepped while the other man's staff crashed to the ground where he stood a moment before. Veron hit him in the back, but it wasn't enough to knock him over. Worm recovered and faced him again, swinging left then right, but Veron moved to block both blows. As he stopped the second swing, Veron stepped in with his body. He put his right foot behind Worm's leg and shoved him with his shoulder. The short man fell with a solid thud onto the grass.

I won!

The crowd cheered for Veron as Worm got up, threw down his staff and helmet, and stomped off. Veron grinned. He had never fought in front of a crowd before, and the experience was exhilarating.

Due to the odd number, some men didn't have to fight in the first round —Brixton being one of them. When he eventually fought, he won against a tall, older man who moved rather well for his age. Still, Brixton was able to disarm him by knocking his staff away. Both Brixton and Veron won their next two fights easily.

"I see that skill you were talking about. You're doing great," Veron said to Brixton, his wavy brown hair matted and sweaty from the helmet.

"Thanks," Brixton replied. "I wish my father would realize that."

Veron followed Brixton's eyes to see Raynor watching the event from the other side of the crowd. "Does he put a lot of pressure on you?"

"Haha! That's putting it mildly." Brixton looked down and kicked at the grass below him. His shoulders sagged. "He won't stand for a son who's not the best. I never even wanted to be a soldier, but he made me practice fighting all of my childhood. I won the junior sword fighting cup three years in a row. I thought it was what he wanted, but he never seemed to care. He didn't even show up to watch."

I wonder how my father would have treated me had he lived?

"You're doing well, too. How were you trained?" Brixton asked.

Veron thought quickly. "In Felting. My brother and I practiced together."

Brixton nodded, staring absently ahead. "I really want to win today," he said after a moment.

Veron assumed he referred to impressing his father but noticed Brixton looking at Hailey, who still stood next to her father. She saw them both and waved.

I think Brixton's goal is to get to kiss Hailey, or maybe to prevent anyone else from doing so, he thought.

As the rounds went on, Veron kept his eye on Captain Mortinson. Whenever the man fought, Veron watched how he moved and the way he attacked. His opponents never had a chance.

He's cunning with his moves and brutally efficient.

Veron barely survived the fourth round. The man he fought was much stronger, and he almost lost his hold on the staff from the punishing hits. Thankfully, due to some quick movement, he dodged a couple of blows and

knocked the man over when his balance was compromised. Soon, only four competitors remained—Veron, Brixton, a man named Brody, and Mortinson.

"Get ready to be knocked on your butt!" Brixton said as the two squared off.

"I'm ready," Veron told him.

Veron wanted to win, but if he did, he'd feel bad for Brixton. He considered letting Brixton knock him down but decided he wasn't about to miss his chance to fight the captain. Veron lunged, hitting Brixton square in the chest and knocking him back.

"Ooph, that's gonna hurt," Brixton said as he rubbed his chest.

Without warning, Brixton stepped in and attacked, but Veron knocked the staff away. Brixton tried the other side, but Veron blocked it again and took his own futile swing at Brixton's head. The other boy was quick. Brixton kicked with his right foot and pushed Veron away. Back in the ready position, they circled.

Brixton moved with a two-handed swing. Veron stepped in to stop the blow out of instinct, glancing Brixton's staff out of the way. Veron brought his weapon back and caught Brixton in the padding on the side of his head. Brixton staggered but remained upright. Veron finished with a decisive blow to his back that sent Brixton to the ground.

The crowd cheered as Veron extended his hand to his opponent with a smile. Brixton accepted the hand to help him up, but his face was downcast.

"Sorry, Brix," Veron said.

"Nice job," Brixton replied, grimacing and holding his back where he was hit.

The next match was a brutal fight where each man took turns beating the other. Mortinson was strong and fast. His age hadn't diminished his skill. Although Brody was a strong opponent, in the end, only one kept his feet and was declared the winner—Mortinson.

Veron's face was unreadable, but inside, his heart leaped with excitement. He harbored a deeply rooted revulsion for the man and wanted more than anything to be able to beat him up with a staff.

A brief moment of dread came to Veron as his stomach jumped. What if he recognizes me? He quickly shook it off. He didn't recognize me in Morgan's shop. It's been many years since we've crossed paths before that.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is the final round of our quarter-staff competition. Captain Charles Mortinson versus Veron Stormbridge," Lord Billings announced.

The fighters donned their helmets and took up their staffs. Mortinson waved to the crowd with a smile, but Veron didn't take his eyes off the soldier. Both men stood facing each other while slowly moving their feet in a circle, waiting for the other to make the first move.

The smell of trampled grass and sweat permeated the air. The rumble of the crowd filled the courtyard. Some chanted for the captain and some for Veron, although he didn't even know who they were.

Clear the mind. Clear the mind. Veron tried to tap into the origine. Focus. You can do this.

Momentarily distracted, he almost missed the attack. Veron ducked underneath Mortinson's swing to his head. Anticipating the reverse jab to follow, Veron blocked it with his own weapon.

He's much stronger than me! Veron swallowed.

Even though he blocked the blow, it almost sent his staff flying from his hands. With their weapons connected, Mortinson pushed, trying to knock him over. Veron spun away and moved to create space. The wind had stopped, and the air was heavy. The chanting grew louder as Veron took in quick breaths while they circled.

Mortinson advanced. He tried several quick blows on alternating sides, which Veron swiftly blocked. What Veron wasn't ready for was the fifth hit. Instead of swinging at his body, Mortinson brought the staff up between Veron's legs with a crooked grin. Veron jumped, using his staff for leverage. Mortinson's grin changed to fear as his weapon found nothing but air and Veron's feet collided into the captain's face.

The crowd gave a collective gasp as Mortinson staggered back, checking his face with his hand to make sure he wasn't bleeding. His good- natured attitude was gone. Veron stood in a ready stance with two feet on the ground and his staff held prepared to strike.

"Come on!" Veron yelled.

The sun was high by this point, and both fighters dripped with sweat. Veron wiped his forehead to keep his sight clear while the captain seethed through gritted teeth. Mortinson lunged with a yell and swung hard at Veron's head, but Veron ducked again.

While ducked, Veron struck at the captain, the staff connecting with his left side and then the right. Mortinson groaned as he brought his staff back and aimed at Veron's side. Veron used his own to block and redirect the captain's down to the ground. As soon as they touched the ground, Veron pivoted the backside of his staff and struck the unguarded side of Mortinson's head as hard as he could. The staff shook as it connected with the soldier, and Veron felt the reverberation up his arm. Mortinson lost his

grip on his weapon as he spun around and fell to the ground with a resounding thud. Veron had won.

The crowd went wild, cheering and chanting his name. Veron looked around, realizing the impossibility of the moment. The wealthiest people of the city, the lords and ladies and merchants he had been oppressed by all his life, were all cheering his name in celebration as he stood over his defeated foe. He beamed, taking in the moment.

This was for Fend. This was for Morgan. This was for me! Veron thought.

He wanted to spit on the fallen captain or maybe hit him a few more times while he was down but looking at him on the ground changed his mind. The arrogant pride in Mortinson's face had been replaced with a downturned look of disappointment. He had been beaten by a boy in front of all his peers and was probably in pain. Veron walked to where Mortinson lay and gritted his teeth as he held out his hand. Mortinson narrowed his eyes and swatted the hand away as he got up on his own. Veron smirked as the captain walked off.

Gareth Billings motioned for Veron to come. "Congratulations, Veron! You are our quarter-staff contest winner!" he said as he handed him a solid gold sol and took a bronze-colored medal with a ribbon and placed it around Veron's neck. He motioned to his daughter with a smile. "Your final prize!"

The crowd cheered again.

Veron had forgotten about the promised kiss. He had been so focused on Mortinson that it slipped his mind.

Hailey came up to him with a mischievous look on her face. Holding his arms, she leaned in and whispered in his ear, "I was hoping it'd be you."

With somewhere between confusion and a look of triumph on his face, he turned his cheek to her. His eyes widened when her lips met his in a brief but electric kiss. She winked at him before turning away. The crowd cheered again, and Veron looked back out at the faces, unable to do anything but grin after the kiss. He found Brixton's face, which was unreadable as he clapped along with the others.

In the excitement of the kiss and the cheer of the crowd, Veron's thoughts turned to Chloe. I wish she had been here to see my victory. I wish the kiss had been with her.

Veron hung around the festival for a while. He wanted to sample more of the food, but he also enjoyed getting congratulated by people everywhere he went. As he stood by the fountain, talking with an older woman who insisted Veron looked just like her son, Raynor Fiero and Baron Rycroft approached. The woman quickly took her leave. Veron had never met the baron but knew who he was by sight. He felt butterflies in his stomach.

"Impressive fighting, Veron," Raynor said, nodding his head. "Where did you learn the quarter-staff?"

"A friend taught me," Veron said.

Raynor took a drink from a goblet he carried. "Most unusual for a merchant. Have you met Baron Edward Rycroft yet?"

"No, I've not," Veron said as he extended his hand to the baron. "It's an honor to meet you, Lord Baron."

"And you too, Veron. You were excellent with the staff today. Beating Captain Mortinson is no small feat," Rycroft said.

"Thank you, sir."

"Maybe we could use him against Bale? What do you think?" the baron said to Raynor with a grin.

Veron jerked his head at the name. "What?" he said as his pulse quickened.

"Oh, not really," Rycroft said. "We were just talking about how Edmund Bale was run out of Bromhill in Rynor, and I was wondering if he'll try to attack Feldor now."

"As I said, Karad is too far away," Raynor said. "If anything, Karondir would be his first target, but they're well prepared for such an attack."

"Enough of that. Today is a festival," the baron said, waving the topic away with his hand. "Veron, I hear you've been creating quite a commotion with that new market of yours. I might have to come by and see it for myself!"

Veron's shoulders relaxed. He smiled at the thought of the baron coming by their market, exchanging coins for candles, and being measured by the Mallours for a new outfit sewn on the dirt floor of an abandoned stable. "You're welcome anytime, Lord Baron," he replied.

"I have to say, Veron. I'm quite impressed with what you've done with that market in such a short time," Raynor said.

"Thank you, Lord Fiero. That means a great deal."

The men took their leave, and Veron's thoughts turned to Bale. Will he attack Feldor? Would he make it all the way to Karad?

Having enough excitement for the day, Veron felt it was time to head home. He wanted to say goodbye to Brixton and found him along the courtyard wall, engaged in conversation with Hailey. As he caught their eyes with a wave, Veron noticed Hailey gesticulating sharply as she spoke while Brixton's face was red.

I wonder what that's about? he thought.

As he approached, they were all smiles. "Leaving so soon?" Brixton asked.

"Yes, it's time to go."

"I saw my father cornering you earlier. Looks like he's taken quite a liking to you. I'm sure he wishes he had a son more like you." Brixton said it with a playful voice, carrying a hint of jealousy.

Veron wasn't sure how to respond. "I'm sure he's proud of you."

"Well, you were great with the staff today. If I couldn't win, I'm glad it was you," Brixton said.

"It was just a lucky day, I guess. Hailey, it was great seeing you again," Veron said. She smiled back and waved her fingers as Veron headed back into the city.

Having failed to impress at the competition, Brixton quickly grew tired of the festival. He stayed because of the obligation he felt to mingle with the elite of the city. Every day at the Department of Commerce felt more and more frustrating. His chances of doing anything important were slim, and his prospects never changed. It seemed ages since he first spoke with Oliver Marshall about the accountant position at Karad Lenders. Brixton went by to check in regularly, but the answer was always that they weren't quite ready to hire yet.

I wish I'd held onto my money. So far, it's done nothing.

Across the courtyard, he noticed someone he did not expect to see— Byron Hampton, the High Lord of Trade in Felting. His position was one of the most respected in the kingdom. Although his son Magnus and Brixton's

sister Mila were to be married soon, Brixton hadn't had a chance to meet the man.

Brixton had disliked Magnus ever since his first year at the Academy when the other boy had stolen his project. Brixton almost failed out of school because of it and had to be bailed out by his father, which he deeply resented. Although he detested Magnus, they were about to be related, and it wouldn't hurt to try to be friendly to his father.

Who knows what doors he could open?

Hailey had wandered off, so he decided to go over and introduce himself to the high lord, straightening his shirt and fixing his hair on the way.

"High Lord Hampton? Hello, I'm Brixton Fiero. I graduated from King's with your son last year. I'm Mila's brother."

The high lord was not particularly striking, but he did hold his body with an air of confidence, which projected both power and sophistication. He was only slightly taller than Brixton and was clean-shaven with neat, light-brown hair.

"Brixton Fiero . . . Yes, Magnus mentioned you were there—Raynor's son," Byron said. Brixton thought he heard a tinge of anger as he spoke his father's name. "It's good to meet you. What have you been doing since school?"

"I'm working as a clerk in the Department of Commerce." He immediately felt ashamed and wished he had something more distinguished to say. "For now—while I build up some experience. Soon, I hope to get a job in finance."

Byron looked down his nose at him. Brixton felt even more ashamed as the high lord stared at him. "So, your father got you a job, did he? If you get

a finance job, you may soon be working with my son, Magnus. He decided to settle here with Mila and is moving to Karad next week."

Brixton's toes curled at the revelation. Great. The last thing I want is to have Magnus around Karad.

"He's going to be an accountant at one of the lending houses here," Byron added.

Brixton's stomach turned, afraid of what that meant. His voice wavered, heart pounding as he asked, "Which lending house is that?"

"Karad Lenders. He'll be working with the Marshall brothers." Brixton's jaw clenched as he seethed.

Brixton found Oliver Marshall near the fountain, speaking with his father, Raynor. He walked up and interrupted their conversation, not even caring that his father stood there. "I hear that Magnus Hampton is moving here and taking an accountant position at Karad Lenders," Brixton said with a stern look.

By this point in the festival, Raynor was so drunk that he barely appeared to notice the interruption.

"Brixton!" Oliver replied with a smile. "Hello. Yes, Magnus is going to be an accountant with us. He comes highly recommended. Did you know him at school? He should have been in your class, I believe."

"Yes, I know him," Brixton said. "But . . . the accountant job . . ." Brixton inclined his head to emphasize his point.

Oliver wrinkled his forehead as if he didn't understand. He glanced at Raynor before turning back to Brixton. "Yes, he should be well qualified for the job. I'm excited to have him," he said, looking at Brixton with a blank stare.

I can't believe it. He's going to act like nothing happened between us.

"Don't you think a job like that would be good for someone . . . here in Karad, maybe?" he asked.

Oliver exhaled with a sharp laugh through his nose. "If the right person were here, then yes, but there's nothing wrong with hiring someone from another city—especially one who's as well-connected and wealthy as the Hampton family."

Brixton's heart sank. I bribed Oliver with what little I could afford, but the Hampton family paid more. So that's how it's done. He slowly nodded his head. "So, what about my um . . ." Brixton trailed off. He should give me that money back, at least.

"What are you talking about, Brixton?" his father asked, waving his arm haphazardly. His words slurred.

"Yes, what are you talking about?" Oliver said with a haughty look on his face that dared Brixton to say more.

Brixton's face was red, and his breath came quickly. I can't say it. If Father knew I was trying to leave the job, he would be furious. "Nothing . . . Nevermind." He walked off, defeated.

Brixton kicked the grass as he shuffled away with his head down, but he wallowed in pity for only a moment. He promptly lifted his shoulders and straightened his back.

This isn't going to stop me. I'll just have to find my own way to advance,

he thought as he left the courtyard.

37

Moving Up

Watching the pink sky of the remains of the sunset, Brixton sat moping on the balcony of his family's house, kept company by a bottle of wine, as Hailey approached.

"Do you mind if I join you?" she asked. Brixton shrugged as she sat and cuddled up against him.

A week into suether, the days warmed quickly, but the evenings remained crisp and cool. Brixton typically found sitting on the balcony to be peaceful. The castle rested just up the hill, and the rest of the houses of West Fairren surrounded them, but neither the view, the wine, nor the company brought Brixton joy.

"What's wrong, Brix?" Hailey asked.
"What do you mean? Nothing's wrong," Brixton snapped at her.
She glared at him, then proceeded to smooth out her green dress.

"You've been in a bad mood all day, ever since the festival." "I said I'm fine."

He wasn't even sure why he was in a bad mood, and Hailey asking him about it made it even more frustrating. He was still angry and disappointed about the accountant position, but he didn't think that was completely it.

Recently, Hailey and Brixton had started hanging out more together. She had grown into a beautiful young woman, and as soon as she started paying attention to him, his desire toward her had grown as well. A week before the festival, having grudgingly received the approval from both sets of parents, he received a court permit, allowing them to meet freely. To his dismay, as soon as his intentions toward her became official, the excitement began to fade. He still liked her but no longer felt the intense craving to be with her. Instead, it felt like an obligation. Her family connections were important, and he didn't want the embarrassment of backing out, so he simply continued forward.

Why am I upset? Brixton wondered. He thought back through the day at the festival. Was it losing the accountant job? Father's attention to Veron? Losing the competition? Hailey kissing Veron?

"Do you like Veron?" Brixton asked with a tone that sounded harsher than he intended.

Hailey's arm was around him, and she tensed at the question. "Veron, your friend? Sure, he seems nice," she said.

He turned to look at her. "No, I mean, do you like him?"

Hailey leaned away for a moment then playfully hit him on the chest. "What? No! Not like that. I've only met him twice, silly. I like you," Hailey hugged him tighter then met his lips with a kiss. "I had to kiss him because of the contest, but I would rather it had been you. Is that what's been bothering you?"

He looked back out at the city and took a long drink from the bottle.

Why do I have to talk about what's bothering me? Why can't she leave me alone? He breathed in deeply and let out a loud sigh. "I'm not making anything of myself." He hated admitting she was right about something being wrong.

"What do you mean?"

Brixton sloughed off her arms and leaned forward in his chair. "I've grown up with tutors all my life. Between them and my father, practically every moment was a learning opportunity. I even graduated from King's, and here I am, an entry-level clerk."

"There's nothing wrong with that, Brix."

Brixton looked at Hailey and pointed for emphasis. "Your father was a distinguished fighter at my age. My father already ran multiple businesses. I feel like I'm so far behind." Brixton stood and walked to the railing.

