Vince stepped forward, his sword poised, the move so familiar. The Wolf Snaps Its Jaws; He had practiced it hundreds of times under Gallen's watchful eye, a simple yet devastatingly effective technique. But this time, the strike wasn't met with a grunt of approval or a dull thud against a practice dummy. This time, his blade bit into flesh.
Blood erupted from the wound, a fountain spraying him in a hot, sticky wave. It splattered across his face and hands, soaking through his clothes. The coppery taste of it filled his mouth, choking him as it clouded his vision. Vince staggered back, but the blood kept coming, relentless, drowning him in its torrent.
He tried to scream; but the thick, cloying liquid poured into his throat, smothering his voice. Panic seized him, and he clawed at his face, desperate to find air. Then, abruptly, the deluge stopped.
The courtyard around him disappeared, replaced by an endless expanse of blood. It was everywhere, a crimson sea stretching as far as the eye could see. The viscous liquid clung to him, dripping from his fingers and hair.
A soft voice broke the silence behind him. "I knew you would come."
Vince spun around, the blood beneath him sloshing with the movement. Mira lay before him, her pale face as beautiful as ever, her visage marred by a slow trickle of blood from the wound in her chest. Her lips curved into a faint, sad smile.
Vince dashed to her, his hands trembling as he pulled her into his arms. "I can save you!" he screamed, his voice cracking with desperation.
Mira's hand reached up, gentle fingers brushing his cheek. Her touch stilled him, her gaze filled with a serenity that only deepened his anguish.
"It's okay, Vince," she whispered, her voice soft yet clear. "You can't save everyone."
"But I should have been able to save you," he whimpered, his tears mingling with the blood that still clung to him.
The crimson pool around them began to change, the dark red fading into a shimmering clarity. The blood became water, its hue shifting to the deep blue of the sea. Mira's form seemed to dissolve with it, her body melting into the waves.
"Goodbye," her voice echoed faintly, the sound carried away as the last of her vanished into the pool.
Vince let out a soft, broken sob; the weight of his failure pressing down on him like a mountain.
Cool fingers brushed against the sides of his head, startling him. The weight seemed to lift. A barely audible whisper came from behind, soothing, like the sound of a gentle brook. "I am coming."
Vince's eyes shot open, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The four-poster bed surrounded him, its silk curtains gently swaying. The fabric was adorned with an intricate design of leaves and branches, dominated at the center by a lion-like demon beast pierced through the side by a spear.
For a moment, he lay still, staring at the ornate canopy above him. A dream, he thought, though the pounding in his chest refused to ease. His eyes shifted to the bandages wrapping his arm and leg, reminders that some things weren't confined to his dreams.
The Baron's Keep. The memory finally surfaced through the fog of his thoughts. It had been a week since the Pearl had burned, a week since his family was ripped from him. Vince had barely left this room since, wrapped in a cocoon of grief and guilt.
With a heavy sigh, he sat up. The silk curtain slid aside as he pulled it back, and sunlight poured into the room through the grand windows dominating the far wall. The brightness stung his eyes, and he blinked against it, his gaze falling on a neatly folded set of clothes resting on a bench near the window. The garments were finer than anything he'd ever worn, their cut and quality unmistakably noble. Beside them, his sword rested in its sheath, a coiled belt atop the pile.
What's the point? he thought bitterly. Self-pity clawed at him, a relentless whisper that reminded him of everything he'd lost. His gaze dropped to the bandages on his arm. The wounds throbbed faintly, a dull reminder.
A faint sound broke his reverie; metal clashing against metal. Vince blinked, tilting his head toward the window. The rhythmic clangs grew louder, accompanied by muffled laughter and voices. Slowly, he stood, each step toward the window heavy with reluctance.
The view beyond the glass overlooked the keep's inner courtyard. Below, the men-at-arms were engaged in practice, their swords crashing together in organized lines. Their movements were deliberate, their shouts of exertion mingling with occasional laughter and taunts. The camaraderie of the scene struck Vince, its liveliness a stark contrast to the emptiness he felt.
At the end of the line stood Gallen, his stance stiff as his sharp eyes darted over each fighter. Even from this distance, Vince could tell the veteran was dissatisfied. Gallen barked commands, pointing out faults in form with his usual blunt precision.
