David

  The slave market was just east of the city wall, hidden behind the tanners’ row where the air turned foul and the noise faded away. No laughter here. No music. Just the clink of iron and the dull thud of boots in straw.

  We passed beneath the cracked stone archway, and the smell hit us first: sweat, piss, old blood, and smoke. A dozen pens stood in rough formation ahead, mostly covered with uneven planks, all cast in shadow. The slavers liked to keep their wares just short of sun-sick.

  Seraphina walked beside me in her deep green dress, her chin held high, her sleeves brushing her sides as I held her hand. She remained silent. Allira trailed just behind, her general’s coat shimmering in the light, her insignias gleaming on her shoulder. Her mere presence drew attention. A few slavers froze at the sight of her, while others cast twice as many glances at Seraphina. I kept walking.

  The merchant waiting by the pens was already watching us. He was fat and jowled, with a beard that looked sharper than he did. Keys jingled at his hip. His eyes met mine only briefly before shifting to Allira, then to Seraphina.

  “You’re here for that Sinthurk slave,” he said, voice smooth but tired.

  I nodded. “Where is he?”

  “Second row, right side. He’s been processed. Marked. Yours now.” He said it as if he were selling a mule. We moved past him without another word. The straw crunched underfoot, damp in places. I caught a glimpse of a branded man sleeping upright, another curled around a leg with a twisted ankle. None of them looked up.

  Halden was at the far end, his hands bound at the wrists and a collar locked in place. His face had thinned, and his beard had grown patchily and roughly. There was still fight in his eyes, but the edges were worn, dulled by days without power and control.

  He looked up as we approached. Recognition flickered. Then his jaw clenched.

  “Well,” he said. “Come to gloat?”

  “No.” I stared at him through the bars. “I came to collect what’s mine.”

  The merchant ambled up behind us, holding the release token between two fingers. I took it and passed it to the handler. The man unlocked the pen, pulled the gate open with a screech of rust.

  “Get up,” I said.

  Halden stood, slow and stiff. The chain between his wrists rattled as he moved.

  Seraphina didn’t look at him. Not once. She kept her eyes on the gate like the whole place offended her existence. Allira looked. Hard. Cold.

  I turned back to Halden. “Let’s go.”

  The carriage ride back to the tower was quiet. Halden sat across from me, staring out the window. He hadn’t said a word since we left the slavers. His face was unreadable, hidden behind whatever pride or shame he still clung to.

  As the tower came into view, I cleared my throat. “Halden, I’m going to ask this once: What was the end goal of that arranged marriage with Marlena?”

  He kept his eyes fixed on the window. Not a blink. Not a breath. “Until you’re ready to tell me the truth, we’re done talking. Just so you know, starting this week, I’m going to review every resource your family controlled. All of it. That’s mine now.” The words hit him. He glanced at me, just once, then looked away again.

  I turned to Allyson. “He’s yours now. I don’t want to see him again, not until he’s ready to speak openly about the matter.”

  “Yes, master. It will be done,” she said, her tone calm, but her eyes shimmered with a faint red hue at my command. I clenched my jaw and reached for Seraphina’s hand, tightening my grip slightly before closing my eyes.

  When the carriage stopped at the base of the tower, three maids were already waiting. As we stepped out, two of them wordlessly took Halden and led him inside. The third stood at the foot of the steps. Racheal. Seraphina moved to meet her but paused when she saw me watching.

  “Do you think you were too harsh on him?” she asked as the others disappeared into the tower.

  “Maybe,” I said quietly. “But I don’t know what I’d do if anyone threatened you. Or any of you.” I reached for Allira’s hand, holding it firmly as I looked at them both. “He and Carthis stepped over that line. They threatened Marlena by trying to hurt me.”

  Seraphina nodded faintly, then smiled. “Well, my sweet Allira and I have training to go to. Are you sure you don’t want to come?”

  She shook her head. “No, I’ll rest. Maybe create another one of your strange meals for you.”

  “Hey, they haven’t been that bad,” I said with a grin as I leaned in and kissed her. A long, warm kiss. When I pulled back, I rested my forehead against hers. “I love you.”