"Behind what? You're not competing against anyone."

I know she's right, but it doesn't feel right. I wish I'd been able to get that accountant position. I feel like I'm competing against everyone, and right now, Magnus Hampton is winning.

"What do you want to make of yourself?" Hailey asked.

Brixton took a long drink and looked longingly out at the city. "I want to be important. I want to own something big"—he turned excitedly to face her—"like Veron does with his market. Maybe have a great title like my father or yours. Maybe even be baron one day!" he said.

Still seated, Hailey unsuccessfully tried to stifle a laugh, and Brixton was taken aback.

"What? You think that's funny?" he asked.

"I'm sorry," she said, letting the laugh escape. "Do you think someone will choose you to be a lord or a baron one day?"

Brixton stared at her with a fierce look. "You don't think I can—that I don't have what it takes?" How dare she mock me. He tightened his grip on the bottle as he gritted his teeth.

"I don't know. Sure, you could do it. I just have a tough time picturing it, that's all."

Brixton threw the nearly empty bottle against the stone wall. It shattered, sending shards of glass and red wine across the balcony. "I could do it! You have no idea!" he shouted. Hailey recoiled as her eyes grew wide. Brixton stepped away and looked back out onto the city. "I'll be something one day. You wait and see." The wind died just before he spoke, and his words hung ominously in the air. This city is not going to hold me back.

"You can let yourself out," he said without looking in Hailey's direction. The scrape of a chair and shuffling of feet mixed with the muffled sounds of Hailey fighting tears. Why is she crying? Brixton gripped the railing of the balcony tightly until he released his hands and sighed. I shouldn't have thrown that bottle. I shouldn't have yelled at her. He kicked himself and turned around to say something, but she was gone. His remorse was too late.

Brixton sat back down, feeling even worse than before. He continued to look out into the city and think of what he could do with his life. The castle beckoned to him. The houses around challenged him to be successful. More than anything, he didn't want to be another nobody, living in the city in insignificance. As he thought of his situation, he remembered something his father told him years before.

"Elevating yourself requires someone else to fall."

Brixton shook his head as he pondered the words. I thought I could do it all, but I can't. I wanted to be kind to others and also be successful, but Father was right. I'm tired of being looked over. It's time to take action, and I intend to do just that.

With a clear idea of what he needed to do, he made his way down through the house and out the front door into the waiting night.

The commerce department was busy on Marketday. Taxes were due during the premweek of suether, which meant they usually flooded in on Finday and often the following week, and Tucker was hard at work processing the collections. It was his job to balance businesses' sales with taxes paid and make sure they matched. Heath sat at his desk, updating paperwork on sales history, and Brixton had three new license applications to work through.

Brixton glanced up from his work, his palms sweating in anticipation. He stared at the closed door to his father's office for a long time as he picked absently at his fingers. He looked at Tucker.

It's time, he thought as he stood up and walked past the other desks to his father's office.

"I like that shirt today, Brixton. You look good. Is it new?" Tucker said as he passed.

The comment caught him by surprise as he was about to knock on the door. "Um . . . Thanks. Yeah, it's pretty new." Tucker! You're not making this any easier!

"Are you okay? It looks like you're sweating a bit," Tucker said, pointing at his forehead.

"Oh, yeah. I'm fine. It's just a little warm in here." Brixton knocked on his father's door.

"Come in!" a muffled voice said.

Brixton opened the door as his father quickly covered up a letter he had been writing. That's odd. I wonder what he's writing about?

"Yes, what is it?" Raynor asked.

Brixton closed the door and sat across from his father. "I'm hesitant to bring this up, but I noticed something that concerned me, and I figured you'd want to know." His father sat back in his chair, listening. "I was glancing over the tax reports on Finday, at the end of the day, and it looked to me like some of the totals were off."

"What do you mean 'off'?" Raynor asked.

"Well, I saw a sales report sheet on Tucker's desk after he left. It was for Dane, the locksmith—I know he's a friend of Tucker's—and I was curious to see how his business was doing," Brixton said. "One of the columns caught my eye when something didn't look right. The numbers didn't add up. The total at the bottom should have been the addition of the sales numbers above it, but it was slightly less. I figured maybe he made an arithmetic error, but I looked at a couple of other sheets and found similar issues. Now, I'm not accusing Tucker of anything, but it seems to me that either he's making some simple errors or he's underreporting business earnings. But I have no idea why he'd do something like that."

His father stared at him with a stony expression. "If he were misstating the earnings, it'd be easy for him to skim off the tax money that had been paid."

Brixton softly gasped as if he'd never considered the idea.

"Tucker's been a good worker for years. I have a difficult time believing he would either make mistakes like that or steal," his father said.

Brixton held up his hands. "I'm not saying he's doing either. I just figured you'd want to know."

"How much were the sales under-reported by?" Raynor asked.

"That was one of the things that seemed most odd. Each one was off by exactly one sol."

"Which would be one argen in taxes we could be short." Raynor sat for a moment in thought. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention." He nodded, letting Brixton know he was dismissed.

Brixton went back to his desk and stared at his papers. He hoped no one noticed how much sweat covered him as his heart pounded.

"Tucker," his father said, standing in the doorway to his office.
"Yes?" Tucker replied.
"Can you come here? Bring your tax papers."
Without hesitating, Tucker jumped up. He had a smile on his face as he

collected his papers and entered the office. The door closed behind him. Brixton felt sick. His stomach churned, and he had to fight to keep from running outside to vomit. He felt the same way the night after the festival when he came into the office and altered the numbers on Tucker's reports. Brixton needed a promotion, and unfortunately for Tucker, he was in the

way.
Brixton tried to act like he was working, but he couldn't stand the wait.

He kept glancing at the door. He had to clench his fists to keep his fingers from tapping. What's happening in there?

At first, he couldn't hear anything, but eventually, muffled sounds came through the door—pounding on a desk, some shouting. He recognized the timbre of his father's voice even though he couldn't distinguish what was said. They went on for ten minutes or so, and eventually, his father burst through the door, flushed in the face. Tucker followed behind.

"I swear they were right! I always double-check my numbers, and there is no way I missed all of those," Tucker said. Usually, he was calm and collected, but he looked like a cornered wild animal.

"I agree," Raynor replied as he shuffled through papers on Tucker's desk. "I don't think it's possible you just happened to miss all of them either."

Brixton blanched. Oh no! Surely, he won't suspect me, will he?
Raynor opened Tucker's desk drawers one at a time.
Come on, find it! Brixton thought.
From the back of the bottom drawer, Raynor pulled out a small stack of

coins and held them up to Tucker. Brixton's shoulders relaxed, and he slowly exhaled the breath he'd been holding.

"What's this?" Raynor asked.

"I—I have no idea. I didn't even know that was there!" Tucker shook. His eyes were wide and shifted around.

"Four silver argen?" Raynor said with a cold, hard tone. "Is it chance that there are four underreported accounts?"

There would have been more if I could have scraped together more coins, Brixton thought.

"I —I don't know what to say. I didn't do this!" Tucker said.

A lump began to form in Brixton's throat. This isn't good. He doesn't deserve this. Should I say something? Should I stop this?

Raynor punched Tucker in the stomach and pushed him down to the ground, where the head clerk coughed and sputtered. "Heath, notify the constable."

Heath ran out of the door. Raynor stood over Tucker, who muttered incoherently between tears, clutching his stomach.

"You're finished here, Tucker. Tax manipulation is stealing against the city. You'll go to prison for this."

Brixton was sick inside. I should say something. It wasn't him! It was me! His thoughts felt like a yell, but the cry didn't escape. Brixton had known Tucker almost all of his life, and the man had always been good to him. I didn't mean for it to go this far. I didn't think about what would happen to him. If I had, I wouldn't have done it. Brixton knew the truth of the matter though. If I am going to rise, then someone else has to fall. I'm sorry, Tucker.

Heath returned with a city constable and a soldier who took Tucker. "No, please! I didn't do anything. What about my wife? My kids?" the clerk pleaded as they dragged him away. "Raynor, you know I wouldn't do this!" The door closed behind him, silencing his appeals.

Brixton's stomach settled, and his heart rate slowed. Raynor returned to his office, and Heath went back to his desk. Brixton was about to go back to work but needed to seize the opportunity. He entered his father's office.

"Wow, that's crazy. Who would've thought Tucker would do something like that?" Brixton said.

"Never underestimate what people are capable of," Raynor replied, buried back in his papers as if nothing had even happened.

"You know, Father, if you like, I don't mind going over all of Tucker's reports and double-checking things. We probably need to make sure they're

right. I know it's busy right now, but we need to get them finished soon. I'll stay late to finish up my work on the license applications too."

"Sure. That's fine."
Brixton fought back a smirk as he returned to his desk. So far, so good.

The next day Brixton went straight to work on Tucker's everyday responsibilities, not giving Heath or his father a chance to worry about them. After a week of working double duty, Raynor officially promoted Brixton to head clerk. Heath, who had worked there longer, sulked about it and didn't speak to Brixton for days after.

After years of trying to impress his father or simply get him to recognize any ability, something finally went Brixton's way. He felt terrible for Tucker but decided he wouldn't let things like that stop him anymore. No one would give things to him in life, so it was up to him to make it happen.

38

Misfortune at the Market

The missing money at the end of their first season was only the beginning of Veron's concerns. Over the first half of suether, new problems developed regularly. One day, Morgan's produce supply had an infestation of bugs that seemed to come from nowhere. They had to throw out almost the whole inventory of food.

A week later, they found several rolls of the Mallours' fabric riddled with claw marks from some sort of animal. Morgan jokingly accused Henry of keeping a pet valcor in their stall at night. Normally, Veron would have found the reference to the mythical creature amusing, but the financial impact that resulted killed any humor for him.

The biggest scare was when Chloe left one of her candles lit by mistake one night. The wind knocked it over while they slept, and it set fire to one of the display tables. It would have quickly spread, burning up the steps and then the entire market, but thankfully Morgan's son, Jack, heard the crackling of a fire and woke everyone. They used a rain barrel to put out the fire just in time.

Two weeks after that, thieves snuck in and stole a lot of their inventory. Veron was the one to hear the intruders first. Yelling from the balcony sent them scurrying, but not before they had loaded up and made off with several crates of clothing, fabric, candles, bread, and produce. The lock to the gate lay broken in the street.

Veron stared out the window of the office in a daze. The stress was taking a toll on him. He hadn't been sleeping well, and his stomach hurt constantly. Instead of making up their profit deficit, they were in an even worse hole now. The rest of his money had been paid out—even his prize from the festival. On top of all the issues they'd had, the theft from the previous night seemed like something they couldn't come back from.

A knock sounded at the door. "Come in," Veron said.

His heart sank when the door opened to reveal Holden Merevail. Veron's six-week loan payment was due the previous week, but not having the money to pay it, he'd been avoiding the lending office.

"Veron, I was walking by and thought I'd pop in for a moment to say hello. What happened out there?" the old man asked while nodding his head toward the courtyard.

Veron's mind raced. The market looked like a disaster as the others worked on cleaning up. I can't let him know how bad things are! "Oh, we're just doing some reorganization. It's kind of a mess at the moment but should be clean soon," he told him. Veron saw the disorder as he looked past Holden through the doorway. He's not going to believe we're reorganizing.

"So, how are things going?" Holden asked.

"Great!" Veron said, forcing a smile. "Sales keep growing steadily as we add new customers each week."

"Good . . . Good." Holden's expression grew serious. The pleasant smile normally on the man's face was gone, replaced by a menacing look. "You missed your loan payment last week, Veron."

Veron tensed. He had hoped somehow to ignore the subject. "Yeah, I know, I'm so sorry. With this reorganization, things have been crazy here. I've been meaning to come by but haven't had the chance. I'll bring it to you this week."

Holden nodded and looked around the office for a moment. "I'm here now?"

Veron swallowed hard. He couldn't pay him now. He didn't have the money.

"I don't keep the money here. I'll have to go and get it, but I'll bring it to you."

"I don't mind going with you," Holden said with his jaw fixed and a rigid stare.

Veron's hands were sweating. "I can't right now. I've got to get back to work here." He motioned toward the courtyard. "I promise I'll have the payment to you by this Finday though."

"Very well," Holden said, standing up straight and looking down at Veron. "You've been good on your payments until now, but if you miss this week, you'll find my leniency gone."

The lender gave Veron a stern look before leaving the office and closing the door behind him. Veron breathed a sigh of relief, then put his face in his hands and growled a cry of frustration. I feel like a failure. What am I going to do? he thought.

Another knock sounded at the door before it opened again and Chloe stepped into the office. Veron sat up straighter and tried to compose himself.

"How are you, Veron?" she asked hesitantly.

Veron shook his head as he thought about the theft and the loan. "I want to do something good here, but we're having setback after setback. We can't make a profit, and I can't pay our bills," he said.

Chloe's forehead wrinkled. "Yeah, we've had some problems recently, but have you forgotten about last season? We made a profit!"

Veron hung his head and ran his hands through his hair. "No . . . We didn't. We should have made a profit, according to the books, but we were three sol short."

Chloe gasped. "What? Where'd it go?"

Veron rubbed the top of the desk absently. "I don't know. I wish I did. On top of that, we've been bleeding coins to deal with all of these problems, and this Finday, when I can't pay the loan, I'll probably be sold into slavery, and you'll all be on the streets."

"Oh!" Chloe said, putting her hand to her chest.

"I just need to think for a bit," Veron said as he looked down at the desk.

Chloe reached out and gently held Veron's cheek. "I still say what you've built here is good, no matter what happens." She smiled before turning to leave.

"Chloe! Don't say anything to the others . . . Please?" She nodded and closed the door behind her.

Robert, the butcher, lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as a faint bit of light from the moon came through the window. Everyone at the market had gone to bed hours before and should have been long asleep. It was time.

The night was still while he made his way down the steps. He paused in the courtyard, listening. Snoring resonated from one of the rooms upstairs, and a cat yowled somewhere in the distance. Robert pulled a bottle from his pocket and walked to where Danyel kept the leftover baked goods from the day. He unscrewed the top of the bottle, revealing a fine powder inside, and prepared to sprinkle it over the bread.

"What are you doing out this late?" a voice said from the darkness of the stall next to him.

Robert jumped back and looked up. "I—I was making sure everything was all right down here," Robert said.

"Making sure everything was all right?" Veron emerged from behind the stall wall and walked toward him. "I was thinking about all the problems we've had recently, and I realized . . . no money ever went missing before I hired you, and none of the bad things we've experienced have impacted your meat supply."

Robert backed up toward the center of the courtyard.
"What's in that bottle?" Veron asked.
Robert made ready to turn and run when he hit something behind him. "Hi, Robert, you're up late tonight." It was Morgan, without his usual

smile. "I'll take that," he said as he snatched the bottle from Robert's hand. "I take it this isn't a sweetener to make the bread taste better?"

"So, what was the plan?" Veron asked. "If you poison the bread, the people who come here will get sick. Then once word spreads, no one will

shop here?" He stepped closed. "It wasn't a wild animal that tore up the fabric, was it?"

Robert looked around frantically for a way out.

"Those bugs didn't randomly come to destroy my food, did they?" Morgan asked. "And Chloe didn't forget to blow out her candle, did she?"

Sweat covered Robert's forehead. He tried to form words, but nothing came out. Panicking, he pushed Morgan and ran for the door. He quickly unlocked the gate and fled into the night.

Veron wanted to pursue the butcher, to punish Robert for the grief he caused their group, but he had bigger things on his mind than revenge. Instead, he ran to Robert's room with his heart pounding. He didn't want to dare to hope, but he couldn't help it. Veron searched in and under the mattress and found nothing. He looked around, but there was nowhere to hide anything.

It's got to be here somewhere! Where would I hide it?

He got on the ground and felt the boards, one at a time. Against the wall, under the headboard of the bed, one was loose. His breath stopped. With his face pressed against the floor and his arm reached out, he pulled up the loose board and rummaged underneath it. His heart leaped as he felt the cold hard touch of coins. He grabbed what he could and pulled his arm back.

Sheer joy and immense relief flooded over him. A pile of coins filled his hand—his missing three sol. I can pay the loan. We can survive! Veron cried with relief as he lay sprawled on the floor.

As he stared at the coins, a nagging thought wouldn't go away. Why would he do all of those things? he thought. What good would it do to sabotage us? Something doesn't make sense.

The next day, Veron and Morgan relayed what happened to the rest of their team. Everyone was outraged and suggested various acts of vengeance. The betrayal hurt, but Veron simply looked forward to having things stable again.

That afternoon, just before closing, Veron helped Morgan restock newly purchased supplies when a commotion drew his attention. Eight men walked through the entrance with masks over their faces. All of them had some sort of weapon—a sword, club, or large knife on their belt—and two of them carried large torches. Veron and the rest of the market workers froze.

They're not here to shop, Veron thought.

It wasn't dark enough to need torches yet, and Veron was afraid he knew their purpose. He clenched his fists when he noticed a hooded figure in the back, dressed in the same clothes Robert wore the night before.

"Veron Stormbridge!" the man in front said.

Veron looked around at the rest of his people before stepping forward. "I'm Veron," he replied with a hard stare.

"You have until the end of the week to close this market," the man said.

Veron scoffed. "I'm sorry, but I don't answer to you. We pay our taxes and rent. We have every right to be here." He glanced up at the loft. I wish I had my sword.

"We have a right to our stores," the man replied. "We've worked in this town for years, and you have no place here. Your market is taking away the business we've built. Now, it's time for you to leave."

So that's what this is about? They're afraid of the competition? "What about my hard work?" Veron asked. "Do you think it was easy to build this place? You thought you'd send Robert to mess things up for us? You thought if we fell apart, we'd close?"

None of the men moved. Instead of answering, the man in front looked to his crew. The men with torches fanned out to the balconies on the right and left, holding the flames close to the dry wood.

Veron's breath quickened. If they light the wood, there's no way we'd be able to put out the flames. The entire market would burn in a matter of minutes, and there's no chance we could recover from that.

"No, I'm sure it wasn't easy. And I doubt you'd be interested in building it again, would you?" the man sneered. "If you push us, you will regret it."

Veron watched the men with torches, dreading any movement they made.

