With me fully revitalized and Anabeth thoroughly defeated by exhaustion, I found myself in possession of an excess of stamina and a conspicuous lack of outlets. She slept like the professional unconscious, utterly unmoved by the fact that I existed in the same room.

  Leaving for a few hours would be safe. Sensible, even. Anabeth was a deep sleeper; short of divine intervention or an earthquake, she would not notice my absence. I would return before she woke, before questions arose under duress. And I had to spend all this foolishly replenished stamina somehow.

  Saints forbid, actual training occurred to me. I had not trained properly in years—not in any disciplined, knightly sense of the word. Sir Roland had never cared much for such things. On the road, his lessons had consisted primarily of survival, etiquette by attrition, and the occasional corrective strike meant to discourage stupidity rather than cultivate skill.

  This was, I supposed, a problem best addressed while no one was awake to witness it.

  I slipped from the chamber. Somehow, Brother Halvic still stood at the far end, lingering as if he had been instructed to exist there until needed.

  To not accidentally unleash verbal horror, I activated Scholastic Arrogance instead and said, “Brother Halvic. Even a town as modest as Branfield would surely maintain some provision for martial training.”

  “A training field, sir?”

  “A training field, bah. Let us not elevate terminology for the sake of local pride. I require a designated space for structured combat instruction, with sufficient room for movement. Intended for practice against resistance that is, ideally, reciprocal—not devotional exercise or ceremonial rehearsal.”

  Halvic said, “Yes, sir. There is such a place. Beyond the eastern ward, near the old watch embankment.”

  “Acceptable,” I replied. “I would have been disappointed had a settlement entrusted with its own defense failed to allocate space for competence.”

  “You are in luck as well, sir. Captain Hidan Hadl arrived this morning with the river detachment. He often oversees drills when he is in residence.”

  “A captain,” I said. “One assumes he possesses experience derived from practice rather than inheritance.”

  “Yes, sir. Quite so.”

  “Very well,” I said. “If he is inclined toward instruction rather than performance, an introduction would not be an inefficient use of my time.”

  Halvic bowed. “I would be happy to put in a word, sir.” He did not seem wavered by my tone of voice.

  “Such is the least you can do.”

  Halvic bowed again and departed at a brisk pace.

  I waited until his footsteps had fully faded before allowing myself to punch the air in joy. A personal audience with a career captain was truly a once-in-a-lifetime chance. I must not squander it.

  Captain Hidan Hadl was already present at the training field when I arrived. I could already see he was the real deal. When he moved, it was only as much as necessary: a single adjustment of angle, the smallest correction that carried absolute authority. Even at rest, the tip described lines and angles traced with the unconscious precision of long habit.

  A lesser officer might have straightened at my approach. Hadl merely glanced up with the economy of someone who had assessed threats, liabilities, and pretenders for most of his adult life—and tentatively placed me in the third category.

  “So,” he said, voice even. “You’re the Concord’s man.”

  I did not answer.

  He gestured toward the rack of practice weapons. “I’ve been expecting a sparring partner.”

  Ah.

  Sparring.

  That was the word they used, wasn’t it. I’d already postured, so there was no point acting humble now, especially now that I’d received a new task.

  I straightened before sense could intervene, Scholastic Arrogance did the rest.

  “I was informed that Captain Hidan Hadl’s swordsmanship was… well regarded within the Order. I find that such reputations tend to inflate with repetition. I thought it prudent to observe whether your form withstands scrutiny when removed from its customary audience.”

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  Hadl listened without interrupting.

  “Is that so?” he asked. “In my experience, men who arrive to observe tend to bring parchment. or witnesses. And men who speak of scrutiny usually declare by whose authority they conduct it.”

  I met his gaze fully then. I could not break this man with half-hearted measures.

  Well then.

  “Captain,” I said, “you will demonstrate your swordsmanship now. We will then determine whether further escalation is necessary.”

  Hadl’s fingers immediately tightened on the grip of his practice sword. His pupils contracted.

  The captain studied me for a long moment. Finally, he said before stepping into the field, “At your convenience.”

  The words were deferential. The stance was not. His feet set with precision, weight balanced, shoulders loose. This was not compliance born of fear. This was a professional acknowledging that the parameters of the exchange had changed.

  That would not do.

  I took one step forward, enough to be felt without closing distance.