  “I love you too.” She paused to catch her breath, then reached up and placed her free hand on the side of my face. “Allira, make sure he doesn’t get into too much trouble.”

  Seraphina let go of my hand and turned toward the tower, casting one last glance over her shoulder with that soft, radiant smile that always melted me.

  I looked at Allira. “Ready?” I asked as I helped her back into the carriage.

  Once the door closed behind us, I smirked. “So, what do we do with the next twenty minutes until we reach the training grounds?” She returned the smirk and tugged me toward her.

  The clang of steel and the thud of boots on packed dirt echoed as we approached the training grounds. Set beneath the looming shadow of the cathedral’s north wall, the space was broad, open, and worn from years of combat drills. The grass had long since been trampled into dust and mud, broken only by stubborn tufts along the edges.

  The sky hung heavy, with thick, gray clouds overhead. The sun was concealed, casting everything in a flat, cold light that dulls the shine of chainmail and blades.

  To the left, a line of archers stood in formation, each drawing, aiming, and releasing in rhythm. Arrows hissed through the air and slammed into straw-and-linen targets already bristling with shafts.

  In the middle of the yard, a circle of straw dummies took brutal hits from a group of soldiers. Their swords sliced through with sharp, practiced strokes. One dummy tilted to the side, nearly cut in half at the waist. A drillmaster walked among them, yelling corrections with a voice like a warhorn, kicking a boot here, making a stance straight there.

  Off to the right, twenty soldiers stood in paired rows, blades clashing in a steady rhythm of attack and parry. There was no shouting here, just the grind of wood on wood and the controlled grunts of effort. They moved with nearly perfect timing, blades sliding past each other like dancers in a ritualized duel.

  Scattered barrels lined the perimeter; some were filled with sand, while others contained stale water. Wooden practice swords leaned in uneven piles against the walls. Helmets sat atop crates, dented and stained. A few horses were tethered nearby, watching the activity with calm, bored eyes.

  The cathedral stood tall behind us, its stone fa?ade streaked with age and weathering. Gargoyles sat high above, their worn faces turned toward the yard like silent judges.

  Allira walked ahead of me, the cold wind catching her coat and blowing it behind her as she surveyed the grounds with a practiced gaze. I followed her toward the same soldiers we’d met here two days ago. They spotted her instantly and moved into two tight ranks, standing at attention by the time she stopped in front of them.

  “Now that you’re warmed up,” she said, voice sharp and commanding, “it’s time to get serious. Front row, take three steps forward.” They stepped in unison, boots crunching over packed dirt.

  “We’re going to do some strengthening exercises,” she continued, lifting a practice sword from the rack beside her. “Hold your swords like this.” She gripped the hilt with her right hand and the blade with her left. “Now lift your arms, following my actions…”

  She raised the sword horizontally, arms outstretched.

  “We’re holding for five counts. One… I do this every day with my sword… Two… Strengthens and stretches your shoulders… Three… Helps build stability… Four… Five. Lower.”

  Several of them winced, arms already burning.

  Allira began pacing slowly along the front row, her eyes sharp. “Good. That was one set. We’re doing two more.”

  “Raise,” she ordered. “One… Two… Three… Just wooden sticks, folks… Four… Five. Lower.”

  “Last set. One…” she called, walking behind them. “Two… Lift those arms higher. Three…” She stopped briefly to adjust one man’s elbow. “Four… Five. Lower.”

  Sweat beaded on foreheads. A few in the front row gritted their teeth.

  She moved back to the center. “That was just the warm-up. Now, lunges. One hundred, on my count. Repeat after me.”

  She assumed a stance. “One.”

  The rows moved together. “One!”

  I leaned toward my sweet general. “I’m heading over there for a moment,” I said, gesturing toward the archery range. She nodded without missing a beat. “Two,” she called out, and the group responded in unison.

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  Allyson and I slipped away, walking across the yard toward the archery lines.

  I stood off to the side, watching the instructor guide a dozen soldiers through basic form. It stirred something old in me. I hadn’t held a bow in decades. I’d been decent at camp, just a teenager then, but that was a lifetime ago.