"You can work for the rest of the week," the man said. "But if you open your doors next Marketday, I promise it'll be the last time you ever do." With that, all eight men turned and left.

Veron looked up with his eyebrows raised as Morgan re-entered the courtyard from the street. "What'd they say?" he asked.

Morgan shook his head. "No luck."
"They're not gonna do anything?"
"They said that without knowing who all the people are, they couldn't

do much."
Veron groaned in frustration. "So, what are the constables for if they

can't do anything?"

"I mentioned Robert, but they needed more—more names, more proof."

The rest of the market team gathered around in the courtyard, trying to find a solution to their problem. "We should fight them!" young Brock suggested.

"Yeah, I'll fight!" Danyel said as he pumped his fist in the air.

"No, we're not going to fight," Veron said as he extended his arms and motioned for them to settle. Secretly, he wanted to do that exact thing but was concerned for his workers. "It's too dangerous. We could end up dead."

A few more ideas were suggested, but none held merit. Soon, the crowd settled into a quiet funk, having decided nothing.

With two days left to work, the workers slowly accepted their fate, and the atmosphere around the market grew somber. Veron tried to motivate everyone to keep up their good spirits, but it was no use. When he closed the gate on Finday, he knew it would be the last time. Some workers wanted to throw a party to pick their spirits up, but Veron wasn't in the mood. That evening, everyone sat around the courtyard and ate a meal in silence.

Not feeling hungry, Veron stood alone on the balcony, watching the last vestiges of sunlight flee along with his hopes and aspirations. What do I do? I'd like to face them with my sword . . . but eight men is a lot to fight. How did I get myself into this mess? I should have just focused on training to be a shadow knight and forgotten the whole market idea.

Morgan climbed the steps to join him. "Who do you think those guys are?" he asked.

"They're Robert's friends . . . or acquaintances," Veron said. Morgan tilted his head. "What makes you say that?"

"They've been here before, coming at different times and only stopping at Robert's stand. They would talk quietly before leaving without buying anything. I thought it was odd, but it wasn't enough to get suspicious about."

"How can you know that? We couldn't even see their faces."
"I recognized the outfits . . . most of them at least."
Morgan chuckled softly as he shook his head and leaned on the railing.

"Any idea what you're going to do next?"
Veron exhaled in frustration. "All I can think of is to start another

market," he said before laughing at himself. "But that will just put me back in the same place with these guys as I am now."

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Maybe I'll go to Felting . . . start fresh," Veron said. "But I don't want to leave Karad. I love our team—these people . . ."

Veron choked up as he watched the people eating below him—Chloe, Jacob, Danyel, Henry, and the rest.

These people are my friends. I've never experienced anything like it before. Morgan stood patiently as Veron collected himself. "I'm not sad about losing the market, but I am sad about breaking up this community," Veron said. "And it's not fair for them. Everyone will have to go back to the docks or living on the street."

Suddenly, a thought hit Veron, and he looked at Morgan with wide eyes. Veron felt pale and weak. He stared blankly over the balcony, across the courtyard.

"What? What is it?" Morgan asked.

"I had been thinking the worst-case scenario was closing the market down, but I forgot about the loan. I still owe thirteen periods of loan

payments! Closing the market means I won't be able to pay it back, and that means . . ." Veron's words faded, his chest hurting again as he felt the weight of his situation. We can't close down. It's not an option.

As he wrestled through the fear, an idea came to him. His heart raced with the faintest bit of hope. He turned to Morgan. "We can't leave. Don't go yet." Veron hurried down the steps where everyone finished up eating. "Don't leave yet!" he said to them. They looked at him as if he were crazy. "Stay here and be ready to open on Marketday."

Before even waiting for them to respond, he grabbed something from the office and ran out the door into the night.

When Veron woke on Marketday, his heart raced, and his chest ached with anticipation. What happens today will determine the course of my future and for all the workers in the market. I've done all I can. Now, I have to wait and see how things play out, he thought.

It started much like a typical day, but a strange and tense energy filled the air. Veron didn't tell the other market workers what he did on Weekterm, only that they should open up as usual and be ready. Every time someone came through the door, they all looked up anxiously to see who it was.

Late afternoon, just like before, the eight men were back with masks, weapons, and torches. This time, they did not intend to threaten. They would take action.

"You're back!" Veron said. "Why are you here?"

"You know why we're here," the masked leader said. "We warned you, and you didn't listen. Now, you'll have consequences."

He turned and nodded to the men with torches, who moved to light the nearest wooden structure.

"Wait, I'm sorry. What did you warn us about?" Veron asked.

The men stopped as their leader replied, "You had until today to close. Since you chose not to, the result is on you."

"But why do you want us to close?"

The leader shook with frustration. "Because you're taking all our business!" He nodded emphatically toward the men who angled the torches to the edge of the balcony. The sound of crackling grew as the wooden planks began to catch fire.

"That's enough!" a deep voice shouted from the back of one of the stalls.

The men snapped their heads in that direction as the sound of a whistle pierced the air. Danyel and Jacob emerged from second-floor rooms carrying water buckets, which they proceeded to pour onto the partially lit wood, dousing the flames and the men holding the torches below. Everyone watched while a dark-haired man made his way out from under the stall into the courtyard. Gareth Billings was there, holding a sword in one hand while steadying himself with a cane. Next to him stood Brixton Fiero.

"Anthony Tessingham, Nathan Farmer, Barrett Hershel, Willard Bettincourt, Martin Frash, Finley Merriton, Thatcher Young, and Robert Brighton," Brixton said, reading from a sheet of paper in a clear voice.

The eight men looked around at each other in confusion.

"My name is Brixton Fiero, and on behalf of the Karad Department of Commerce, due to unethical business practices involving coercion, intimidation, and destruction of property, your business licenses are hereby

revoked. Additionally, you will no longer be authorized to operate a business within the city of Karad."

A few of the men tore their masks off and yelled in frustration.

"And my name is Gareth Billings, Lord of Defense for the city of Karad," Billings said in a low gravelly voice while he waved the sword in their direction. As he spoke, two dozen soldiers marched through the market entrance and fanned out around the men, holding swords to them. "And you are all under arrest."

The men looked desperately at each other as they brandished swords and clubs and faced the soldiers. For a tense moment, the two groups stared each other down, waiting for someone to make the first move. Finally, a short, hooded man with a club dropped his weapon, and the rest followed soon after.

Veron stood tall and watched with relief as the eight men were clasped in chains and led out the door. When the last man was dragged away, the market erupted into cheers. Veron wiped the sweat off his forehead as he turned to his rescuers.

"Lord Billings, Brixton, I can't thank you enough for your help," Veron said as he shook their hands.

"I have to be honest," Billings said, "I was hoping things might devolve into a fight. I would've loved to see you pull out a quarter-staff and wipe the floor with them."

All three of them laughed.

"So now will you tell us where you went and what you did?" Morgan asked as he approached.

The rest of the market looked to Veron expectantly. Veron stood tall and grinned. "Well, I knew where Robert's old butcher shop was, so that's

where I went the night I left. I climbed the building across the street and watched. I got lucky when he came out a few hours later, so I followed as he led the way to Tessingham's shop in East Fairren. Crouched under a window, I could hear them inside—a bunch of them. They had every intention of burning our market down and were prepared to kill us if we put up a fight."

Chloe and Mary exchanged wide-eyed glances.

"I took notes of all the names and shops I heard, and after they broke their meeting, I wandered the streets, trying to find the businesses. Most took daytime to locate, when I could ask other shopkeepers for help. Eventually, I tracked them all down, so my next stop was to see Brix." He nodded to his friend. "He reached out to bring Lord Billings in. We needed proof of a crime before they could do anything, so as soon as they arrived and made to torch our market, it was done."

"Why did you need all the names and shops?" Chloe asked. "Why couldn't you just get Brixton and Lord Billings to begin with?"

"We needed to know who they were," Veron said. "Without their shops or names, they were protected by their anonymity and could easily have fled. As soon as we proved we knew who they were and where they lived, they knew it was over. There was nowhere to hide."

"Why didn't you ask us to help you figure all of this out?" Morgan asked, looking hurt.

"I didn't want to pull any of you into it. I knew it might be dangerous and didn't want to risk it."

"But why did they care about us to begin with?" Danyel asked. "Robert's shop is on the opposite side of the city! You say Tessingham's is in East Fairren? We can't be taking much business away from them, right?"

"Apparently, they're an organized group," Veron said. "They've been doing this for a long time. Their shops are spread out all over the city, so if any of them are threatened, they all band together to intimidate as one group. Robert coming to work here was their attempt to tear us apart from the inside."

Lord Billings spoke up. "I heard from the Lord of Justice that they've been looking for an organized gang of shop owners. There have been several complaints over the years of this exact thing. No one was ever able to track them down before though."

"Nicely done, Veron," Brixton said, nodding in approval.

Veron felt a weight lift off his shoulders. All the stress and pressure he'd felt over their market problems and worry about paying their loan was now gone. Now, I just hope things will go smoothly for a while. Maybe I can finally figure out this origine?

39

Hunting

Veron sat on the stone wall and rubbed his hands together to stay warm. Wiether had arrived again, and the mornings grew cooler every day. It was early in the morning, at least an hour before the sun came up, and Veron waited for Brixton just outside of the gate to his house.

Over the last year, things had been steady at the market. Once they got rid of Robert and the problems that came with him, they started making steady profits. Each season grew better than the one before, and now there were only six weeks left until the loan would be paid off.

Veron had added a new butcher, Francis, and a cheesemaker named Mateo. Hesitant to add anyone after Robert's betrayal, Veron knew he had to take a chance on people. He did make sure to keep the money locked up safely though.

Veron and Brixton's friendship had grown during the last year as well. For only knowing each other almost two years, they had become close friends, but as time went on, Veron observed a subtle change in Brixton's demeanor. Ever since he became head clerk at the office, position and status

seemed to dominate his thoughts, and his volatile temperament showed. Veron tried to overlook those moments and focus instead on the others— when his kindness was exhibited, like it had when they first met.

As he sat on the cold wall, a door opened behind him. He turned as Brixton exited his house and waved as he came through the gate. "Are you ready?" Brixton asked, loaded up with a large bundle on his back. Both of them were enveloped in cloaks to fight off the cold air.

"As ready as I'm going to be. You've got the gear, right?" Veron asked.

"Right here." Brixton indicated the bag on his back. "As well as plenty of food from the kitchen. Let's go!"

The young men walked up the street to the Royal Stables, where the Fieros kept their horses. "You take Mara, and I'll ride Windbreaker," Brixton said, indicating to the shorter horse for Veron to ride. Both were saddled and ready to go.

Veron had little experience riding, so he didn't want anything too wild and was thankful for the smaller horse. Once in the saddles, they trotted through the streets and left through the East Gate. They traveled for a while at an easy canter along the road that meandered through the countryside. The pace they moved at made Veron nervous, so he was relieved when Brixton brought Windbreaker to a walk and Mara followed suit.

"When I told you I didn't know anything about hunting deer, I wasn't exaggerating," Veron said as they rode side by side. "I'll need you to show me what to do."

"That's fine. I don't know much either, so we can figure it out together," Brixton said as he steered his horse around a deep rut in the road.

"You said you went hunting!"

"I said I had been hunting. I went once with my father when I was six and then again with my uncle when I was eight."

"You made me believe you knew what you were doing!" Veron looked forward again, nervous that he was going to lose his balance.

"I never made you believe anything. What you chose to believe was up to you. Growing up, we had servants that gathered and cooked all of our food, so we never really needed to hunt or do anything ourselves."

"Yeah, kind of the same for us," Veron said after a moment's pause. Faint light from the early morning started to fill the sky. Ahead of them, Veron began to see outlines of mountains. "So, what made you want to go today?"

"Today's my birthday, and I wanted to get out and do something fun," Brixton replied.

"Happy birthday! I had no idea it was today."
"Don't worry about it. Twenty years old. It sounds so old to say."
"So, what do you normally do for birthdays?" Veron asked as he

adjusted himself in the saddle, trying unsuccessfully to make it more comfortable.

"Normally? Nothing. My parents usually have a nice dinner made, and both of them give me a gift. My mother's is usually a pair of shoes or a fancy belt or something, and my father always gives me a book on economics or trade tariff theory—something to remind me how he wishes I had more knowledge than I do. Generally, birthdays are pretty forgettable, so I wanted to do something different today."

I wish I even knew when my birthday was, Veron thought. Artimus celebrated each year on the first day of suether, but even he didn't know what day it was. The memory hit him suddenly. Artimus. It seems like a

lifetime ago since I lived with him. I owe him everything. My friends, the market, my abilities. I wish he could see me now. Veron wiped the corners of his eyes, trying not to let Brixton notice.

"So, where's the best place to go?" Veron asked.

"It's been a long time since I've been here, but straight ahead will bring us into the forest. After a while, we'll leave the horses and proceed on foot," Brixton said.

By the time they arrived at the forest, the sun had come up over the horizon, and the glow of the Korob Mountains rising majestically over the plains shone behind them. The trees grew thicker as they proceeded. When Brixton declared they were far enough, they stopped and dismounted.

Each of them took a bow and a quiver of arrows from Brixton's bag of gear, and they left their horses lashed to a tree limb as they walked farther into the woods. After a bit, they came to a clearing with a stream, which Brixton decided would be a good place. They set their bows next to them, hid behind some brush, and waited.

"Did I tell you Hailey and I are to be married?" Brixton asked after a bit of silence.

"What!" Veron yelled.

"Shhh, you have to keep your voice down, or you'll scare everything away."

"Congratulations! That's great," Veron didn't particularly like Hailey. She was beautiful, but he found her a little too forward for his taste. She and Brixton seemed to be a good pair though. "When will the wedding be?"

"Next suether. I don't remember the date." "I'm glad for you."

Quiet returned, and all Veron could think about was Chloe. She was older by five years and had been married before, but there was something about her. They had spent a lot of time together since the market began. He felt special when he was with her and missed her when they were apart. He smiled, thinking about her face and the way she laughed when they talked.

"I have someone I like. I think I could grow to love her," Veron said.

Brixton looked at him as if he wanted to laugh. "Love, ha! What a stupid sentiment. Who do you think you're in love with?" he asked.

Veron wished he could take it back, but it was too late. "I didn't say I was—" Veron cut himself off with a huff. "Chloe, at the market."

Brixton exploded in laughter. "You're joking, right? Chloe! That candle- making street urchin?"

Veron's face flushed with indignation from the insult. "She is not a street urchin! She's a good person."

"I'm sorry, a good person? Wow! You're really scraping the gutter, huh?"

Veron tried to stay in control but lost it as he found his fist balled up, punching Brixton in the face. Brixton rolled down an incline into the dirt, clutching his face where he was hit, yelling in pain. Veron stayed where he was and looked back across the clearing, shaking out his stinging hand.

Brixton pulled himself up and came back over, touching his face to make sure he wasn't bleeding. "Look, I'm sorry," Brixton said. "I just figured you'd have your sights on someone of a little higher station, that's all. But to each his own." He sat back down. "Man, that hurt!" Brixton pressed his hand against his face and held it there. "Honestly, I was always worried you had a thing for Hailey."

Veron jerked his head toward him. "Hailey? No!" He shook his head. "She's fine and all but . . . No."

Brixton eyed him with a suspicious glance. The two sat for a while, watching the woods. Two yellow birds rested on a branch at the edge of the clearing but soon flew off.

Eventually, Veron spoke up. "You said love is stupid. How do you feel about Hailey?"

Brixton scoffed. "Love seems so . . . I don't know . . . pointless."
"What do you mean?"
"I like Hailey fine. She's pretty for now, but she's going to get old.

There'll be plenty more young women out there by then, you know?" Brixton poked him with his elbow, grinning crookedly.

No, I don't know, Veron thought. The comment burned him up.

"Hailey will align me with the Billings family, and that's a good match. One day, I hope to be Lord of Commerce, like my father, or maybe even a high lord or baron or king one day! The more connections I can make now, the better."

Veron shuddered. I can't imagine living like that. I have ambitions, but I don't want to use other people to achieve them.

"You should tell her," Brixton said after a moment of silence. Veron looked at him, unsure of what he meant. "Chloe. You should tell her that you like her. I'm sorry for picking on you. Who am I to say who you should fall for?"

Veron smiled. "Thanks. I think I will."
"So...what about you? What goals do you have?" Brixton asked. Becoming a shadow knight. Learning to use the origine. Stopping Bale.

Veron wasn't going to share those thoughts with Brixton. "I want to pay off

the market loan," Veron said. "I have only one payment to go, and then I'll be free from debt." He looked out into the woods. "All my life, I've wanted to have money. I wanted a roof over my head. I wanted to know where my next meal was coming from. But now, I want to make something. I've built this market from the ground up. And now I'm a mere six weeks away from fully owning it."

Brixton's head was tilted quizzically. "But you . . ." He sat, frozen in thought.

Veron held his breath. I've said too much! What he shared didn't fit with his wealthy merchant upbringing back-story, and he wasn't sure what to say to fix it. He stared back at Brixton with his mouth slightly opened, trying to think of an explanation.

A squirrel dropped to the ground, rustling the leaves directly in front of them, causing both of them to jump and then laugh. Veron sighed internally as the tension faded.

After the laughing settled, the look on Brixton's face changed. His head tilted down, and his eyebrows narrowed as he spoke in a low and measured voice. "You say you want to have money. What are you willing to do to make that a reality?"

A shiver ran up Veron's spine. He didn't like the inflection in which the question was asked. He felt as if he had stumbled into something he was going to get in trouble for. "Um . . . I'm not sure. Work hard I guess?"

"The longer I live in this city, the more I realize what it takes to be successful," Brixton said. "I've seen men with great minds and incredible talent end up broke and living on the streets. I've seen successful businesses collapse from the weight of a single bad decision. But I've also seen people

rise. I've seen success come to people with little skill or ability. Do you know what I believe to be the issue that separates these people?"

Veron shook his head.

"Being able to set aside notions of what they're supposed to do and act when there is an opportunity," Brixton said. The breeze picked up, waving the branches around them. "Which group do you see yourself in, Veron?"

Veron swallowed hard. "Um . . . I guess the group that acts on an opportunity?"