  “Yes,” I said. “At mine. You will show me your best form. Demonstrate anything less than your full capacity, and do not even entertain the thought of explaining yourself afterward.”

  “As you wish,” he said.

  The practice sword dipped. When he raised it again, he graced my eyes with the best swordsmanship I had ever seen in my life.

  Captain Hadl’s POV

  I am Captain Hidan Hadl of the River Detachment, Seventh Banner, sworn blade of the Order and survivor of four campaigns that were never meant to leave survivors.

  I earned my captaincy in the Fourth Human–Goblin War, when rank stopped being a matter of lineage and became a matter of who was still breathing at dawn. I have held a breach alone while the wounded were dragged clear. I have crossed the Blood District of Karshem—goblin-built, goblin-held, knee-deep in rot and screaming metal—and lived long enough to remember the smell. I have fought inside city streets where every window was an arrow slit and every shadow a knife, and I have walked out carrying my banner when men better than me did not.

  I do not frighten.

  He did not look like much.

  My presence in Branfield had nothing to do with ceremony, politics, or whatever quiet games the Concord liked to play with seals and titles. I was there on contract. The Concord was expanding its guard cadres again, and they wanted more than parade-ground blades this time. They paid accordingly. None of the men they had put in front of me had ever measured up. There was not a single blade among them that carried even a fraction of what the Order demanded of its soldiers.

  Which was why I was mildly amused when the Concord’s man arrived at the training field alone.

  He was fully armored, properly so. Too properly, that he seemed like the kind who hid uncertainty behind good steel. Plenty of them learned just enough not to embarrass themselves in front of witnesses and never progress beyond that.

  Either way, my problem until proven otherwise.

  “So,” I said, evenly. “You’re the Concord’s man.”

  He did not answer.

  This was familiar. Textbook, even. Silence instead of credentials was just another variant of the same old performance—men who believed mystery could substitute for merit, that withholding information would somehow elevate them above the work. I had broken that habit out of more than a few would-be inspectors. Most folded the moment steel answered posturing.

  He said, “I was informed that Captain Hidan Hadl’s swordsmanship was… well regarded within the Order. I find that such reputations tend to inflate with repetition. I thought it prudent to observe whether your form withstands scrutiny when removed from its customary audience.”

  Nothing but empty arrogance. I marked him down as another waste of an hour.

  “Is that so?” I asked. “In my experience, men who arrive to observe tend to bring parchment. or witnesses. And men who speak of scrutiny usually declare by whose authority they conduct it.”

  Then he finally lifted his head and looked at me, with finality.

  “Captain,” he thundered, “you will demonstrate your swordsmanship now. We will then determine whether further escalation is necessary.”

  My instincts did something far more alarming.

  They woke up.

  I had felt this before.

  Only in moments where survival depended on realizing—immediately—that I was no longer the most dangerous thing present.

  Once in the Ash Ravine, when a goblin war-chief stepped out of the smoke and the men beside me stopped being soldiers and became dead weight. Once beneath Karshem, when something in ancient armor looked at me like it was deciding how long I would last.

  And once more.

  That time had almost killed me.

  This was the same.

  This aura… it was overwhelming.

  This aura could not be faked. It was not posture or performance. It belonged only to men for whom killing had ceased to be an event and become a certainty.

  How many people had this man killed? Hundreds? Thousands? My mind kept reaching for larger numbers, absurd ones, as if scale alone could make sense of what I was feeling. Whatever he was, he had crossed a threshold long ago—one you did not return from, only carry with you.

  “At your convenience,” I said. I meant it as courtesy, a professional’s acknowledgment. A small concession, nothing more.

  For half a heartbeat, I wondered if it would irritate him.

  “Yes,” he said. “At mine.”

  The words landed. My shoulders settled.

  That was wrong.

  I had not chosen the stance. My feet adjusted on their own, turning my heel a fraction, redistributing my weight until my balance was perfect.

  I tried to stop it. My body did not ask.

  “You will show me your best form,” he continued, “Demonstrate anything less than your full capacity, and do not even entertain the thought of explaining yourself afterward.”

  This was not a command aimed at my ears. My body treated it as fact.

  My grip tightened on the practice sword against my will. I realized, distantly, that I was already stepping into the field.

  I had not decided to.

  “As you wish,” I heard myself say.

  The words came easily. That frightened me more than anything else.