Vince almost smiled. He had been on the receiving end of Gallen's tongue more times than he could count. It wasn't something he'd particularly enjoyed, but it had shaped him. The memory almost brought a laugh, but the weight of his loss crushed it before it could surface. The sorrow pressed down again, his grief too raw, too fresh.
His gaze drifted back to the folded clothes. Mira's voice echoed in his mind, her tone chastising yet kind. Are you going to mope around forever?
With a heavy sigh, Vince plodded to the bench. Each movement felt like dragging himself through quicksand, but he forced himself onward. He picked up the tunic, running his fingers over the fine fabric. The act of donning it felt almost foreign, the richness of the cloth unfamiliar against his skin. The belt followed, and then the sword, its weight reassuringly familiar.
As he adjusted the blade at his hip, he paused for a moment, staring at his reflection in the window. The person staring back was gaunt and weary, his sunken eyes carrying the weight of sleepless nights. He took a deep breath, steadying himself.
They're gone, but you're still here. The thought was painful but necessary. For Mira, for Lira, for everyone he'd lost; he couldn't let himself fade away.
With a resolute step, Vince moved toward the door.
He stepped into the hall, the ornate wooden door clicking softly as it closed behind him. The air carried a faint scent of polished wood and lavender, a mark of the Baron's well-kept home. As Vince turned, a stately figure approached, his steps measured. Barnaby, the Baron's butler, was dressed impeccably in a tailored black suit with silver trim, his gloves spotless. His face bore a warm smile that seemed to reach his sharp eyes.
"Master Vince," Barnaby said, his voice smooth and melodic, "it is a pleasure to see you up and about. You haven't eaten in a few days, if I may remind you. Would you allow me the honor of preparing something for you?"
"Ah, Barnaby." Vince nodded, his lips tugging into a small smile. "You know you don't have to call me 'Master.' I'm no noble."
Barnaby inclined his head slightly, the smile never leaving his face. "As you say, Master Vince. However, the Lord Baron has instructed me to attend to your needs, and I take my duties most seriously."
A chuckle escaped Vince's lips at the butler's unyielding positivity. "Sure, if it pleases you."
"Excellent," Barnaby replied with a small bow. "I shall prepare something at once. Will you be taking your meal in the training yard? I understand Master Gallen is there."
Vince nodded. "Yeah, I'm heading that way now."
"Then I will bring it to you as soon as it is ready," Barnaby said, his voice as bright as ever. He turned and briskly strode down the hallway, the echo of his polished shoes fading as Vince made his way toward the grand staircase.
Descending the Baron's main staircase, Vince couldn't help but marvel at the sitting room below. The opulence of the space was almost overwhelming, the gold-lined furniture and silken pillows arranged with deliberate elegance. Sunlight filtered through tall, stained-glass windows, casting colorful patterns across the room. A grand chandelier, glittering with crystal pendants, hung from the high ceiling, refracting the light into a dazzling display.
Fancy, even by the Pearl's standards, Vince thought with a mental whistle of admiration. But the awe faded as quickly as it came, his mind going back to the Pearl.
Shaking off the thought, he crossed the room and stepped through the open double doors that led outside. The sunlight greeted him warmly. Ahead lay the training yard, bustling with activity.
The clang of steel on steel filled the air, punctuated by grunts of exertion and bursts of laughter. Lines of men-at-arms sparred against each other, their movements practiced. Gallen stood at the far end of the yard, his arms crossed as his sharp gaze swept over the trainees like a hawk sizing up its prey. His stern expression betrayed a simmering frustration.
"Ah, lad, it's good to see you up." Gallen greeted as Vince approached, his voice gruff but carrying a note of genuine relief.
Vince offered a half-smile, his voice low. "The world won't wait for me."
"No, no, it won't," Gallen replied softly, his expression momentarily thoughtful before snapping back to the men in front of him. His eyes narrowed on one of the soldiers, and his bark cut through the yard like a whip.
"Fillis! That's the third blasted time I've told you to keep your sword higher! Do you want to lose an arm?"
The man in question gave a sheepish nod, adjusting his stance under Gallen's withering gaze.