"I thought you'd be." Brixton looked around as if he were making sure no one was listening in. "Keep your eyes open, Veron. You're going to have an opportunity to do something great very soon, provided you take it."

I have no idea what he's talking about. Clearly, he knows about something big coming soon, but I don't know if I like the sound of it. "Okay, I'll keep them open." They turned back to the clearing while the silence returned.

At midday, they shared some food. It was nice to have something to break up the monotony, but soon Veron was bored again. They saw a few rabbits and plenty more squirrels but no signs of deer.

"What do you know about Edmund Bale?" Veron asked, adjusting the way he sat to keep his leg from falling asleep.

"Bale? From up north?" Brixton said, nodding as he spoke. "I know a little. We talked about him at the Academy. I know he's been the king of Norshewa for fifteen or so years, and he's been warring with Rynor for much of that time. It took a two-year-long siege for his army to capture Bromhill. That must have been . . . five years ago, but they failed to take the

rest of the country and were just recently pushed back into their own borders."

"I heard he wants to take over Terrenor," Veron said.
Brixton shuddered. "Yeah, I've heard that. That would be awful." "What makes you say that?"
"He's brutal. When he takes over a city, it's laid to waste. Houses are

burned. Women and children are killed for sport. I heard that Bromhill was utterly devastated after he took over. The people remaining weren't allowed to leave. Crops weren't cared for and fell to disease. Markets were barren. The people of the city starved and even resorted to eating leather and tree bark."

Veron swallowed hard, thinking of what Karad would look like after Bale ravaged it. My market could be destroyed. My friends could be killed. I can't let that happen.

"His own country even hates him," Brixton said. "His taxes are high because all he cares about is warring and building palaces. King Wesley is a fool, but he's far better than having Bale in charge."

The bushes rustled in the distance, and a small doe emerged at the edge of the clearing. The young men froze. Its short reddish-brown fur was motionless for a moment as the deer checked its surroundings. Not seeing a threat, it stepped to the stream to drink with a fawn following behind it. While the animals were distracted by the water, Brixton slowly picked up the bow and fit an arrow to the string.

"Let it be. It's just a mama and her baby," Veron whispered.

Brixton appeared not to care and pulled the string back farther as he took aim. Veron adjusted his position, and a small stick under his elbow snapped. The two deer stood up at alert as Brixton's arrow flew by where

the mother's neck was moments before. The two deer bolted and were gone in seconds.

"Idiot!" Brixton yelled at Veron. "Why would you move?"
Veron held his hands out and shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry."
They sat for a while, looking out at the once again silent woods.

Eventually, Veron's thoughts turned to King Wesley. I wonder why Brixton thinks he's a fool?

"I admire him though," Brixton said.
"Wesley?" Veron asked.
"No, Bale. He sets a goal and works toward it, even if it takes him years

to get there. I want to be like that one day."
Veron's mouth dropped as he stared at Brixton. "He's murdered entire

villages! He kills women and children!" He killed my father!
"Yeah, that's not ideal, but sometimes you have to make difficult

choices to accomplish something great. I respect that."

How are we even friends? Our differences seem more apparent every day. "Well, I don't."

Brixton looked at him with an enigmatic stare but didn't say anything more. Veron turned back to the clearing, failing to notice the two people in the woods on the other side.

"Where'd it go?" Aleks whispered.
Chelci leaned around trees, trying to find the deer that was there

moments ago. She held an arrow fitted to the string of her bow, trying to see where the animal went. "It came to this clearing just a moment ago . . . probably to drink from that stream," she said.

Aleks inched forward to the edge of the clearing.

"Wait," Chelci said softly. She indicated to the opposite end of the clearing where two people sat behind a bush. A low mumbling of speech carried across the field by the breeze. "Who do you think they are?"

"They can't be from Nasco," Aleks said. "No one comes this far north. It's the farthest I've been on a hunt before."

"They probably scared the deer off. Should we go and say hello?"
"No, let's leave them be. Who knows who they may be?"
The two of them inched back into the woods and continued their hunt in

the opposite direction.

"Where have you been all day?" Raynor asked as Brixton walked into the room.

Brixton's father sat in his favorite chair with a stack of papers, as he always seemed to have. His mother looked up from her needlework.

"Why do you care?" Brixton said before he could stop himself.

Raynor stood and shook his finger at him. "As long as you live here, you'll answer my questions. And don't you dare speak back to me—"

"Raynor, please!" his mother interrupted.

Brixton hung his head out of habit. "I'm sorry, Father. I won't do it again. I was out hunting with Veron."

"Hunting! Ha! What do you know about hunting?" Raynor asked.

"I know as much as you taught me, Father." Again, as it passed his lips, he wished he could take it back. His father didn't seem to get angry about the pointed comment though.

"Raynor," Elenor said. "Isn't there something you'd like to say to your son today?"

He looked at his wife with puzzlement on his face before turning to Brixton. "I'll be out of town for the next few days. I need to head to Felting for a commerce meeting."

Good riddance, Brixton thought. Maybe we can have a few days of peace at home.

"No, Raynor," Elenor said. "His birthday?"
"Oh yes . . . Happy birthday, son."
The words carried no enthusiasm, but what bothered Brixton the most

was the fact that his father didn't even look his way when he said them. "Happy birthday, Brixton," his mother said. She walked to him and

gave him a hug followed by a wrapped box.
"Thank you, Mother." He opened the box to find a brown leather belt

with a shiny silver buckle and silver studs embedded along the length.
"It's from Felting. All the lords there are wearing them," she said.
"It's nice. Thanks."
Brixton and his mother both glanced at his father, who was still buried

in his papers. "Raynor?" Elenor asked, causing him to look up. "Did you have anything?"

"No, I'm sorry, Brixton. I didn't get a chance to get anything. I've been really busy. I hope you understand."

"Sure," Brixton said. The last thing I want is another reminder of my deficiencies.

"Dinner should be ready shortly," Elenor said. "Brixton, we're having roasted pork, your favorite!"

It wasn't his favorite, but he didn't correct her.
"I wish you would have invited Veron to stay for dinner," Elenor added.

"Veron's quite an impressive young man. It's too bad he doesn't have a father around," Raynor said. "He's accomplished a great deal, and I'm sure it'd mean a lot to have a father appreciate it. Maybe I'll make a point of talking with him about it."

Brixton ground his teeth in frustration. I've tried to accomplish things all my life. He is my father, and he's never said anything encouraging to me like that. "I'm sure he'd love that," he said through a clenched jaw. Veron, the perfect one. If only you had a son like Veron. Sometimes I wish he and I had never met.

Brixton walked down the alley, hoping he wouldn't run into anyone who would recognize him. The lamps along the street fought off the darkness of the night, throwing long shadows on the walls as he passed.

Is this the right thing to do? Veron has always been kind to me. Father won't stop showing him attention though.

The image of his father reminded him of his words: "Elevating yourself requires someone else to fall."

As he wrestled with his thoughts, Brixton arrived at his destination. He paused with his hand held up before finally knocking on the plain door.

After a moment, the door opened to Charles Mortinson. "Yes?" the captain said.

"Captain Mortinson, I know you've helped my father with special tasks from time to time. I hoped you could help me with something." Mortinson opened the door wider allowing Brixton to enter. "I need you to look into Veron Stormbridge for me," Brixton said. "Supposedly, his family has run a

market off River Street in Felting for many years. Something in his story doesn't add up though."

The captain stared fixedly at him. "I'm sure I could be persuaded to do that." Brixton exhaled and passed him a leather pouch. "Very good. I'll see what I can find," Mortinson said.

Brixton shuddered as the money exchanged hands. There was no turning back.

40

The Korob Mountains

King Bale tightened his wallum-skin cloak around his neck as he stopped to survey the army's progress. Ahead of him, a steady line of black shapes marched up the snow-covered slope. The snow was deep, which made progress slow, but they continued to move. The file of soldiers continued behind him, followed by a team of norsh bears loaded down with gear and tied in a row. Looking out into the valley behind them, Bale could see the foothills they came through over the last ten days since they left Daratill.

Nearly two years had passed since Bale made his plan to attack Feldor, and they were now finally advancing toward Karad. After conscripting every available man and boy between fifteen and fifty-two, their army had grown to over 10,000 men.

Ryker approached on the snowy path. "Tonight's gonna be cold," the commander said.

Bale nodded in agreement. "We'll be fine. Have them march until sundown then set up camp."

Since they arrived in the mountains, Bale had pushed them hard. The army marched almost nonstop from sunup to sundown. He would have kept them moving even after nightfall, if they had a moon to light the way, but the heavy clouds blocked out the sky completely. When a soldier moved, he wasn't as likely to feel the cold. Once he stopped, the danger set in.

They had another day, maybe two, until they crested the ridge. Until then, each day would get more challenging as they gained altitude. The soldiers had mostly kept their grumbling quiet, but now it was noticeable through the ranks. They were cold, and their bodies ached from the long, grueling marches. Many wanted to turn back, and a few tried—until they were caught and killed for desertion.

Soon, the army stopped to make camp. Whenever they did, the three priorities were erecting tents, cooking food, and securing the bears. If they didn't tie the bears down at night, the chance of them escaping was too great. Food was usually ready right about the time camp was set up, which allowed the soldiers to eat then get in their tents before they got too cold. At night, they covered themselves with their wallum skins, but even with the extra insulation, the temperature was brutal.

Bale had a tent to himself. While the rest of the camp slept, he sat up, poring over maps by candlelight. As he studied, he suddenly heard yelling. What would that be? Most of the soldiers should be asleep, he thought.

He left his tent and moved toward the commotion. The noise came from a part of the camp at the edge of a cliff. What sounded initially like yelling voices was drowned out by a deep, bellowing roar.

When he got near, the remains of a tent flew through the air. In the middle of a circle of soldiers with torches and swords was an angry norsh

bear, neither tied nor blindfolded. Four men lay on the ground, bleeding out as the bear took swipes at those still standing. Another roar shook the ground, causing the men to shrink back again. The bear had several cuts in its thick hide and appeared to be favoring its left side. One of the soldiers rushed in and buried his sword deep into the bear's chest. It roared as it used the rest of its energy to knock the soldier away with a sharp claw. The effort was the last the bear had, for it collapsed to the ground amidst a round of cheers from the men.

While the bear stopped breathing, Bale stepped forward with his sword drawn. The men hushed as they recognized him. He inspected the wounded. Two appeared to be dead, and three had significant wounds they would likely not recover from.

"Who was responsible for tying down this bear?" Bale said. The wind whistled in response as it rushed through the mountain pass.

"I was, Your Majesty," a short boy said after a long moment as he bowed his head. "I tied the bear down with the help of some others." He looked around at the crowd to see if anyone else stood with him. "It was my knot across his back that we found undone. I'm sorry, My King."

Bale walked toward the boy. The crunch of the snow replaced the howl of the wind as the rest of the crowd waited. Heat crept up Bale's neck as his blood ran quickly.

"What is your name?" Bale asked.
"Eric, son of Urthgau, Your Majesty. In Thoring's battalion."
"How old are you?"
"Fifteen."
Bale stood before him with his sword still in his hand. His jaw clenched

as he tightened his grip on the hilt of his weapon. "Where are you from?"

Eric trembled. "From Bryveld, Your Majesty."

The word caught him by surprise. "Bryveld?" His hand loosened as his shoulders relaxed and breathing slowed. Memories flooded into his head. "Did you know I was born there?"

Eric raised his head. He looked at the crowd around him then back at Bale as he shook his head.

"It's true. At the base of the large hill on the south side of town, there is an old house with a tree growing into the back wall. That's where I grew up."

"I know that house," Eric said. "It's down the street from where we live. My friend, Eli, and I like to play in the woods up on that hill."

Bale thought of himself, playing in those woods as a boy—hunting squirrels and climbing trees. He spent hours there, mostly because it kept him away from his house. He thought of the decaying building where he grew up, the meager meals they ate as a family, the flowers in a jar he picked for his mother from the field.

His mother.

He saw her cowering in the corner as his father beat on her, drawing blood and creating bruises. He tried to stop it, but his father turned on him next, yelling curses, saying he was worthless, stupid, that he would never amount to anything. Bale vividly recalled the day he turned fourteen. His mother lay unconscious on the floor, and his father sat in a drunken stupor on the rickety porch. That was the moment he decided he was going to amount to something. He was going to do great things. He walked to the counter and took the knife his mother had been using to chop onions. If he were going to prove he wasn't stupid, the first thing he needed to do was take care of his father.

A chilly gust of wind snapped Bale back to the present. The vision of his old house was gone, and Eric stood in front of him again, waiting. Taking a deep breath, he flexed his grip on the sword before relaxing once more.

Bale came alongside the boy and put his free arm around him. "Eric, once we walk down the backside of this mountain, our army is going to have a big job to do, and I'm going to need all of my soldiers to do it. If we're going to be successful, we're going to need all of our supplies too, and to get those over the mountains, we're going to need our bears. Do you understand?" Bale said.

Eric nodded quickly.
"Are you going to be able to tie a correct knot next time?" Bale asked. "Yes, Your Majesty, I will."
"Good. Because if you can't, I'm going to need to find someone else

who will."
"I won't let you down."
"I'm sure you won't." Bale held Eric's gaze for a long moment before

letting him go.
The king turned to the three wounded men on the ground, who moaned

and writhed while holding their injuries as the snow stained red beneath them. A large bearded man with slashes through his wallum-skin cloak reached out an arm.

"Please, Your Majesty. Help me!"

Without speaking, Bale used his sword on the man's pale neck to put him and the other two out of their misery. A hushed gasp sounded in the dark around him.

"Toss the bodies over the cliff, but save the cloaks," he said to no one in particular. "Then, get some sleep. We have a long day of marching tomorrow."

He wiped his sword off in the snow and returned to his tent. * **

The next day, the army was up and marching as soon as it was light. As the day progressed, the top of the pass grew closer. Bale's scouts had found a flat area, large enough for a camp just past the ridge on the way down the backside of the mountain. At the pace they traveled, they would have just enough time to make it to the camp before dark.

They reached the crest of the rise not long before the sun set, and, despite the cold and wind, all the soldiers cheered. Downhill would be much easier to walk, and every step lower in altitude would bring warmer weather.

Bale stood on the ridge and took in the scene. Stunning cliffs and jagged rocks littered the way down the mountain. Eventually, the snow gave way to bare rock, and trees began to dot the slope. A green valley awaited them far below. The maze-like Kyrd Forest was off to the left of the valley, and in front of them, far off in the distance, stood the walls of Karad. Seeing the goal renewed his hope. The area where they were to set up camp sat just below them, no more than an hour's march away.

As Bale turned to look for Ryker, his hope shattered. His vision of resting peacefully in camp was gone. Unseen as they trudged up the mountain, an enormous wall of dark clouds pressed in from the north.

Ryker appeared, looking frantic. "What should we do?" he said.

"Where did these clouds come from?" Bale asked, his breath quickening. "At any moment, this storm is going to strike us, and we're exposed, in the worst place we could possibly be! How did we not see this?"

"The sky was clear only an hour ago. It must have blown in quickly," Ryker said.

We can't turn back to make camp. It would be hours before we found anywhere to stop, and the storm would be on us by then.

Bale turned back toward the way they were heading. He peered down the mountain as the wind whipped against his clothes. He sensed the storm advancing—the temperature dropping every second.

What are we going to do? His heart raced, but he couldn't think. No plan came to him. Ryker stared, patiently waiting. Don't let them see you afraid, Bale told himself. He swallowed hard and stood straight. "We've got to keep going. Immediately," Bale told him.

"We may not make it to the camp," Ryker said.

Bale stared at their destination. "It's our only option. We can't stay here. We have to make it." He turned to Ryker. "Go! Now!"

Ryker snapped into action. "Time to move!"

In a short time, 10,000 soldiers were on their way down the mountain at a brisk pace. Walking alongside the men, Bale was almost to camp when the storm arrived in full force. Visibility plummeted, and blinding snow hit from every side. When he stumbled into the location to make camp, Ryker was waiting, wrapped tightly in his wallum skin and barely staying on his feet.

"We can't set up camp! The tents and supplies will blow away! The storm is too strong!" Ryker yelled from an arm's length away.

Bale looked around, but all he saw was the blinding storm. To make visibility worse, the sun had just set, so only a faint amount of light remained.

"We can't stay here!" Ryker said. "We'll freeze to death! We need to keep marching!"

The sun is gone, and the storm will eliminate any light from the moon. If we continue, our whole army will end up lost or fallen off of a cliff. Freezing to death standing here doesn't sound right either. Bale shook his head. "No! We can't continue! Tie up the bears and horses, keeping each group of animals as close as possible! Then, have each battalion bundle up with as much warm clothing as possible and stand, huddled in a circle. Every five minutes, have the ones on the outside rotate in!"

Ryker nodded. "For how long?"
"All night, if necessary! We'll have to ride out the storm!"
Ryker went to work, shouting instructions at the captains who relayed

them to the battalion sub-captains. Groups soon formed into circles as they desperately tried to find warmth and a modicum of safety in the punishing storm. Bale joined the battalion circle closest to him. The soldiers he stood next to were silent as they nervously avoided eye contact with their king.

When the last traces of sunlight had vanished, visibility was little worse than before, but the complete lack of vision took a toll on Bale mentally. Frozen bodies surrounded him, shivering and jostling against each other. The noise from the wind was deafening, but the heat of the crowd kept him alive.

As he took his turns on the outside of the circle, the bitterness of the wind and snow caused him to despair. We're not going to survive this. We're

going to freeze to death in this storm. It may never stop. All of our animals may die. Maybe I should have stayed in Daratill?

He couldn't measure the passage of time. It could have been hours or minutes—it felt like days. Some soldiers could barely stand, but the others held them up. Eventually, the storm lessened, and a faint amount of daylight shone in from the east. Bale felt the slightest bit of hope, which increased as the storm abated.

Once the wind calmed enough, Bale ordered them to break ranks and set up camp. He didn't want to stay there long at such a high elevation, but his men needed rest after being up straight for a full day. He gave them a few hours to sleep.

The night in the storm was brutal. About one-third of the horses didn't survive, but thankfully, all the bears did. Out of the 10,000 soldiers, only eleven of them died in the harrowing night. After what they endured, Bale considered it a fortunate victory.

