Part I

  Twelve years later.

  The first time Grant almost died that day, tilted forward above the splintered inn steps, he thought of his old nickname. Granth. A clever little thing the boys at the orphanage used to call him, on account of his jutting teeth.

  Time snapped back into motion, and with the cobbled street rushing toward him fast, he realized he had to make a pretty big life decision—face-first or elbow-first.

  Better crooked teeth than none, he figured, and tucked his hands to his chin.

  With a sickening thud, his forearms cracked into the damp alley ground, sending a jarring flash of pain up into his chest and shoulders. Snot and air shot from his nose in a wet burst, and Grant sprawled onto his belly, his legs kicking up behind him like a tripped horse. It hurt like all hell, and he’d bitten his tongue on the way down, too, judging by the pink spit dribbling between his numb lips.

  “Fuck,” he tried to curse. Came out more like “uck.”

  A coin purse hit the back of his head.

  “And you’d better bring back every damn copper of change!” snapped Mr. Fletcher, slamming the door shut behind him. He roared through the wall, over the ringing in Grant’s ears. “Every. Damn. Copper!”

  Grant stumbled up to wobbly legs, brushing the wet grit from his knees through the new holes in his pants. He stared down mournfully. They had cost him half a month’s wages just last week, and that was after an hour of haggling. He was pretty sure the tailor had only given in to get him out of his shop. With a growl, he strode to a stack of crates against a wall and cocked his leg back.

  “You want your pay docked too? Get to it!”

  He let his foot drop and glanced back toward the inn. Mr. Fletcher glared through the smudged window, tapping his watchless wrist.

  “Oh, so it’s my fault she can’t remember the three things in the stew?” Grant grumbled, under his breath and facing the other direction.

  Once he was around the corner, he allowed his voice to rise to a hiss. “And wouldn’t she pass two fish stalls on the way to the market? By the Goddess, the woman is going to suffocate to death when she forgets to breathe one day.”

  He slowed himself to a stroll, glanced back one more time, and chuckled. “Well, at least it’s an excuse to get out for a minute.” He leaned against a wall and took a moment to knuckle some soreness out of his lower back. A bit of positivity went a long way, especially after your boss shoved you down the stairs.

  His eyes flicked back past the pile of burned garbage in front of the inn, then toward the city square. He was due a break, and with dinner service an hour away, Grant had a good twenty minutes to himself with the asshole none the wiser. With the unseasonable mid-autumn warmth, he couldn’t stop the smile. A trip into town beat dinner prep, anyway.

  A bit of positivity and all.

  The alley forked three ways, and Grant weaved down the dark, narrow path he used to hide in as a kid, slipping between two grooved wooden walls gone black by soot and age. After three more turns, the path opened into Iori’s town square. Grant blinked against the blinding sunset as the noise of hundreds of voices crashed over him.

  Stalls lined the boundary where alleys met roads, with everything from foreign fabrics to kitchen utensils and tools on display. Townsfolk browsed, and merchants shouted in turn—never over each other, as if bound by formal agreement. The air carried hints of cinnamon, vanilla, and an earthy nutmeg from freshly baked Iorian pastries.

  His stomach rumbled in anticipation, so he broke the news gently, patting his belly. “None for you, I’m afraid.”

  Grant tapped his index finger on his chin as he walked, weaving between carts toward the main road. “Now, how will I spend this time?” he mumbled to himself. The autumn festival would be starting soon, and he might be able to sneak a quick look at some of the preparations before the guards chased him off. It was one of the few times of the year that just about everyone in town was in high spirits—even Mr. Fletcher.

  Well, relatively high spirits for him. Drink and coin were much more reliable sources for that man, and both would be abundant during the festival.

  “Boy!” The harsh voice jolted Grant from his thoughts, but he wouldn’t assume it was directed at him. His youth deterred most from paying him mind, his ragged clothes the rest.

  “Boy!” it repeated, this time more insistent, more urgent. Grant turned to find an elderly stall owner staring past him, his forehead creased, eyes wide with panic.

  Grant’s head snapped back toward the man’s gaze. A massive carriage creaked and wobbled, pulled by a massive black horse.

  Trotting directly toward him.

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  “Don’t stand in the damn—”

  Grant yelped and recoiled. His left foot snagged his right in a clumsy step, and he flopped onto his side, then shuffled back desperately, narrowly avoiding a massive hoof. He rolled away, tearing another hole in his new pants before pressing himself against the gutter, clenching his scabbed hands to his face. The carriage wheel missed him by a hair, leaving him lying in the street for the second time that day.