Then Gallen's face lit up, a mischievous glint in his eye. He turned back to Vince, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You've been lying about for a week, lad. Probably stiff as a board. How about you help an old man out and teach these fools a thing or two?"
Vince hesitated for a moment, but Gallen's grin grew wider: almost devilish. "Come on now. Need to give some exercise to those muscles of yours."
"As you say, sir," Vince replied with a nod, a flicker of life returning to his expression.
Gallen clapped his hands sharply, his booming voice commanding the yard. "Alright, stop! Stop! All of you fools, gather 'round. We've got a demonstration for you."
The men froze mid-swing, exchanging curious glances before forming a loose circle around Vince and Gallen. Some muttered to each other, and a few gave skeptical looks at the younger fighter.
"You lot have been butchering The Wolf Snaps the Snare," Gallen said, his voice dripping with mock disdain. "Now you're going to see how it's really done. Vince here will show you the proper way to execute it."
He turned his attention to one of the men. "Fillis! You'll be his opponent."
Fillis frowned slightly, then shrugged, stepping forward with a half-smile. "You sure about this, old man?" he asked, giving Vince a skeptical once-over.
"Underestimate your opponent, and you'll wind up dead." Gallen retorted, tossing Vince a blunted training blade.
Vince caught the blade in a smooth motion, his expression focused as he stepped into the circle. The soldiers murmured among themselves, some chuckling as they leaned closer to watch. Vince shifted into The Wolf Snaps the Snare, his posture practiced and precise, every muscle primed for the confrontation.
Fillis stepped forward; his own stance confident. "Your funeral, kid." he quipped before launching into a low thrust, executing The Stone Skips Across the Water with surprising speed and precision.
Vince waited; his eyes calm but alert. At the last moment, he twisted his blade to the side, deflecting Fillis's thrust and redirecting his momentum. The move sent Fillis off balance, his feet scrambling to recover. Vince sidestepped, giving himself space, and executed the technique perfectly. The flat of his blade struck the top of Fillis's head with a sharp clang.
"Arm up!" Vince barked, echoing Gallen's earlier critique. The circle erupted into cheers and jeers as Fillis staggered back, clutching his head.
"Match over," Gallen declared with a grin that rivaled the sun. "Well done, lad."
Fillis blinked a few times, then laughed, shaking his head. "Well, I'll be. Good move, kid."
The circle broke, the men returning to their practice with renewed energy. A few clapped Vince on the shoulder as they passed, their skepticism replaced with grudging respect.
Vince handed the training blade back to Gallen, a faint smile tugging at his lips. For the first time in days, he didn't feel as empty.
Vince had barely caught his breath from the impromptu sparring match when the sound of Barnaby's steps echoed across the training yard. The butler appeared, pushing a polished silver cart laden with covered dishes and a steaming pitcher. Despite the heat of the day, Barnaby's appearance was immaculate, not a bead of sweat on his brow or a crease in his perfectly tailored uniform.
"Master Vince," Barnaby announced with his customary cheer. "As promised, I have brought you a meal to replenish your strength. Though I must say," he added, casting an approving glance at the training soldiers, "you appear to be in excellent company. Shall I fetch additional plates?"
Vince blinked at the butler, then chuckled. "Barnaby, you're going to spoil me."
"It is my duty, sir," Barnaby replied with a slight bow, his tone bordering on playful. "But what good is a well-fed guest if they can't share their bounty?"
Before Vince could answer, Fillis, still rubbing the spot where Vince had clocked him; stepped forward, eyeing the cart. "Don't mind if we do, do you?" he asked with a grin.
"Not at all," Vince said, motioning toward the cart. "Barnaby, looks like we'll need those plates after all."
With swift efficiency, Barnaby produced additional plates from the cart's lower compartment, passing them to the men who gathered eagerly around. Vince removed the covers from the dishes to reveal roasted meats, fresh bread, and an assortment of pickled vegetables. The men's expressions lit up as they piled food onto their plates.
"Now this is a feast," one soldier said, grinning as he bit into a piece of roasted chicken. "I am starving."
Vince couldn't help but smile as he took a plate for himself. He settled onto a bench alongside the soldiers. As they ate, the men began to chat, their voices animated. Vince listened intently, occasionally chiming in when prompted.