Three days later, five men on horseback approached a weathered wooden barn. Many of the side planks peeled off the structure, and most of the roof looked to have collapsed long ago. Bale was the first to dismount, followed by Ryker and the other three soldiers. All but Bale drew their swords as they entered the dilapidated building. Hay and cobwebs littered the old barn. Beams of light snuck through the rafters to illuminate the otherwise dark interior. It appeared to be empty.

"Maybe he's not coming," Ryker said. "He'll come," Bale answered.

"Yes, he will," a new voice said from the deep shadow of one of the stalls.

A tall man with short hair stepped into the light. Bale's soldiers snapped to attention with their swords at the ready.

"Relax," the man said. "I'm unarmed."

He lifted his arms and spun, showing the lack of weapon on his hip. One of the soldiers approached the man and patted him down before looking back at Bale and nodding. Satisfied, the soldiers sheathed their swords but remained at attention.

"I am King Edmund Bale, ruler of Norshewa. You're the one I've been corresponding with?" Bale asked, peering intently.

"Indeed, Your Majesty. Thank you for trusting to meet with me," the man said.

"I hear you promise to make this meeting worth my while. I sure hope that is the case—for your sake."

"Of course. If you hear me out, I believe you'll find our interests align," the man said with a crooked grin.

"That remains to be seen," Bale replied.

"You and I both have aspirations. You desire to rule all of Terrenor. While some may cry foul at this, it doesn't bother me. Someone is always in charge, and from my perspective, if it's not me, then I don't care who it is. All I care about is what my situation is under them."

Bale watched him carefully. "So, what do you propose?"

"A major step in ruling Terrenor is to control Feldor. The strategic position and the resources it gives makes conquering the other lands a mere formality. To control Feldor, you must take Felting, but you don't have the soldiers to do that."

Bale scoffed. I think we do have the men. He's merely bluffing. Still, for victory to be assured, assistance would be useful.

"You've come over the mountains and met with me. By sticking your neck out, you've shown a level of trust in me," the man said. "I've stuck my neck out by inviting my enemy to the doorstep of my city, which shows I'm trusting you. I have a plan to help both of us achieve what we want."

Crows took flight from the rafters of the barn suddenly, causing a few soldiers to jump.

The man continued, "You must conquer Karad first. Not only does that clear the path to Felting, but if you can make strategic alliances, it will make the goal even easier. You can't use a direct attack on Karad—the walls are too protected, and you can't come across the river because most of your men would drown in the fast current or die by Karad's army as they got to the shore. Even if you win by either of these methods, you'll lose too many men to be able to continue to Felting."

Bale was losing his patience. He needs to get to the point soon.

"How would you like to take Karad without losing a single man? And how would you like the soldiers of Karad to swear allegiance as they march on Felting side-by-side with you?" the man asked.

Bale looked at Ryker then back to the man. "How do you propose we do this?"

The man took a few steps forward but halted as Ryker and the other soldiers put their hands on their sword hilts. "The soldiers of Karad are fiercely loyal to the Lord of Defense, Gareth Billings. If you kill him, the soldiers will fight you to their deaths. However, if he's with you, they'll follow. As far as taking the city goes . . . I can get you in."

Bale stood tall and braced himself for what came next. "So, what do you require in return?" he asked.

A grin spread on the man's face. "When you take Felting and kill King Wesley, you'll need someone on your side to see to your interests in the land. If you're going to control all of Terrenor, you can't be everywhere at once. You wouldn't want to use one of your men from Norshewa because the people would reject them. You'd need someone from Feldor—someone people know—who'll willingly submit to your rule." He took one more step forward. "I will be that person. I'll give you Karad, and Billings will give you the army. Together, we'll take over Felting. In return, you set me to rule as regent in place of Wesley, and I will report to you. That is my price. Billings's price is thirty gold sol plus a position to command his men."

Bale looked to Ryker then paced the length of the barn in thought. When he returned to his place, he looked up and asked, "Who are you?"

"I am Lord Raynor Fiero of the Department of Commerce, and I speak on behalf of Lord Billings, which this letter will attest to." He handed Bale a letter folded and sealed with wax. "We can do what I say, and you have our loyalty."

Bale stood, unmoving, deep in thought as perspiration formed on Raynor's forehead. Finally, he nodded.

Raynor's shoulders relaxed as he exhaled. "Can you get your army to Karad by this Weekterm?" he asked.

"Why?" Bale said.

"It's the annual Merchant Awards Banquet, and the baron will be in attendance."

"We can. How are you going to be able to get us into the city?" Raynor grinned. "That part is easy."

41

The Night Watch

Near the end of Chelci's two years of training, only seven candidates remained in the Academy. They kicked out Kohen and Reece at the midpoint evaluations for not showing enough progress. Arturo quit a few weeks later because he didn't think he had a shot of being chosen.

Village guard selection was in a week, and none of them knew who, if anyone, would be picked. Chelci had grown during her years of training. Initially the shortest of the group, she now met the height of several of the boys, and she felt good about her chances of being chosen. Her runs were strong. Her obstacle course time was down to under seven minutes. She was one of the top sword fighters in the class behind Aleks. Overall, Aleks was the most likely candidate to make it in the guard. The Furies were all doing well. Tate was a long shot to be selected, but Gael and Royce were solid.

Even though they still referred to them as the Furies, Gael, Royce, and Tate had mellowed out a great deal. As Chelci was able to prove she could hold her own, a grudging respect developed. They weren't overly friendly, but at least they didn't mock her anymore.

"So, what do you think we're going to have to do?" Chelci asked Aleks as she swung idly on the rope in the training center, her long brown hair waving behind her.

"I have no idea. Maybe they want us to stay late and clean the hall?" Aleks said.

"Maybe they're going to take us somewhere we can sleep," Finley said, yawning loudly.

"I wish," Aleks said.

"They probably want us to stay so they can go ahead and kick you three losers out before you get your hopes up," Royce said to them from across the room, giving a small smile.

A year ago, that comment would have been malicious, but now, it was at least partially a joke.

Gael stifled a yawn as he sat on the floor.

The sun had set, and the seven candidates waited in the training hall, unsure of when their instructors would return and what they would have to do. Typically, they trained Marketday through Finday, and had one day off on Weekterm for rest. Each day was always a mixture of activities to keep their day balanced and interesting, but the instructors made sure to build in rest time.

The previous week had been anything but restful.

Starting Marketday, all candidates had to arrive at the training hall before sunrise. Instead of the expected balanced activities, the instructors hit them hard, going from activity to activity all day long—sword fights, wrestling matches, rope climbs, obstacle course runs, carrying heavy steel objects as a team through the village. Their reward for completing a task was to head off on another run. Instead of leaving in the afternoon, the

candidates had to stay until well after the sun went down. This schedule continued every day for the entire week.

By the time Prefinday came, everyone was beyond exhausted. Chelci consoled herself that there was only one more day to go before the Weekterm break, but when it came time to leave, Russell announced they would not be going home and should be prepared to stay overnight. Groans erupted from the boys while Chelci fought to hold her tongue.

After the candidates waited in the training center for a while on their own, Russell and Bensen finally returned carrying bundles under their arms. "You don't get to keep these uniforms. They're yours to wear for tonight only," Russell said as they tossed a bundle to each candidate.

"Village guard uniforms. Nice!" Finley said as he put it on.

"Yes, these are village guard uniforms," Russell said. "Tonight, the night watch will be taking a break, and you all will take their places."

Chelci wanted to cheer but was conflicted. This is what I've been working toward, but I don't know if I can do it after the week we've had, she thought. A murmur from the crowd confirmed the others felt the same.

The uniform was a loose-fitting, mostly black piece of clothing that was worn over their clothes. It draped over the arms and had a slit running down each side. The front and back fell to around the knees. In silver thread, on the front of the uniform, was a symbol of a shield with a sword behind it. They also received metal helmets, which came to a point on the top and had a circular brim. Chelci felt invincible as she put the uniform on.

"Can we get something to eat first? I'm starving," Tate said.

"No, you don't get something to eat. A village guard is required to do what's needed, when it's called for. He's not given a chance to stop and take a snack break," Russell said as he glared at Tate. "Gael, Aleks, and David,

you're with me. Royce, Elise, Tate, and Finley, you're with Bensen. Tonight, you'll patrol, and at some point, raiders will attack."

Chelci looked at Aleks in alarm.

"They'll come at least once—possibly two or three times," Russell said. "Don't worry, the raiders are members of the village guard, and they'll be testing you. Fight them off and defend the town, but don't injure anyone. Your swords are blunted, but theirs won't be. There are separate raider parties for each side of the town. If you hear an alert from the other group, you don't need to respond to it for tonight's exercise."

"But I can barely keep my eyes open," Gael said as he leaned against the wall.

"Then feel free to take a nap," Russell said. "We'll see how well that works defending the village. You all want to be part of the village guard? Tonight, you get a chance to prove how ready you are."

The two groups split. Russell took his group to the north side of town, and Bensen's stayed on the south. Night watch protocol dictated that each guard was responsible for an area of the perimeter. They patrolled their area and stopped where the next guard's began. This resulted in a long night of walking back and forth, so they changed patrol areas twice during the night.

Chelci's assigned post for her first watch period ran from just east of the Academy building to the far end of the town square. Finley had the next section, but she couldn't see Royce or Tate, who would be past him. Bensen planned to move between the four of them periodically to check on how they were doing.

Glancing around and seeing that no one was there to tell her to start, she began pacing. I've trained almost two years for this. I feel strong, fast, and ready to fight off anyone who attacks. Her arms shook in anticipation. At

any moment, raiders could come running through the woods to attack me and the village. She knew it wouldn't be real, but the excitement of acting it out made her heart race.

Oil lanterns were lit nightly around the village, but the perimeter where they walked was kept dark. At first, she missed the comforting presence the lanterns gave, but her eyes adjusted to the dark much better without them. The moon was out, which helped with visibility. A cleared area between the path and the edge of the woods prevented anyone from lurking in the shadows.

Each watchman had a small bell, which they rang when needed to alert the others. If someone runs at me with a sword, the last thing I want to do is pull out a bell and ring it in their face, she had thought. Now that she was on watch, she realized its usefulness. Even though a guard may not take time to grab it in an attack, there are plenty of situations where it would be useful. Voices or yells in the night could easily be confused and misunderstood, but no one would mistake the clear sound of a bell.

As she walked, Chelci kept her eyes fixed on the woods, scanning up and down the line. She frequently spun around to make sure raiders weren't trying to sneak in behind her. Trees shook from the wind. Leaves rustled, and sticks snapped. Chelci jumped at every noise.

It's probably squirrels running around or a deer—maybe a garront scuffling along the ground.

As she paced, minutes slowly turned into hours. From time to time, Bensen wandered through her patrol area. He didn't say anything and didn't respond to her questions about when he thought they would attack. He merely watched before he moved along to observe the other candidates.

I'm glad to be walking because if I stood in one place, I'm sure I'd fall asleep. I can't believe we have to do this after this exhausting week.

After they'd been out for a couple of hours, she approached the far end of her section simultaneously with Finley.

"You seen anything yet?" he asked.

"I caught a few leaves trying to take over the village, but I stopped them cold," Chelci said.

Finley laughed. "I hope they show up soon. I need something to get my blood going again and distract me. My stomach is growling, and I'm about to fall asleep."

"Yeah, me too."

Carried across the village by the wind, the faint but frantic ringing of a bell caused Chelci to turn. It quickly stopped and was replaced by clashing swords and a yell. More bells followed. The rest of the north patrol group are converging on the raiders, she thought.

The swords sounded for a while longer, but they soon stopped. A cheer echoed off the trees, and silence followed.

"I guess they got their first attack," Finley said with a tinge of jealousy.

"Be on alert. That probably means our side will come soon," Chelci said, resting her hand on the hilt of her sword.

The two turned and walked in opposite directions, continuing their patrol. Chelci was again on high alert with her senses sharply tuned. Her fatigue was gone as she waited for the inevitable attack. She paced her route, watched the woods, and listened for bells. She saw nothing.

Around midnight, Bensen had them rotate positions. Chelci took Finley's place as he moved one spot over, and Royce covered where she had just left. While changing, she was extra vigilant, looking around for

anything out of the ordinary. She had looked forward to changing sections, thinking the new one would be fresh and exciting again to help her stay focused. To her dismay, the new section was as monotonous as the old.

After a couple more hours, Chelci heard another shout, followed by frantic bell ringing across the village. The chorus of bells converged, followed by more clashing swords and shouts. After a minute, it ended in celebration again.

She found Finley again. His steps were disjointed as he looked around. "Something has to be wrong, right? Why would their side be attacked twice and ours not have anything yet?"

"They're just testing us," Chelci said in a firm voice. "They want to put us on edge, and then they'll attack when we're all frazzled. It'll probably happen at any time—just keep watching." He's right though. It doesn't make sense. Could something be wrong?

She soon met up with Royce, who waited for her on the opposite side of her patrol area.

"Have you seen anything?" Chelci asked.

"No," Royce said. "Nothing. It's not fair they've had two fights already, and we haven't had any! How are we supposed to prove ourselves if we don't get the chance?"

He doesn't seem concerned about something being wrong. Maybe it's just in my head?

Bensen had them switch up sections for the last time. They each moved down in the same direction as before, and she patrolled the area in front of Nevi and Russell's house.

"Bensen, something has to be wrong! How have we not been attacked yet? It'll be morning soon!" she said when the instructor came around next.

He didn't answer, but Chelci could tell he was on edge. Early in the night, he appeared calm and relaxed, but that facade was gone. He watched the woods with rapt attention as he moved.

"Just stay alert," he said before walking off.

Chelci froze. Her legs felt weak. I've never heard him use that tone. He sounded urgent, almost desperate.

She watched him walk away. Russell emerged from the village to meet him under a lantern where they spoke in hushed tones. She couldn't hear what was said, but it seemed like they were both upset. Bensen gestured toward the woods, and Russell shook his head. Soon, Russell returned to his side of the village, and Bensen continued his route.

Chelci turned back to her patrol section and kept a sharp eye out. The wind picked up, and the gusts chilled her under her uniform. A loud thump sounded in the woods. What was that? It was too heavy to be a footfall. Could it have been a branch falling? she thought.

Chelci froze for a moment to listen but didn't see or hear anything else. Glancing around, she saw Royce and Finley walking in the opposite direction with no sign of alarm.

I wish they were coming this way, Chelci thought, looking back at the woods. She took a deep breath then let it out. I have to check it out.

Chelci made her way down the slope and paused at the tree line. She tried to peer through the darkness but couldn't see anything from where she stood. She considered calling for Finley and Royce to come back her up but didn't want to make a big deal out of nothing. She kept going. Knowing roughly from where the noise came, she walked in that direction. The woods were so thick she could barely see where she moved. The lack of

raider attacks had her on edge, and the darkness made her even more nervous. Her heart beat fast. Every rustle of a leaf spun her around.

The noise was somewhere around here. A strange odor lingered in the area as she walked. It was sweet and almost metallic, but she couldn't place it. What's that smell?

She circled the area and finally kicked her foot into something. Her breath caught as she froze. Chelci bent down. Her hand shook as it rested on a large tree limb. The edge of the branch was freshly broken, and the smell of dirt and splintered wood filled the air.

The thump was a branch knocked down by the wind.

Chelci laughed at how ridiculous it was. She spent the whole night expecting men to attack her at any moment, and she was most frightened by a stick in the woods.

I need to get back to my post. The last thing I want is for an attack to happen during the moment I'm off looking at branches. She left the limb behind and hurried back to the village.

After only a few steps, with her eyes focused on the clearing ahead, she tripped and fell head over heels onto the ground. It took her a moment to untangle herself from the uniform draped over her head. Embarrassed by her clumsiness and glad no one would be able to see, she stood up and tried to get her bearings again.

The smell! It's stronger here. She pressed the uniform against her legs to smooth it out and felt something wet and sticky. Chelci held her hand close to her face and found it coated with a dark liquid.

On the ground, a dark shape—the object she had tripped on—hid in the shadows. She bent down to see what it was and felt the cold hardened steel of a sword. Chelci jerked her hand back as a faint cry escaped her lips.

Using both hands, she grabbed the shape and tried to roll the heavy weight toward her. She had to readjust her legs and use all of her body. The light was dim, but as the shape moved, she could see enough to make out the pale face of a man. The front of his clothes was sticky with blood where it had pooled underneath from the large slashes across his chest.

Chelci froze, staring. Her breath grew ragged. All night, she had been ready to battle at a moment's notice, but now that she faced actual danger, her fight training and conditioning meant nothing—she was a scared little girl again. She slowly stood up and backed away. Her hand shook as she took the bell out of her pocket and tried to ring it. The trembling resulted in a weak sound at first, but she persisted. As she emerged into the clearing, just past the tree line, the bell rang strongly, sending her distress call out into the night.

42

Code Black

"It's about time! Where are they?" Finley said as he bounded down the slope to meet Chelci. He held his sword drawn in one hand and rang his bell in the other.

Moments later, Royce arrived, putting his bell away as he approached. "I'm ready," he said as he peered into the forest and paced along the edge. "Come on out!"

Chelci remained staring at the woods and ringing her bell.
"Elise?" Finley said. "Are you okay? What is it?"
She heard her friend speaking but couldn't respond. Her face felt

drained. I may pass out. Her bell continued.
"Elise!" Finley grabbed her hand to stop the ringing, causing her to stare

at him in shock. "What's going on?"
"In the woods . . . I—I found him," she said.
"Him? Him, who?" Finley looked at her uniform. "Are you bleeding?

What happened?"

Chelci looked down and saw the blood that smeared the front of her clothing. Two more bells approached behind her. She turned as Bensen arrived with Tate just behind. They stopped at the top of the rise, backlit by the lantern down the street.

"What is it?" Tate asked as he held his hands out in a shrug.

The presence of their instructor snapped Chelci back to reality. "There's a body in the woods. Grab that lantern and get down here. All of you, keep your eyes open."

Finley and Royce stepped back at her sudden change of demeanor. On the hill, Bensen grabbed the lantern behind him, and he and Tate ran down the incline. Chelci led the group into the woods.

"Lucian!" Bensen yelled as they arrived at the body. He bent over to feel the man's neck.