  I stepped over to the rack and picked up one of the bows, running my fingers along the wood. It was taller than what I remembered using, a longbow rather than the recurves I’d trained with. I wasn’t sure if that made it easier or harder.

  “Good morning. Can I help you?”

  I turned. The instructor had noticed me holding the bow.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve used one,” I said. “I was wondering if I could give it a try.”

  He narrowed his eyes slightly, studying me. “Are you the one who led that mock battle a few days back, over on the southern grounds?”

  I chuckled and put the bow back on the rack. “Yeah, you caught me.”

  “That was something else,” he said with a grin. “I’m Sergeant Duncan. One of the archery instructors here. Go ahead, take the far lane. It’s a short range, ten yards. Mostly instructional.”

  “Thanks. I’m David,” I said, shaking his hand.

  “I’ll grab you some arrows and an arm guard,” he replied, walking off toward a supply table.

  I picked up the same bow and moved to the open lane at the far end of the range. The target sat clean and empty, its fresh linen face untouched.

  “Master, have you used this before?” Allyson asked as she joined me.

  “Yes, several times,” I said, adjusting my grip. “I learned the modern method as a teenager. Later on, I studied a traditional style called Kyudo. I was always the tall one in class.”

  Duncan returned with a bundle of arrows and a worn leather arm guard. I held out my arm, and he wrapped the strap around it with practiced hands.

  “Here you go,” he said. “Start slow. Just get the feel back.”

  “Thanks,” I said, nodding as I turned back toward the target, the bow firm in my grip.

  I stepped into the lane, the bow cradled in my hand. Ten yards to the target. Not far. Still, it felt farther than it should have.

  The weight of the longbow was different from what I remembered. Taller, heavier. Not the recurve I’d used as a teen, or even the smooth, polished yumi I’d trained with later. But it didn’t matter.

  The old rhythm was still there, quiet, buried deep. I set my feet first, shifting slightly until I felt balanced. The dirt gave just enough under my boots. I straightened my spine, let my shoulders drop. Breathed.

  I remembered how they used to say the target is just a mirror. It wasn’t about the arrow. It was about you. I raised the bow slowly, nocking the arrow with a deliberate ease that surprised me. My fingers knew where to go. My arms moved in smooth motion, drawing the string back as I pressed the bow forward. The tension built in my shoulders, my back, right down to my breath.

  I focused, not on the bullseye, but on the stillness. Then I let go.

  The bowstring snapped. The arrow cut the air and struck the target with a dry thump, far from the center, just barely catching the edge. I stared at it for a moment, half-expecting it to fall out.

  “Well… still on the board,” I muttered.

  I exhaled. I didn’t realize I’d been holding that breath.

  [DING]

  [New Skill achieved – Archery - Level 1]

  Not bad, I got a new skill from almost failing. I’ll get better over time.

  Behind me, Duncan gave a low, appreciative whistle. “Better than most who walk up cold.”

  I nodded slightly but didn’t take my eyes off the target.

  What surprised me wasn’t the shot; it was how effortlessly it returned. The feeling. The calm focus. Like a part of me had been waiting for this.

  “Let’s try that again,” I said, more to myself than anyone else.

  I reached for another arrow. I drew the arrow and set it to the string.

  The first shot had shaken something loose. Not pride, not ego, just the simple rhythm of it. Movement without thought. Breath without pressure. Again, I found my footing. Let my weight settle.

  I lifted the bow, slower this time. No rush. Just focus. The draw came easier. The string pulled back like it belonged there. I felt the tension gather across my shoulders, down my spine, into my chest.

  I let the world narrow to the space between me and the target. Not the center, not exactly. Just the place the arrow wanted to go. Then I released.

  The arrow snapped through the air, clean and sharp. It struck just outside the center ring, close enough to feel real, far enough to keep me honest.

  “Not bad,” I said under my breath.

  “Not bad at all,” Duncan echoed behind me.

  I lowered the bow and turned slightly as he stepped up beside me, arms crossed.

  “I’ve been teaching this line for twelve years,” he said. “Seen every kind of shot, from cocky nobles to trembling recruits. But I haven’t seen that form before. Not once.”