"You hear about the gangs?" Fillis asked, gesturing with his fork. "Since a few of the gangs' leaders died, new folks've been moving in. Heard there's some upstart calling himself 'Crimson Jack' trying to run the docks now."
"Crimson Jack?" another soldier scoffed. "What's he do, run a dye shop?"
"Nah, he's worse than Rorik, they say," Fillis replied. "More organized. Got the coin to back it, too."
"Doesn't matter," a burly man named Olin chimed in, his deep voice cutting through the chatter. "Watch'll get him soon enough. Between them and the Tower Master, these rats won't last long."
"What about the necromancer?" Vince asked, his tone cautious. The table fell silent for a moment, the men exchanging uneasy glances.
"Still out there," Olin said grimly. "Christelen, they're calling him. Word is the Tower Master's put a bounty on his head."
"And Rorik's men?" Vince pressed.
"Scattered like roaches," Fillis replied. "Some are holed up in the slums. Others probably fled the city altogether. Watch is still rounding up the stragglers."
The conversation turned to lighter topics after that: city gossip, rumors of merchant caravans bringing exotic goods, and the occasional crude joke that drew laughter around the group.
After the meal, the men began drifting back to the training yard, their banter flowing seamlessly into their swordplay. Vince hesitated for a moment, watching as Fillis and Olin squared off in a friendly bout. His gaze flicked to Gallen, who caught his eye and gave a subtle nod.
"Come on, lad," Gallen called. "Let's see if you still remember how to sweat."
Vince's lips twitched into a small smile as he stood, rolling his shoulders. "All right," he said, picking up one of the training blades. "Let's see."
The practice started slowly, with Vince moving through the forms he'd drilled under Gallen's watch. The Hawk Chases the Hare. The Fox Prowls the Hollow. His body remembered the motions even after the week of inactivity, but the soreness in his muscles reminded him how much he needed this.
Gradually, the pace picked up. The men took turns sparring with him, their strikes growing more confident as they tested his skills. Vince's mood lifted with each bout, the grief easing as the rhythm of combat overtook him. The clang of steel, the measured footwork, the focused tension; it was soothing.
By the time the sun began to dip toward the horizon, Vince was drenched in sweat. His shirt clung to him, and his breath came in gasps, but he felt lighter than he had in days.
As Vince stepped back from his latest match, hands on his knees to catch his breath, a cheerful voice broke through the din.
"Well, well, if it isn't the moist boy again."
Vince's head shot up, his face flushing as he turned to see Lisa Thornvale standing at the edge of the yard. Her arms were crossed, her face alight with mischief as she leaned against a post.
"Lisa," he managed, his voice still breathless.
She walked closer, her grin widening as she took in his sweat-drenched appearance. "You really do have a talent for getting yourself all... soggy."
The men around him stifled laughs, their grins only making Vince's face burn hotter. He tried to form a response, but the words tangled in his throat.
Lisa tilted her head, her teasing expression softening slightly. "Relax, Vince. I'm just teasing."
But Vince couldn't relax. Every word out of Lisa's mouth overlapped with memories of Mira; her teasing voice, her playful smirks. The resemblance wasn't physical, but the energy was so similar it cut through him like a blade. His chest tightened, and he dropped his gaze to the ground.
Lisa seemed to notice his discomfort. Her smile faded slightly, and she stepped back, giving him space. "You did good out here," she said softly. "You should keep at it."
With that, she turned and walked away, leaving Vince standing in the yard, his thoughts a tumult of emotions he couldn't name.
Gallen approached him again, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "You all right, lad?"
Vince nodded slowly, though he didn't quite believe it himself. "I'll be fine."
Gallen studied him for a moment, then gave a curt nod. "Good. Now get cleaned up before Barnaby starts lecturing you about dragging dirt through the Baron's halls."
Vince managed a small laugh at that, the sound shaky but genuine. As he headed toward the keep Kaelith Verdannis, Tower Master of Maze City, emerged in a sweep of his ornate Red-and-gold robes. His staff, crowned with its gleaming red gems, struck the ground in measured beats, though the force of his stride made it clear he was anything but calm. Beside him, Baron Aldric Thornvale matched his pace. The two men were locked in an animated conversation, their voices carrying across the training yard.
"This could lead to the death of the entire city!" Kaelith exclaimed