The scene was much more gruesome in the light. Chelci wished she would have been able to keep the other version in her memory, but it was too late now. The lifeless stare, the blood, the cuts—they would be forever etched in her memory. She couldn't stand the sight, and looked away.

"What'd you do, Elise?" Tate asked with disgust.
She wanted to punch him but restrained herself. "I found him like this." "His face is already getting rigid. He's been dead at least five hours or

so," Bensen said.
"Weren't you watching this section five hours ago, Tate?" Finley asked. Tate shifted on his feet. The wind blew between the trees, causing the

four candidates to look around. Chelci expected something to jump out at any moment.

"Uh . . . Bensen, l—l—look at this," Finley said, standing to the side, his voice shaking.

He pointed to the ground. Two large pools of blood stained the leaves and smeared away from the village as if something was killed then dragged into the woods.

"This must have been Tomas and Lachlan," Bensen said, inspecting the area. His jaw clenched, and he moved with purpose.

"We're gonna die!" Tate said in a panicked voice. "Someone's killing them, and we're gonna be next!"

"Bensen," Royce said in a quiet, calm voice.

The group turned to him in eerie silence. Royce stood next to Lucian's body and held an object up. Bensen extended the lantern, illuminating a sharp, black claw twice as long as his hand.

Chelci and Bensen locked eyes. He knows what it is. Is this what happened to Russell's daughter years ago?

Bensen spoke rapidly as he turned back to watch the woods. "Lucian, Tomas, and Lachlan were the three village guards who were supposed to raid our side during the night. This"—he pointed to Lucian's body —"explains why we hadn't seen them yet."

Suddenly, a howl pierced the night through the woods, and five heads snapped in its direction. It wasn't the high mournful howl of a wolf. It was low and scratchy. The sound sent chills down Chelci's spine. She had heard the sound once, many years before on the night she arrived in Nasco.

That's a howl that sends wolves running in fear.

"Finley, run across the village and get Russell," Bensen said. "Tell him we have a Code Black."

Finley turned to go but did a double-take, looking back at Bensen with fear in his eyes. "Code . . . what? Sir?"

"Black! Tell him Code Black—and run!"

Finley ran while Chelci's head spun.

"Royce, go and sound the village alert bell," Bensen said, but Royce was frozen in place, staring at him. "Now!"

Bensen turned to Chelci. "Elise, I—"

Another howl sounded, closer this time. Their group froze, silent. Bensen's sword scraped as he pulled it out of its scabbard, followed promptly by Tate and Chelci doing the same. Royce backed away before turning to run while the remaining three stood in a line with Bensen holding the lantern out.

For several moments, no one spoke. No one breathed.

I wonder if whatever it was ran away?

Just as she was about to exhale in relief, she felt the ground move. She couldn't hear anything, but something was there. As she watched the darkness, a scent wafted through on the breeze. Chelci couldn't tell what direction it came from, but it smelled like death and decay. Its presence turned her stomach as she gagged on the rotten odor. Her legs felt weak, like they were made of water.

Tate shifted his weight, drawing her attention. A wet line ran down his pant leg. Finally, she heard it. It was soft at first but steadily grew louder and more apparent. A low, throaty growl rumbled in the darkness, but the lantern still couldn't penetrate far enough to reveal its source.

"We're gonna die. I know we're gonna die," Tate said as his sword shook in his hand.

"Shut up," Bensen said without taking his eyes off the woods.

Chelci chanced a look at the village to see if any backup was coming, but no one was there. She turned back toward the woods just as the most terrifying creature she'd ever seen emerged from behind a tree.

Its back was as tall as her chin, and the animal was double that in length. The hide looked thick and tough, and as the creature walked, muscles rippled through its body. A head the length of Chelci's arm attached to a short neck. Its eyes reflected the light from the lantern, looking like burning coals. A series of sharp-looking spines covered the back of its head and ran down its neck. Two jagged rows of teeth filled its mouth with long fangs on each side. The front feet had five digits, but the back legs ended with enormous claws—three on one but only two on the other.

That's where Royce's claw came from. Although Chelci had never seen one before, she knew without a doubt what it was—a valcor.

"Spread out," Bensen said.

Tate and Chelci shuffled a few steps in either direction without hesitation. The valcor stopped and looked back and forth between the spread-out trio. All three had their swords at the ready, and Bensen held the lantern aloft in his other hand.

Is it deciding who to attack?

Without warning, it reared up and stood on its hind legs, towering above them and unleashing a deafening roar. Chelci covered her ears with one free hand and a shoulder. As the sound faded, something rattled to her left. Tate's sword bounced on the dirt as he ran toward the village. Decisively, the valcor fell back down to the ground, and ran after Tate at a terrifying speed.

"No!" Bensen shouted.

As the valcor ran past him, Bensen lunged to stab it in the side. Chelci winced as the sword tip glanced harmlessly off the rough hide. The valcor paused for a moment and looked back at Bensen. It opened its mouth, bared its fangs at him, and roared before it turned to follow Tate.

"Tate, run!" Bensen yelled as he hurled the oil lantern at the beast.

The glass shattered on the animal's back, and the oil covered it in an explosion of flame. The valcor roared in anger. It stopped and thrashed about, rolling on the ground. The fire on its body quickly went out, but nearby bushes caught ablaze, illuminating the forest. The act was enough to turn the beast from Tate and focus its attention on Bensen.

It took a few cautious steps then lunged at the instructor. Bensen swung his sword in a flurry of strikes so fast Chelci could barely see them, but the sword still couldn't penetrate the valcor's hide. Chelci screamed as it grabbed Bensen with its front paw and swiped with one of its back legs. Blood sprayed through the air, the warm drops splattering across Chelci's face as Bensen's leg shredded. He screamed in pain as he collapsed to the ground, his sword falling from his grip.

Chelci froze, the nightmare playing out leaving her incapable of action. Her breathing was quick and ragged as she fought to keep her mind present. Come on, Chelci! Pull it together!

She wiped the blood off her face and looked directly at the animal focused on Bensen.

"Hey!" Chelci shouted. She stepped in and swung with her sword, but the blunted blade was even less effective than Bensen's.

The beast batted her away with its hand. The impact spun her around and knocked her down. She lost her sword and helmet and landed face-first in the dirt. Disoriented, she pushed herself up and looked in time to see the valcor disappear into the darkness. It headed deeper into the woods, dragging Bensen behind it.

She found her sword on the ground and looked back toward the village.

Russell or Finley or Aleks should be here by now. Maybe Tate had a change

of heart? Coward.

No one was there. No one was coming. Chelci took a deep breath and looked back toward where the beast disappeared moments ago.

This is what happened to those other village guards earlier tonight, and it's what happened to Madeline years ago. I can't stand by while Bensen meets the same fate, but if I go after him, it's going to kill me too. She swallowed hard. I can't abandon him.

She followed the path of death into the awaiting darkness.

Deeper in the woods, the light from the burning bushes was gone. All Chelci could use to see was the moon as its glow snaked its way through the branches. Streaks of blood on bushes and rocks let her know she was on the right track as she ran. Behind her, the village alarm bell began to ring.

I can't wait. I might lose the trail, and every second counts if Bensen's going to have a chance to live.

After several minutes of scrambling up and down hills, Chelci worried she had lost the trail until the familiar scratchy howl summoned her forward. Soon an enormous tree's silhouette came into view with a dark shape climbing about halfway up the branches. One front limb held a body while the other grabbed limbs above it.

Chelci made her way to the base of the tree and started climbing as fast as she could. It's a molopyr tree. Good. Easy to climb. After climbing for a moment, the scraping and rustling above her quieted. It's stopped moving. What am I going to do once I get there? I have no idea if Bensen will even still be alive, but I have to keep trying.

Once she was a few branches under the animal, she could better see what was happening. It stopped on some sort of platform. From the ground,

it merely looked like branches, but the sticks wove together to make a flat area bridging two large tree limbs.

I found its nest! Chelci thought. Bensen's body lay at the edge of the nest with one of his arms dangling over the side, but the valcor seemed preoccupied with something else. Maybe there's still a chance to save him?

Chelci moved to the backside of the tree to be able to climb higher without being seen. The sound of tearing and cracking came from the nest, giving her chills. She shuddered at the thought of what it was. As Chelci got up to the same height as the nest, a loud whooshing sound was followed by the tree shaking. A dark shape flew through the air out of the tree. Her heart skipped a beat.

Was that the valcor? Was it Bensen? She snuck a peek around the trunk and saw both the animal and her instructor remained. At least it wasn't him.

Chelci silently took her sword out of the scabbard and used her free hand to steady herself while she snuck around the tree. She stepped onto the edge of the nest behind the valcor, which was bent over, chewing at something and oblivious to her presence. She tried to wave to get Bensen's attention, but he was either passed out or dead. Her pulse thumped heavily in her ears.

While considering the most vulnerable place to attack the beast, a stick cracked under her foot. The valcor snapped its head back to her and snarled as it turned around to face her.

Her stomach dropped. So much for the element of surprise.

She jabbed with her sword, but it wasn't long enough to even make contact. The valcor advanced, and she scrambled backward. It snapped at her with its sharp teeth as she stumbled over branches, trying to keep space between them. Chelci jumped over a tree limb as the valcor lunged again.

Its jaws stopped a hand's width away from her face as a branch blocked the rest of its body. Blood covered its teeth as it thrashed itself on the limb she hid behind, the rotten smell assaulting her senses.

Soon, Chelci was back on the opposite side of the tree while the valcor continued to advance. She waved her sword at its face, receiving hideous snarls in return. The beast stopped.

Maybe my small sword could actually be effective? she thought.

As she considered her options of what to do next, a searing pain jolted her body as something ripped into her side. She screamed in agony while she spun and fell onto the branch, barely holding onto her sword. The valcor was long enough to taunt her with its jaws on one side of the trunk and attack her with its back claws from the other. A large gash ripped across her side and bled freely. Merely looking at it made her feel dizzy.

She did her best to ignore the wound as she scrambled back on her feet. She held the sword toward the claws. They lashed out again, but she was able to block. After being rebuffed, the back legs disappeared from view. She spun around, expecting to see jaws about to bite her in half, but found nothing. The rushing in her ears and the beating of her own heart was so loud that it took her a minute to realize the snarling had stopped.

Chelci looked back and forth on each side of the trunk. She listened intently. Nothing. She made her way back around the tree to the nest. Bensen lay where he was before, but the valcor was gone.

She cautiously stepped on the nest as a raindrop fell. Where did it go? Chelci peered over the side, but the darkness below made it difficult to see much. More drops fell. Something is wrong.

The rain was thick and heavy, and it didn't fall in a regular rhythm. Her breath caught as she noticed her arm. It wasn't drops of water. It was drops

of blood. A wave of terror swept through her as the low throaty growl rumbled above her.

Chelci slowly raised her head, and her heart stopped. An arm's length above her—with its jaws closed in a growl and blood dripping from its fangs—was the valcor. It opened its mouth wide and unleashed a roar. She shook from its force. The sound tried to push her body down, but she stood firm.

Before it had a chance to close its mouth, Chelci stabbed upward, piercing the animal in the upper part of the inside of its mouth. The sharp tip of her sword penetrated the soft upper palate and protruded from the other side.

The roar changed to a hideous shriek. The sound was unearthly. The valcor shook and thrashed its head as Chelci pulled the weapon out, nearly knocking her off her feet. It pawed frantically at its face, losing its grip on whatever it held. The beast shrieked as it fell, careening off the side of the nest. It flailed its limbs as it bounced off branches to the ground, where it landed with an earth-shaking boom.

Chelci watched over the side. At first, the animal was motionless, and she thought it must be dead. After a moment, it began to stir and slowly stood. It glanced up the tree before limping away and disappearing into the woods.

I did it! I can't believe it!

After the brief moment of celebration, she turned her attention to Bensen and hurried to where he lay. His chest moved. His eyes fluttered, and he muttered incomprehensible words.

He's alive! "Bensen! It's me, Elise! Can you hear me?" His delirium left him unresponsive. He's lost a lot of blood. He may not be alive long.

His arm revealed a deep puncture, and a shallow gash crossed his chest. Bensen's right leg was almost unrecognizable from the damage. His face was as pale as death and covered with sweat. His arm and chest had stopped bleeding, but his leg was in much worse shape.

Chelci winced as she took off her guard uniform, the pain reminding her of her own injury. Two slashes raked her side where the valcor's claws had ripped through her clothes. Blood ran down the gashes along her skin. It was difficult to breathe, so she probably had some broken ribs too. The loss of blood left her weak, and her hands felt clammy.

I may not be alive long either.

Using the rips the valcor started in her uniform, she hacked with her sword to tear it into pieces. She wrapped a torn portion around Bensen's leg, which elicited a groan. His body went limp, and for a moment, she thought he was dead.

Come on, Bensen. Don't die on me!

Chelci breathed a sigh of relief when his chest rose after a few moments. She used another piece of the uniform to tie around her waist. She cried out in pain as she tightened it to stop the bleeding on her side.

After the bandages were tied as best as she could, she looked around to determine how to climb down from the nest. Two disfigured lumps caught her eye to the side—what the valcor worked on when she arrived.

That must be the remains of Tomas and Lachlan, she thought. She didn't have time to run and get help. Bensen would bleed out by then, and there was the possibility of the valcor returning. The only option was to drag him back to the village herself. If we were on the ground, it would be easy, but how am I supposed to get him down? Can I climb down with him on my shoulder?

She tried to hoist him up by pulling his arms, but he was too heavy. She tried to grab underneath him and lift but was unable. "Bensen! Come on! I need you to snap out of this right now!" The rope coiled around his chest caught her eye. That's it!

After untangling it from around his body, she tied one end of the rope around his chest and looped the other over a branch just above them. She dragged his unconscious body to the edge of the nest and pulled the rope taut.

Can I do this? Am I strong enough to lower him down? She glanced over the side and felt dizzy, both from the height and the loss of blood. I have to try.

Pulling with all of her strength on her end of the rope, Chelci slowly pushed Bensen off the edge. The weight of his body leaving the platform was jarring. The force tried to rip the rope from her hands, but she held fast. Hand over hand, she steadily fed the line over the branch as his body inched toward the ground.

Chelci's side ached from the effort. Her ribs screamed, and her arms threatened to let go. I can't hold this for long. I need to move quickly.

Her shoulder soon went numb, and blood seeped through the bandage on her side. She felt weaker than ever but continued to feed the rope as it scraped along the limb above her. Chelci struggled to breathe. As her hands cramped, the rope began to slip, slowly sliding through them, burning her palms.

Suddenly the weight lessened, and she looked down. Bensen had made it to the ground and lay slumped on his side. She released the rest of the rope and scurried down after him. As she jumped to the ground, Chelci

glanced around, hoping the valcor wasn't lying in wait. After deciding the coast was clear, she exhaled a loud sigh of relief.

We made it!

She staggered as the earth spun. Cold shivers ran through her body. Her hands looked ghostly from loss of blood. She shook her head to try to focus, expecting to blackout at any second. Bensen remained unconscious but breathing, and to her dismay, his bandages appeared to be as ineffective as hers.

How do we get back to the village from here? She tried holding his arms and dragging him behind her but couldn't hold on because of her bloody and sweaty hands. She found that if she faced him away from her and put her arms under his, she could lock her hands around his chest and walk backward while dragging him.

It seemed doable for the first ten steps or so, but she soon felt the pain. Her lower back was on fire. Her arms were tired and cramped. It hurt to breathe, and her legs felt like they were burning.

If I stop, I'll never get moving again. She kept going.

As she moved in a delirious haze, her mind wandered. Nevi would be worried sick if she knew what I was doing. I bet my friends will miss me if I don't make it back. How did it come to this? A pang of regret hit her suddenly. I'm about to die, and my family will never know what happened to me. I wonder what Jackson is up to? How's Father's health? Has Mother ever gotten kinder? If I could, I'd really like to see them again.

Chelci had no idea how far she dragged Bensen. Soon, she couldn't feel her arms or legs. Her vision was blurry, and the dizziness was overwhelming. Her body felt weak and tired. The blood from her side dripped down the left side of her body.

Maybe if I rest for a moment, I can build up my strength, she thought. No! I can't stop. I have to keep going.

Suddenly, Bensen's body no longer slid along the ground. It was as if Chelci had run into an invisible wall she couldn't pull him through. She strained under the weight, but he wouldn't budge. Faced with the thought of defeat, Chelci collapsed to the ground with Bensen's body leaning against her. She no longer cared about getting back—all she wanted to do was rest.

I need to keep moving though. She forced her eyes open. Come on, Chelci! Get up!

No, just sleep.

Her eyes were closed, and she lay on the ground when she remembered the bell in her pocket. She fumbled to grab it. Lifting it into the air, she rang it as hard as she could. She kept going as long as she was able, but soon, the effort was too much. Her arm fell, and she stopped fighting the need to rest.

I tried Bensen . . . I tried.

Before the darkness took over, as the cloud of exhaustion rendered her body useless, she heard something in the distance. It was weak and arrived to her carried by the wind, but the sound was unmistakable—the faint whisper of a bell.

43 Unexpected Surprises

Come on, just go over there! Veron thought as he tried to get himself to move. She's just standing there. It's perfect. He watched Chloe as she dipped candles across the courtyard, lost in her work.

Veron had been looking for an opportunity to talk with her all week since he got back from the hunting trip, but no time ever seemed right. It was Finday, and he still hadn't said anything.

Bracing himself with the courage he needed, Veron moved. "So, how are candle sales going?" he asked as he arrived at Chloe's workstation.

Chloe wore a simple, light blue dress with a gray shawl over it, but she looked radiant. A chill filled the air, so she also had a knitted green scarf wrapped around her neck, which Greta had made for her.

"Um . . . It's been good. My new scent is selling well. Have you smelled it?" She held a candle up to his nose. "Rosemouthe and peppermint."

Veron's eyebrows lifted. "Wow, that smells . . ." he tried to find the right word to express it, ". . . festive—like a party!" She smiled at his description.

"After we close up the market in a few minutes, would you like to go for a walk with me?" Veron asked, kicking the dirt as he watched his feet.

"Sure! I'm low on wax anyway and need to pick some up from my supplier down by the river, if that's okay?"