  I offered a faint smile. “It’s called Kyudo. I learned it a long time ago in a place far away. It’s not really about hitting the target.”

  He glanced at the arrow sticking near the center. “You could’ve fooled me.”

  “It’s more about form. Presence. The shot’s just the echo of the motion that led to it.”

  Duncan nodded slowly, eyes on the target. “You make it look calm. Like the bow’s part of you.”

  “It used to be,” I said quietly. “Before everything else got louder.”

  We stood there for a moment, watching the others down the line loose their arrows in ragged, uneven rhythm. A few hit close. Most didn’t.

  “You thinking of taking it up again?” he asked.

  “Maybe,” I said, handing him the bow. “If I can remember how to miss with a little better grace.”

  He took it and laughed. “If any of my soldiers moved like that, I’d call it a good day.”

  I nodded toward the soldiers and the straw-packed targets. “They’ll get there. Just takes a few thousand quiet breaths.”

  Duncan gave me a thoughtful look. “If you ever feel like showing the form, off the books, I’d watch.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, stepping back as the next archer took the lane.

  Allyson stood off to the side, arms crossed, waiting. Her eyes met mine, unreadable but steady.

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s get back before Allira starts throwing people again.” I returned to Allira’s side just as she finally reached one hundred. The soldiers were sweating, shoulders tight, jaws clenched, yet they were still standing.

  At her word, they broke formation and took their places just outside the training circle. Allira and I stepped onto the yard, ten soldiers standing, ten seated behind them in two clean rows. The dirt beneath us was dry and broken from the morning drills. Practice blades lay across their laps. Eyes forward. Focused. Expectant. Poor souls.

  Allira

  I stood beside David, sword in hand, posture steady against the wind. My uniform held its lines the way it always did. His, by contrast, looked like he’d wandered in from a tavern. Sleeves rolled, coat open, relaxed to the point of provocation. He stepped forward, voice carrying without effort.

  “Today’s lesson: single-handed swordwork. No shield. No backup. Just you, your blade, and someone who’s trying very hard to ruin your afternoon.”

  I stayed still while he let the silence stretch, then gestured toward me.

  “She’ll be demonstrating some basic stances. Try to keep up. If you’re confused, assume it’s your fault.” A few soldiers laughed. I ignored them and moved into the first stance, left foot forward, blade angled diagonally over my shoulder.

  “This one,” David said, circling me like I was an exhibit, “we could call Shoulder Tap. Great for intercepting high strikes, or if you want to look dramatic just before you miss.”

  I glanced at him. “It’s called an overhead guard.”

  He nodded, solemn. “Yes. That. Very technical.”

  I flowed into a low guard, blade near my hip, angled across my body.

  “This one’s The Nope Step,” he continued. “It says, ‘Please attack me,’ while quietly preparing to ruin someone’s entire day.”

  “It’s a bait position,” I said. “You use it to draw out a predictable strike.”

  “Which you then punish,” he added, pleased, “with style.”

  From the seated row, a young soldier raised a hand. “Uh… sir, are we supposed to remember your names for these?”

  “No,” David said. “Unless you’re writing a memoir. Then yes. Please credit me. Noble title and all.” I shifted into a forward-thrust stance, blade extended, shoulders squared. He stepped around me, tapping the line of my posture with two fingers.

  “This is the Hello There. Doesn’t look friendly, and it isn’t. It’s about reach. Your arm becomes a warning. Overcommit, though, and congratulations, you’re now limping.”

  “Ignore that name,” I muttered.

  “Fully endorsed. Royalties available.” I shook my head, but didn’t bother hiding the smile.

  He drew his practice sword and took a position opposite me. “Now we’ll walk through it slowly. Focus on form. Don’t worry about hitting anything yet.” He lunged. Wide. Slow. I deflected, pivoted, and countered. Our blades barely touched. He stepped back so the soldiers could see.

  “Notice how she doesn’t stop my blade; she redirects it. Parrying isn’t about brute force. It’s about angle and timing. You’re not a wall. You’re a door. A very smug door.” Another exchange. Another clean redirection. If we’d been moving at speed, my counter would have opened his side wide.