Veron looked up quickly. "Sure. Yeah, I can help you carry it."

Chloe's attention drifted past his shoulder to the market entrance. Veron turned around and froze as his stomach twisted. Captain Mortinson stood in the courtyard, flanked by two soldiers.

"Veron Stormbridge," the captain said.
"Yes," Veron replied, his heart pounding.
"I need you to come with me."
Veron's mind raced, thinking through what he had done. There's no way

he found out about my childhood. He can't know about how I tricked the lending house, can he? Did he discover I'm not from a wealthy family in Felting? He looked at Morgan, who shrugged. I hope this isn't like what happened to Morgan!

Not having any viable options, Veron left with the soldiers.

"I'm onto you," Mortinson said as they walked down the street with one soldier in front and one behind.

"What do you mean?" Veron asked, trying to appear casual.

"The quarter-staff competition. You're from Felting, right?" Mortinson asked.

"Yes," Veron said, staring at the captain.
"You trained under Salazar, didn't you?"
Veron wasn't sure if he should play along or if that might get him tied

up in even more lies, so he decided the truth was best. "I don't know who that is."

The captain eyed him. "Your fighting style reminded me of him. My mistake."

Was that it? Am I in the clear? Veron sighed internally. But where am I going? Something about the exchange unsettled him, but he wasn't sure exactly what it was.

He mentally prepared himself for having to fight. He'd been continuing his physical training almost every day and felt ready for anything. The only thing that continued to frustrate him was his inability to tap into the origine. No matter what he tried, the extraordinary power source eluded him.

They continued walking in silence. As they crossed Karad Square, dark clouds approached the city from over the river, and thunder sounded ominously in the distance.

"Storm's gonna be here soon," the captain said to no one in particular.

I hope I can get back before then, Veron thought. If I even get back at all.

Soon, they arrived at the Department of Commerce. Veron cocked his head while Mortinson held the door open and motioned for him to enter.

Inside the office, Brixton talked with Hailey at his desk. As soon as he spotted Veron, he jumped up with a grin on his face. "Father, he's here!"

Heath sat at the desk next to him, and a third clerk Veron didn't know was at the other desk in the back corner. Raynor emerged from the office.

What's going on? he thought.

"Veron! Thanks for coming!" Raynor said before nodding to Mortinson and the soldiers. The captain stared Veron down one more time as he and his crew left. "Due to the impressive performance you've put together at North Karad Market, you've been selected as this year's Gold Crown License Award winner for the city of Karad!"

Veron's jaw hung slack as he played the words over in his mind. The Gold Crown Award! Raynor, Brixton, Hailey, Heath, and the other man all clapped for him. Veron tried to say something but was speechless as he shook hands with each of them.

Never in my life did I imagine I'd receive this honor! My taxes will drop. My sales will increase. I can hire someone to handle the day-to-day work, and I can spend most of my time shadow knight training! I was doing great until now, but this is far beyond anything I've ever hoped for! Veron thought.

Raynor continued. "As you know, tomorrow night is the annual Merchant Awards Banquet, and there I will present you with the coveted golden seal."

"Thank you, Lord Fiero!" Veron said. "I—I don't know what to say. It's such an honor. I wasn't expecting this."

"You don't need to say anything. The results of your market speak loudly enough."

"Now, it's time to celebrate!" Brixton said, clapping Veron on the back. "You're coming out to Fenwick's with Hailey and me."

Brixton grabbed his cloak off the chair and headed for the door. Veron was too stunned to object.

The storm arrived soon after they entered the tavern. The heavy rain drummed above, but the downpour didn't dampen their spirits. "Did you know that your market is the youngest business ever to receive the gold crown?" Brixton asked. He sat behind his second pint of ale, which was already almost gone.

"No, I had no idea," Veron replied.

"You'll be making so much money now," Brixton said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Plus, you're about to finish paying your loan off, aren't you?"

"Yeah, only one more payment." After the lack of loan payment, plus the reduction of tax, I should be making an extra . . . two argen each week! And that doesn't even consider any sales increase, Veron thought. Whoa! I'm going to be rich!

"You've done a great job, Veron," Hailey said, sitting next to Brixton and smiling at Veron in an odd way.

Veron fidgeted in his seat, feeling uncomfortable with her glance. Thankfully, Brixton was too interested in draining his mug to notice. Setting the drink down, Brixton flagged down the bartender who brought another pint for him and Hailey, who tipped her glass as she struggled to keep up.

"What are you doing, sipping on yours?" Brixton said, indicating to Veron's first drink, which was still mostly full.

"Leave me alone. I'm drinking it," he replied.

He seems to be back to his old self, Veron thought. On the hunting trip, something was off, but I'm not sure what it was.

Hailey saw a friend on the other side of the room and left to say hello. "So, are you ready?" Brixton asked in a hushed voice once they were alone.

Veron froze with a look of puzzlement. "Ready for what?"

"Ready for opportunity! I told you it would be coming soon, but to be successful, now you need to act on it."

"I'm sorry. I'm not sure what you mean. Act on what?"
Brixton scoffed. "The Gold Crown License Award, what else?"
Veron tilted his head. "Yeah, that's definitely an opportunity. I'm

excited about it, but I'm not sure what you mean by acting on it," he said.

"You'll easily be making ten to fifteen percent higher profits now from doing absolutely nothing." Brixton leaned in across the table. "But people don't achieve success on their own. There's usually someone else they partner with to achieve mutually beneficial situations. You and I are going to be those partners."

"What do you mean? What are we going to do for each other?"

"I gave you the Gold Crown, and you're going to cut me in on a portion of your increased profits. I want three percent."

Veron was stunned. He looked around the room, searching for something to indicate it was all a joke. "What are you talking about? I earned the Gold Crown Award. Are you saying you want me to just . . . give you three percent?"

Brixton laughed. "Oh no, you didn't earn the award. I gave it to you. I've been padding your numbers and adjusting your tax receipts for the last year. Yeah, you've been doing great at the market, but it takes more than that to win the award. You needed to have help, and I was the one to be there for you. All I'm requiring is a tiny three percent." Brixton took a long drink from his mug.

Veron's mouth fell open. His stomach felt queasy. Why would he do that? I don't want anything to do with this. I don't want padded numbers to get some prize I didn't earn. "No! I'm sorry, but I don't want the award if that's what it takes to get it. Look, Brix, I appreciate you wanting to help me, but I can't take this. I'll tell your father that my numbers were wrong, and I didn't earn it."

Brixton sat back as if he'd been spit in the face. "Whoa, whoa! Don't be an idiot! You can't do that, Veron!" His voice rose, drawing attention from the tables around them. Brixton gathered his composure before continuing.

"If you report that your numbers are wrong, what do you think is going to happen?"

"I don't know. I'll just make them right."

Brixton slid around the table to the chair next to Veron. "It's not that simple. What do you think happens to people who pad their sales and tax reports for a year?" he asked.

"But it wasn't me. It was you!" Veron said.

Brixton raised his eyebrows. "And what do you think is going to happen if you say I've been doing it? I'm not going to take the fall for your bad numbers. And whose side do you think my father will take? His son? Or . . . the mysterious boy with no past and no references?"

Veron froze and stared at Brixton. I know we're different, but I still thought we were friends. And now he's blackmailing me?

"If you tell my father that I set it up, within a week, I'll see to it that you don't even own a market anymore." Brixton stared at him with hard eyes. "Accept the award, Veron. Don't be a fool. You'll get more money, and I'll get more money. What's the big deal?"

Hailey stumbled across the room and sat back down with them. "The big deal about what?" she asked.

"Nothing," Brixton said through heavy breaths as he moved back to his original chair and took another drink.

Veron stared at his mug as he fought to stay in control. He felt as if he'd been punched in the gut and was reeling from the blow.

"So, are you bringing someone to the banquet tomorrow?" Hailey asked Veron.

"Uh . . ." Veron looked at her, trying to focus on what she was saying. "I don't know."

"Oh, you have to bring someone!" she said. "Especially since you're winning an award."

I need to get out of here. I need to go somewhere to think, Veron thought. Chloe! She's probably wondering what happened to me. He stood up quickly. "I'm sorry, but I just remembered I have to be somewhere."

"Aww, come on! You haven't even finished your drink yet!" Brixton said with a friendly expression on his face.

Veron backed his way to the door. "I'm really sorry. Thank you both for your kind words." He moved to turn the knob of the tavern door.

"Veron!" Brixton called after him, causing him to turn around. "Remember what I said." The friendly expression was gone.

They stared at each other, frozen in the moment. Without another word, Veron left the tavern and stepped into the rain.

Veron shook off the water from his cloak as he entered the common room at the market. A shiver ran through him from the cold. The common room was the final project to build, which Jacob recently finished out of the open loft space. Everyone was there, engrossed in their own activities.

"What happened? Are you okay?" Morgan asked, running over when Veron entered.

So much had happened after Veron had left, escorted by soldiers. "Oh, that. Yeah, I'm fine," he said.

"What did they want?" Morgan asked.

Veron wasn't sure what to say. He felt trapped by Brixton and the situation he put him in. Veron sighed then flushed as he spoke. "We won the Gold Crown License Award."

Morgan's eyes lit up. He delivered a deep, hearty laugh and picked up Veron in a bear hug. "What! Veron, that's amazing! Did you hear that, everyone? Veron here won the Gold Crown Award!" Everyone in the room exploded into cheers.

Veron gave a weak smile, embarrassed by the attention, especially because he knew the story behind how it happened. Everyone took turns congratulating him on the achievement with a train of hugs and slaps on the back.

"I'm going to build a mount to go right over the gate where we can display the seal," Jacob said.

Veron noticed the one person he wanted to talk to the most wasn't there. "Morgan, where's Chloe?" he asked.

Morgan looked around the room for a moment then back at Veron and shrugged his shoulders. "She left earlier, a little after you did. Going to get wax, I think. I guess I haven't seen her since."

She should have been back long before now. With the storm outside, she wouldn't have stayed out any longer than was necessary, Veron thought.

He thought back through the afternoon, wondering where she might have gone. He imagined her walking across Karad Square toward the wax shop as he pictured the scene he passed through earlier.

The clouds were dark. Few people milled about due to the impending storm. Shopkeepers brought in their goods. What was that? Veron remembered two figures on the far end of the square skulking against an alley wall almost hidden by shadow. What were they doing? Why is Chloe not back? Something's wrong. Without a word, Veron left the room.

He put the cold, soaking cloak back on as he ran down the steps with the rain falling on him. Immediately shivering, he paused at the bottom

before turning around and heading back to his room. He took off his dripping outer layer and opened Artimus' chest. Inside, he found the black Shadow Knights cloak. He picked it up and ran his hand over the symbol on the chest, thinking of his father. The fabric was thick and well woven—and dry. He put it on and raised the hood. While he was there, he grabbed the ruby hilted sword and strapped it on his back too.

I don't know why, but I have a terrible feeling.

The rain fell steadily as Veron hurried through the city, thankful for the fresh cloak and the hood that kept the rain out of his face. The alley with the suspicious figures from before was empty, as was all of the city, so he continued down Market Street. He wasn't sure what he looked for or even where to go, but he walked toward the wax shop.

Veron turned down an alley just before the river. The sign for the supply store was visible ahead, but something on the ground caught his eye—a green scarf. His arm shook as he bent over to pick it up. It was Chloe's. His heart raced. A soggy note pinned to the soaked scarf simply read, "BENEVORRE LUMBER MILL – COME ALONE."

The name itself sent flashbacks surging through Veron's mind. Fend, Mortinson, the ill-fated robbery that went horribly wrong. Now, he imagined Chloe, broken at the foot of that wall, run through with a sword.

Why would she be taken? Who would have done it? Why the lumber mill? Veron was thankful he'd grabbed the sword.

He considered going to get Morgan or Danyel to help or maybe alerting someone, but he decided to go alone. Veron ran through the alleys, reminding him of the night of the tailor's shop, six years before. He didn't

even notice the pouring rain or the large puddles he splashed through. His dry cloak was soon soaked through, but he didn't care.

When he approached the ruins of the mill, he slowed, knowing that whoever had Chloe could be anywhere in a large area, and that it was better if they didn't see him coming. He skirted the mill on the right side and entered the collection of buildings by the river. Ducking behind walls, he scurried from dark corner to dark corner. With the rain covering any noise he made and the black hooded cloak, Veron was nearly undetectable.

As if something inside him directed his steps, Veron rounded the corner of a collapsed building and saw the place he headed toward—the place he had avoided for years—the alley where Fend died. He could feel the sensation of Fend slipping through his bloody grip. He could picture the sword entering his body as he lay by the wall. Veron's heart raced as emotion swelled in him. He breathed in short, shallow breaths as he moved and fought for control.

Suddenly, he stopped. His breath caught in his throat. Ahead of him, in the dim light where Fend died years ago, Chloe's body leaned against the wall.

Veron ran to her, but she didn't see him from the blindfold covering her eyes. A gag kept her from speaking, and her arms appeared tied behind her back. Blood ran down her face from a gash on her head, while water dripped off of the dress with its torn edges lying in the mud. She shivered, but other than the head wound, she seemed okay.

After looking around, he lowered his hood, allowing the rain to pelt his face and the top of his head as he crouched. "Chloe, it's me!"

She jerked at his voice. After Veron took her blindfold off, she blinked quickly. Veron saw recognition in her face just before her eyes widened.

"What happ—"

A thud resonated against the side of his head. The pain was searing, like an explosion of light, before he blacked out.

44

Pasts Collide

Veron's head throbbed and jaw ached even before he opened his eyes. He managed to force them open through much effort, revealing the dirt floor of an old building. A lantern hung on the wall, illuminating the space. To his left was the old wooden pushcart he remembered, unmoved and unchanged for years.

This is the room I watched from while Fend was murdered, Veron thought.

Veron froze when he saw her standing by the wall. Chloe's clothes were still damp. The gag covered her mouth, and her arms were still tied, but the blindfold was off. He would have run to her if it weren't for Bruiser standing behind her, holding a sword to her throat. Veron locked eyes with Chloe. She looked like a scared rabbit who was about to be killed. Veron reached for the sword on his back but found nothing. He paled as he noticed the ruby in the hilt of the one Bruiser held.

The sound of laughter jolted him as Veron became aware of the second man in the room. Standing to the side, smirking, and twirling a knife, stood

Slash. "So, you thought you could steal from us and get away with it?" he said, walking toward Veron and crouching in front of his face. "You thought you could kill Coffin, and we wouldn't do anything about it?"

Veron gritted his teeth and stood up.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Slash said as he backed up. Bruiser tightened the sword against Chloe's neck, causing Veron to stop moving. "You thought you could take our money and start a business on the other side of town where we wouldn't find you?"

Veron glared at them. "It was my money." His voice was calm but firm. "Who can ever really know, right?" Slash flashed an evil grin.
"So, what do you want?" Veron asked. "Money? You let her go, and I'll

give you my two and a half sol back."
Slash roared with laughter. "Oh, Veron, we've come so far since then,

haven't we? You're no longer the street trash who ate other people's garbage and begged just to get by. Now, you have a Gold Crown License, and I think there's potential for a whole lot more."

Veron's eyes were wide. "How did you know that?"

"Oh, I have my sources." Slash paced back and forth, the knife still in hand. "No, I don't want two and a half sol. I want three sol . . . per half- season."

Three sol every fifteen weeks! Veron thought as he glanced at Chloe then back to Slash. "For how long?"

"Until I say so."
Veron paled. "You're not getting anything until you let her go."
Slash laughed again. "I think I'm not getting anything if I let her go. So,

here's what we're gonna do. You're gonna leave here and bring your first payment back tonight. If you take longer than thirty minutes to get back or

we see anyone besides you show up, we'll kill her. Then, every fifteen weeks, another payment is due. If at any point you stop paying—" Slash stopped and pointed the knife toward Chloe "—she'll die. As long as you pay, you can live a great life, and we'll leave you alone. You understand?"

Veron stared at Slash and didn't say a word for several moments. Something about this whole thing doesn't make sense. "Why did you bring me here?" Veron asked, motioning around him with his hands.

"I don't know. It seemed like a good out of the way place." Slash shuffled his feet, eyes darting.

Veron stared hard at him. "How did you know about Fend?"
Slash cocked his head. "Fend? What do you mean?"
Veron lowered his voice into a growl. "Where is he?" Slash looked

unsure and glanced at Bruiser, who shrugged his shoulders. "Captain! You can come out!" Veron yelled into the night.

Slash and Bruiser didn't speak or move. For a long moment, they all stared at each other and listened to the patter of rain on the roof. Then, Veron heard it—the heavy steps and metal clanking of a soldier.

"It took me a while to figure it out," a deep voice said. Veron turned as Charles Mortinson emerged from the darkness and rain to enter the building. "You were never from Felting. I could spot that from the beginning. When we fought at the festival, I knew I recognized you from somewhere, but I couldn't quite place it. I made some inquiries and eventually discovered the connection. You worked at that grocery in Upper Sherry. I remember it—the one where we set up the owner with those phony tax documents."

Veron's eyes grew, and his breath caught, hands balling into fists.

"Oh, yes, you didn't know that, did you? Your grocer heard some things he shouldn't have."

Veron seethed as he listened.

"And before that"—Mortinson got in Veron's face—"you were street trash, taking what wasn't yours and ruining our city every day you were alive. I should have run you through by that wall the same way we did your friend. Fend? Was that his name?"

Veron yelled as he pushed the captain, but he was stopped short by a scream from Chloe as the sword pressed deeper into her skin and a trickle of red ran down her pale neck. He took a step back from Mortinson, but his gaze could have melted steel.

"I don't know what lies you told to start your business, but we will happily keep your secret," Mortinson said. "And neither you nor your little friend here"—he walked over to Chloe—"need to get hurt. But that part's up to you. What do you say?"

Veron looked at the three men. "So, this is all about money? You despise me because I was once a thief, and now you're here to steal from me?"

Mortinson sniffed and stood straighter.
"Fine, I'll get it," Veron said.
Slash grabbed Chloe's hand and held the knife to her left pinky. "Don't

take too long," he sneered. "It'd be a shame if you were too slow getting back and found her missing a finger."

The remaining color drained from Chloe's face as she stared wide-eyed at Veron.

Veron burned with anger. Slash has tormented me all of my life, but now he's crossing a line. He took a step toward them. "If you hurt a hair on her

head, you'll be sorry!"
Slash dropped Chloe's hand and waved the knife at Veron. "You won't

tell me what I can and can't do! You have no leverage here! I can kill her right now if I want to!"

Slash turned back to Chloe and slowly slid the knife down the side of her dress, causing it to tear, exposing her skin as well as a thin line of blood. Chloe whimpered.

"Who knows what I may decide to do," he said in an evil tone as he looked her in the face. She sobbed. "Quiet, you!" Slash shouted as he hit her in the side of her head with the butt of his knife, leaving a dark red gash. Her body slumped.

Veron's blood boiled. His heart beat wildly, and his mind raced. He fought to stay in control, but his body ached to act. Clear your mind. Clear your mind.

As he glared at Slash, the hatred faded, and something he didn't expect replaced it—purpose. He wanted them dead, not because he despised them or for revenge, but because he wanted to protect what was good. Chloe needed saving. He needed saving. His market and his workers' livelihood needed saving.

Before he had a chance to fill his mind with more worry, he perceived a strange sensation—a connection he'd never felt before. Veron sensed a warm tingling in the pit of his stomach as if he'd swallowed warm liquor. His arms and body felt weightless.

The origine!

Veron recognized it and pulled as much energy from inside him as he could. Immediately, time slowed down. Bruiser and his sword appeared frozen. Slash held his knife like a statue, and the rain outside seemed to

have stopped. Veron heard his own heartbeat, but it was a fraction of its typical speed. His muscles felt strong, his body made of iron and capable of moving in any capacity he wanted. Awareness of everything around him filled his mind and body with power. He was invincible.

Veron reached out and grabbed his ruby sword from Bruiser's hand. The large man released it without a struggle. Without hesitating, Veron ran it through Bruiser's stomach with a loud yell. The thug's reaction was slow, as if it took him several seconds to feel the wound. His body fell in slow motion as Veron pulled the sword out and turned to Slash, whose eyes were widening. His mouth moved to say something, but Veron didn't wait to find out what it was.

Veron grabbed the knife from Slash's hand, turned it around, and stabbed him in the chest over his heart, shouting with every ounce of energy he had left in him. A thunderous roar shook the building's walls and roof, causing years of dirt and dust to float to the ground.

I did it! I tapped into the origine!

The excitement waned as he sobered from the thought of what he just did. Out of nowhere, his sharp focus drained away. Time felt like it sped up, leaving him feeling heavy and weak. At first, he thought it was the contrast from his heightened state to normalcy, but after a few moments, he realized he was utterly exhausted. He fell to his knees, his sword hitting the ground next to him.

This must be what Artimus meant about the origine depleting a person's energy quickly, he thought.

Bruiser lay on the ground. His arm moved slowly, but too much blood pooled on the dirt around him. He would be dead in moments. Slash lay next to him with his own knife sticking out of his chest. His eyes were

already still and glazed over. Chloe appeared unconscious, her chest moving as she lay on the ground.

Good, she's alive. Veron kneeled in the dirt, panting, trying to catch his breath.

"What . . . was that?" Mortinson's voice brought a chill to his bones.

Veron had forgotten about the captain as he focused on the other two. The soldier stood at the other end of the room, limply holding his sword and trembling.

"H—H—How did you do that?" Mortinson asked. His eyes were wide, and his face ashen.

Veron grabbed his sword and stood with a great deal of effort. Mortinson looked confused and scared but lifted his own sword higher, trying to keep it steady.

"I did to them what I'm about to do to you," Veron said with feigned confidence. The captain stood up straighter.

Both men faced each other, neither wanting to make the first move. Veron couldn't fight in his weakened state. Luckily for him, Mortinson stood there immobile for what seemed like an eternity. After a long pause, the captain's face hardened, and he swung his sword.

Veron barely got his sword up in time to block as he stepped to the side. Mortinson paused for a moment before attacking again with another single strike that Veron parried away. He's testing me.

Veron tried to clear his mind again, but nothing happened. He struggled to focus but kept losing it as he had to defend himself from another swing of the sword.

"How did you move as you did?" Mortinson asked, moving more confidently.

"It's something a miserable wretch like you will never understand."

The captain swung a hard three-strike combo at him. Veron blocked the first two, then stepped to the right, dodging the last swing. His long cloak swayed with him as he moved. The grit of the dirt crunched underneath his feet.

"Tell me!" the captain yelled. Desire filled his eyes. "Forget the money and forget the girl. I'll walk away from this, and you can go back to your life if you teach me to do what you just did."

"Never!" Veron shouted, the sound echoing off the walls.

"Very well," Mortinson replied, the corners of his mouth turning up in a smirk. "Did you know this whole plot wasn't even my idea?"

"I don't care which one of you thought of it. Slash is done coming up with plans to abuse the people of this city."

Mortinson let out a deep laugh that unnerved Veron. "No, not Slash." He leaned in with a wicked smile. "And not Bruiser, either."

A chill ran through Veron. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, Veron, you have so much to learn."
Veron blanched as Mortinson's face hardened. He took a quick, deep

breath. Here it comes.
The blow was hard and fast as the captain swung at his shoulder. Veron

jumped back, feeling the air on his face from the blade that barely missed.

My strength's returning.

Mortinson followed with another hard swing from the opposite side, but that time, Veron stepped into it. He knocked the sword down and away and followed with a hard elbow to the captain's face. Mortinson staggered back, clutching his nose. Blood covered his hand when he pulled it away. He

roared in anger and came at Veron, fueled by fury. Their swords clashed, side to side, as Veron parried the blows.

He's so much stronger than me. I can't hold him off for long, Veron thought.

With a loud yell, Mortinson delivered an overhead strike. Veron stepped to the side at the last second, and the captain stumbled past him. Muscles aching, Veron struck hard against Mortinson's back, but the sword glanced off chain mail.

Suddenly, Veron felt a sharp pain on the back of his leg as the captain's sword nicked him. He cried out through gritted teeth as he keeled over in the dirt, clutching his calf. Mortinson had fallen to the ground, but he turned around with a smug look as Veron grimaced in agony. The movement placed Mortinson closer to Chloe, and he looked behind him to see where she was.

Chloe! No! Veron stood up quickly. The pain was blinding—like a wild animal clawed at his leg—but he forced himself to ignore it.

Mortinson got to Chloe first, grabbing her hair and holding his sword tip to her neck. With a grin, he turned back to Veron. "Don't move or I—"

Veron saw it all in the blink of an eye—Fend screaming as the captain stood on his broken leg. Mortinson declaring they did nothing but contribute to the city's decay. The blood on Fend's lips as he died.

Mortinson's words were cut short as the sharp edge of Farrathan separated his head from his body in one smooth stroke. The captain's lifeless body crumpled to the ground. Six years of rage fueled the effort as Veron held his sword to the side and panted in a swirling pool of pain, anger, and relief.

It's done. He's gone. We're safe.

Veron turned his attention to Chloe, who was still unconscious. Untying her hands and the gag, he took the cloth and wrapped it around his own leg, pulling it as tight as he could and wincing in pain. After strapping the sword on his back, he picked Chloe up and carried her in his arms, using all the strength he had left.

He turned back once he was at the doorway to see the three bodies lying on the ground and their blood staining the dirt. The sight made him nauseous, but he pushed the thought of guilt away.

Outside, the rain fell steadily. Veron walked with a limp, dragging his injured leg, not even bothering to put his hood up. He cried most of the way back but wasn't even sure why.

45

Taking Risks

"Help! Can someone give me a hand!" Veron shouted as he entered the courtyard.
Morgan was the first to emerge from the common room, and he quickly rushed down the stairs. "Catherine! Mary! Get water and bandages!" he yelled back up the stairs. "What happened?"

"She was attacked," Veron said as Morgan took her body. Veron staggered after being relieved of the burden.

Veron followed Morgan as the older man carried Chloe upstairs to her room and laid her on the bed. Catherine and Mary showed up with a bowl of water, some cleaning agents, and various rags and bandages.

"What happened to her?" Catherine asked as she soaked rags and attended to Chloe's wounds.

"Some men attacked her," Veron said. "Luckily, I happened across them over by the wax shop and fought them off. She was hurt, and I got cut on the leg." He turned and extended his leg, showing the bloody rag wrapped around it.

"Oh my, let me look at that!" Mary said. She took off the soiled rag and cleaned the wound. "The cut is clean and not too deep. You got lucky on this one."

Veron didn't feel lucky as he cringed from the pain. She wrapped the freshly cleaned wound in a new bandage and had him prop his foot up.

"I don't get it," Morgan said. "Why would anyone attack her? She wouldn't have had much to steal."

Veron shook his head. "I have no idea. Some people are desperate, I guess."

"So, you fought them off? How did it happen?" Morgan asked.

"I . . . It's tough to say, for sure," Veron said. "It all happened so fast. I remember cutting one on the arm, which sent them running, but one got me in the leg. Chloe was knocked out by one of them as soon as I arrived."

"What did they look like?"

"It was so dark. I didn't get a good look. Average height, I'd say." Veron pictured the three dead bodies he left behind. I know I can trust these people more than anyone in the world, but it's still best if they don't know everything.

"I'll run by the constable's office in the morning to report it," Morgan said.

"No!" Veron shouted. The others jumped back at the outburst. "No, don't worry about it. I'm sure Chloe and I will heal fine, and I don't want anyone else worrying about a few people we won't be able to find anyway."

Morgan stared fixedly at Veron, but he didn't say anything further.

Catherine put the dirty rags in the bowl. "Well, that's about all I can do for now. Her cuts should heal fine, but she'll need some rest. And so will you, Veron," she said as she and Mary got up and left.

"Why don't I help you to your room so you can rest?" Morgan said. "I'll come back and watch over Chloe until she wakes."

Veron shook his head. "No, that's okay. I'd like to wait here."

Morgan nodded then lightly rustled the corner of Veron's cloak. "Nice outfit. Where'd you get this?"

Veron had forgotten he was wearing the cloak he had kept locked up for years. "It was Artimus'."

The two sat in silence for a moment as Veron thought of Artimus and realized he had something he needed to tell Morgan.

"Morgan, when you lost your license . . . It was Captain Charles Mortinson who had that ledger planted," Veron said.

Morgan stared at him in surprise. "What?"

"Apparently, you heard something you shouldn't have. I think someone needed to discredit you or something like that."

Morgan breathed in deeply as he leaned back. "I figured that had something to do with it. I overheard the Lord of Commerce talking with some other guy about a plan to use out of circulation coins to pay for importing goods."

"The Lord of Commerce? Fiero?" Veron asked.

"Yeah. I don't know who the other guy was. I guess they recognized me and felt they needed to shut me up. No one would believe charges from a discredited ex-shopkeeper convicted of tax fraud. How'd you learn this?" Morgan asked.

Veron looked down at the floor. "I'd rather not say," he replied.

Morgan stared for a moment and then shrugged. "Well, I guess it worked out in the long run. If it hadn't happened, I wouldn't be here right now." He smiled and stood to leave. "Oh, Veron," he said, turning around in

the doorway. "Whatever happened out there tonight, you may want to clean your sword off. If you only cut someone on the arm, it's going to be tough to explain why it's stained with blood to the hilt."

Veron looked at the sword leaning against the wall and shrank back as his friend left. I know Morgan didn't buy my story, but I can't worry about that now. I just want to make sure Chloe's okay.

The weight of all that had happened in the last several hours pressed on him like a heavy blanket.

I killed someone—three people. I can't believe I did that. Nausea turned his stomach as he remembered. He was behind Coffin dying a couple of years ago, but he never felt responsible for that.

What did Mortinson mean by it not being his idea? That doesn't make any sense. He must have been trying to unnerve me to gain an advantage. Veron tapped his fingers on his leg. I don't think that's it though. Something about the way he said it felt genuine. He sighed as he rested his face in his hands and rubbed his fingers through his hair. At least I don't have to worry about them anymore.

Looking down at his chest, Veron noticed the SK emblem on the cloak. A smile crept over his face.

The Shadow Knights. I did it! I worked hard for two years, and I finally learned how to use the origine. What does this mean? Am I a shadow knight now?

While Veron waited for Chloe to wake, he tested his connection to the origine again. It took him a few tries, but he found it. The energy was there, just waiting for him. He didn't draw from it but instead practiced finding and losing it over and over.

He grinned as he experimented with the energy, but it did nothing to help him with his Brixton problem. With all the things that happened that night, Veron had forgotten about his decision around the award.

Brixton! What am I going to do about that? I can't say something to Raynor. Apparently, he's corrupt. That would probably end with me in prison or at least stripped of my license. If I keep the award, I'll have to pay Brixton but will end up with more profit still. It feels wrong though. Veron shook his head. He had one more day to figure it out.

"Veron?"
Veron opened his eyes as he fought off the sleep that had taken over. He

sat in the chair in Chloe's room, where he'd fallen asleep. Chloe lay in her bed, propped up on her elbows, looking at him.

"Chloe!" he said, moving to sit on the side of her bed. "Are you okay?" "I feel okay. What happened?" she asked.
"What do you remember?"
She stared out into the distance. "Two men grabbed me near the wax

shop. They tied me up and covered my eyes and mouth then carried me . . . somewhere. It was cold and rainy, then"—she looked at him—"you were there, and . . . What happened? How did we get away? Did you pay them?"

"Um . . . No, I didn't pay them, but you don't have to worry anymore. You're safe now."

Chloe's forehead wrinkled. "But they found me before. How do you know they can't just find me again?" she asked, trembling slightly.

Veron hesitated, trying to decide if the truth would help or hurt. "They won't be able to find you again . . . because I killed them."

Chloe breathed in sharply and put her hand to her chest. After a moment to breathe, she locked eyes with him. "I can't believe it," she said.

"I had to Chloe. They would have—"

"No, it's okay. I understand. You rescued me, Veron." She leaned forward and embraced him in a hug. "Thank you."

Veron had never rescued anyone before. For most of his life, he looked after no one but himself. When he was young, he would've been more likely to try to pick Chloe's pocket than even talk to her.

As the hug loosened, Veron decided it was time. He'd been trying to find a chance to tell her how he felt about her for a while, and no time was better than this. His heart beat fast. Can she feel it? "Chloe?" he asked, pulling away, not sure of what the next words should be.

"Yes?"
"Did you hear them mention the Gold Crown Award?"
Her eyes lit up. "Yes, I did. That's amazing!"
"The awards banquet is tomorrow night, and I can bring someone—if I

want to. I know the timing isn't good after what just happened—and you probably couldn't go at this point—but I was planning to ask if you'd go with me."

Chloe tilted her head. "Why me? Why not Morgan? I only sell candles. You and he kind of started this place."

Veron laughed softly. "Yes, but that's not the idea. I wanted to bring someone that . . ." he looked down at the blanket on the bed, ". . . that I care about . . . that I could maybe see myself being with one day." There's no going back now.

He took her hands in his and looked up at her. His heart pounded as he looked in her eyes and waited for her response. Tears began to form at the

corners of her eyes.

She's so moved by my feelings that she's crying with joy!

Chloe's face began to redden in splotches as the tears continued to grow. She pulled her hands away to cover her face.

This may not be good, Veron thought.
Soon she folded onto the bed as racking sobs filled the room.
"I'm so sorry, Chloe. I shouldn't have said anything." This wasn't how I

expected this moment to go.
"No, it's not you," she managed to get out between sobs. "I'm the one

who's sorry. It's all my fault." She broke down into another bout of tears. After a moment, she was able to calm down enough to speak. "You're a great guy, Veron, and I'm so thankful to have you as my friend."

There it is. She just wants to be my friend. He mentally kicked himself for getting carried away with his feelings.

"And I can never begin to repay you for what you did for me tonight. The thing is . . ." She stopped as tears started to well up again. Veron looked at her and waited as she choked back the tears. "The thing is . . . I'm married."

Veron felt like he'd been hit with a club. His body was numb. He blinked several times to bring him back to the present. "I thought your husband died in an accident at the docks?"

"I'm so sorry, I never meant for it to go this far," Chloe said, continuing to wipe away tears. "We grew up here in Karad. Patrick is a soldier in the army. When they stationed him in Karondir two years ago, we knew he'd have to travel around a lot, so I stayed here. I told people he died for sympathy . . . so I could sell more candles."

Veron was stunned. His soul felt crushed.

"When you and Morgan came along, I should have said something, but I didn't. Ever since then, I've been trapped in that lie, wishing I could get out of it, but I was afraid and didn't know how."

"You could have just told me!" Veron said in frustration. Veron felt as if his heart had been torn from his body, and he was left empty inside. For two years, I fell for a girl who was already married.

"I'm really sorry, Veron. If I had known how you felt, I would've said something."

His jaw clenched. He felt deceived and betrayed, but as he saw her grief, he slowly began to calm down. "It's okay," he said after a long pause. "That must have been difficult for you, and I can understand. It's not fair for me to put all the pressure on you without having said something before now. I'm thankful for you being here and will continue to be your friend. When Patrick returns . . ." he swallowed hard, "I'd love to meet him." He smiled at her reassuringly, but the words did little to soothe him.

Chloe smiled back at him as she sniffed. Her eyes were puffy, and her face was red. "Thank you. I really am sorry about it all."

He nodded. "Do you need anything?"
She shook her head. "No, I just need to rest for a while, I think."
Veron stood, favoring his uninjured leg. "Well, I'm going to go try to

get some rest too then. The sun should be up soon, and I have a big day tomorrow." He stopped with his hand on the doorknob and turned back to her. "I told everyone else that I found strangers attacking you and I chased them off . . . and that was it. I didn't want to answer a bunch of questions about . . . you know . . ."

"I understand," Chloe said. Veron opened the door and left.

Back in his room, Veron collapsed on his bed in a swirling pool of emotions. He barely noticed the throbbing pain in his leg. Chloe was the first girl he had ever cared about. He never imagined those feelings would end like that—empty and purposeless. Tears only eluded him because of his mental and physical exhaustion.

The decision over what to do about the award the next evening stressed him, but he was at least relieved that Slash and Mortinson weren't out waiting for him anymore.