  “She pivots fast because she’s not locked in place,” he said. “Plant too hard, and you can’t adjust. That’s how you become a target.”

  We continued, measured and deliberate. He kept pace just enough to demonstrate without overwhelming them. I stayed a step ahead, as always. It wasn’t showmanship. It was habit.

  That’s when it happened. A bell rang out, and instinctively, I looked around. I caught David smiling when he saw me react.

  [DING]

  [230 Sword Fighting XP Gained]

  [Level Up – Sword Fighting – Level 31]

  7,151 XP Until Next Level

  Khosa admires your dedication and opens the door to a wider world.

  I had to stop, just to catch up with what was happening. David put his hand on my shoulder to steady me as I read the words in front of my vision. One of the soldiers asking a question broke me from my thoughts. “Sir? What stance do you recommend if the enemy’s bigger than you?”

  “Good question,” David said. “Step one: don’t be there. Step two: use a low guard or a side stance. Smaller target. More escape options. Don’t try to match strength. Outsmart them.”

  “Step three,” I added, “act first. Make them react to you.”

  He nodded. “Exactly. Listen to the general. She’s the reason half of you are still alive.”

  Another question followed, hesitant this time. “Sir… what level are you in swordsmanship?” David smiled. That should have been their warning.

  “I reached level fifty-one just last week. Once I passed fifty, I was granted the title Master Swordsman.” The reaction was immediate. Faces drained of color. No one spoke.

  “Are they okay?” he asked, leaning toward me.

  “They just realized some limits aren’t as fixed as they thought,” I said. Whispers rippled through the ranks. Impossible. Can’t be right. No way.

  “Isn’t thirty the hard cap?” someone asked.

  “Usually, yes,” a voice said from behind them. General Kitch stepped into view, arms folded. “There have been rare cases,” he said. “But the Earl has a habit of breaking rules.”

  David shrugged. “Picked up a few levels fighting a shadow demon.” Kitch sighed like a man deeply tired of explaining the same problem.

  Then the soldier turned to me. “And you, ma’am? If it’s not too bold?”

  “Level thirty-one,” I said. A murmur stirred, then died almost instantly. Not disbelief. Understanding. Someone in the ranks whispered, “That makes two.” General Kitch exhaled slowly, his arms folding tighter across his chest. I just shook it off. “I was there when my husband fought that demon. I felt bad for it.” I lowered my sword and faced the group. “All right. Pair up. One blade each. Start slow. Walk through the forms. Focus on stance, shift, and parry. Use the silly names if they help. The point is control. Discipline. Levels are useful. Bad technique just makes you a high-level corpse.” They rose, gathered their weapons, and formed pairs.

  “And don’t stab anyone today,” David added. “We like all of you. Mostly.”

  As they spread out, he leaned toward me. “Do you think they’ll remember Shoulder Tap or Overhead Guard?”

  “They’ll remember what worked when they’re bleeding.”

  “Fair,” he said. “Still… Nope, Step is going to catch on.” He leaned in and gave me a sideways hug. “Congratulations. Now, let’s see if you can catch me…”

  I shook my head, but I was smiling when I stepped in to correct a soldier’s stance.

  The drills ran for the next hour. Every fifteen minutes, we rotated partners to force adjustment. Fatigue set in. Mistakes surfaced. So did learning. By the end, I called a halt. They were exhausted. Sweaty. Still standing.

  “Tomorrow, we’ll begin after lunch,” David said. “General Robertson and I will walk you through the full sequence. That will be our final session focused on single-handed swordwork.” He paused, then added, “After that, we move to two-handed styles.”

  A tall woman in the middle row raised her hand. “What types of swords do you use, ma’am?”

  “I use a bastard sword. Hand-and-a-half. It gives me flexibility. One hand when I need speed, two when I need power.”

  Another soldier pointed to David. “And you, sir?”

  “A katana,” he said. “Rare here. Two-handed, close combat, built for precision. I’ll bring it tomorrow.” That earned interest. Respect.

  When the soldiers began dispersing, David turned to me. “Ready to go home?”

  “Yes,” I said, taking his arm. “I need a back rub.”