  “Why is everyone trying to kill me?” he mumbled, face down in the mire. As an eighteen-year-old inn worker, he didn’t have much in terms of life plans, but being trampled to death was certainly not on the list.

  Nearby stall owners scoffed, whispered, and a few laughed, but the carriage driver carried on without so much as a glance back. Iori had only one traffic law—one universal truth that Grant was certain stretched across the whole Lyrian continent, to its outer isles, and beyond: make way for your betters. If the horse had smeared him across the pavement, the driver would have expected an apology from Grant’s final gurgles for dirtying its hooves.

  “Is Old Man Fletcher treating you so bad you’re keen to see the Goddess early?” The amused voice came from above. Grant squinted up to find a glint in the blue eyes of a handsome, smiling face. “Keep in mind that she only smiles favorably on heroic deeds resulting in death, not stupid ones.”

  He grinned back. “It’s not that. On my way over, I caught sight of your ugly mug and thought a hoof to my head would help me forget.”

  Dan barked out a laugh, then pulled Grant to his feet and slapped him on the back, knocking most of the air from his lungs. The two of them walked across the street, leaving the confused shopkeepers staring at their backs.

  “So, what brings you out of the dungeon?” asked Dan, ducking under a signpost that Grant could barely graze if he jumped. “I thought Mr. Fletcher had you shackled to the wall. Did you finally chew through your chains?”

  “I wish,” groaned Grant. “The old lady forgot to buy the fish. Third time this month, by the way, and the third time this month it has somehow been my fault.”

  “Oh, please tell me he’s not still serving that awful seafood stew.”

  Grant made a sound like a cat gagging. “He calls it an ‘Ithian delicacy.’” Bile burned in his throat as he remembered its raw taste, yet somehow overcooked texture filled. “And you don’t even want to know what it’s like in the pot the next morning. I swear it’s seeped into the floorboards by this point.”

  Dan laughed, his eyes closed and head shaking. “Is there any part about working at the inn that you actually enjoy?”

  Grant stroked his jaw. “What, like the scrubbing, cleaning up bodily fluids—sometimes multiple body fluids at the same time, by the way—the drunkards, the endless dust, and the outbursts of anger?” He paused, acting as if he were deep in consideration. “No, nothing comes to mind.”

  Dan didn’t laugh. He just stared thoughtfully for a moment, opened his mouth as though to say something, then closed it and shook his head.

  “What?” asked Grant.

  There was another moment of silence before he spoke. “To hells with it. Listen, Grant… I don’t want to make a promise I can’t keep, but I’ll just say it.” He leaned in closer, glancing to the left and right. “Gunther is retiring. Something about getting further inland to a drier area near his grandchildren. I don’t know. But the shop needs a new guy up front to handle sales, fill orders, and… I think I can talk my dad into giving you a chance.”

  Grant spluttered a sound between a choke and a squeal.

  It was an opportunity even the well-connected—Goddess, even the nobility would kill for. A former Campaigner with a Rare Class was hiring for a position at his forge in the center of a major city. The reputation of the shop alone could easily pull someone with an inherited Merchant or Crafting Class.

  Apprentices should be kicking his door down, just begging for an interview, and the noble families should be sending envoys to negotiate terms. Seeing as there wasn’t a line out the shop’s door and down the corner, Gunther’s upcoming retirement must have been one of the best-kept secrets in Iori.

  Grant shook his head, smiling weakly. He didn’t even have a set of clothes appropriate for an interview, let alone the knowledge and experience to perform the job duties. The noble customers would consider the shop a mockery for hiring an unkempt inn boy, who looked like he belonged begging in the alley behind it rather than working inside.

  “I appreciate the offer, but—”

  Dan cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Grant, just shut the hell up and take the job.”

  Grant blinked. “What?”

  “The job! Any man your age in his right mind would have taken the damn opportunity the second I said Gunther was retiring. You’ll make ten times the coin working half the hours.”

  Twenty times the coin for a quarter the hours wouldn’t have changed a thing. “Come on, Dan. Aren’t those types of jobs for nobles?”

  Dan’s lip curled with disgust. The expression almost made him look slightly less radiant. “My dad doesn’t hire them. Soft, spoiled, useless little brats. Expect everything but appreciate nothing.”

  “Right, no nobles then. Oh, and completely agreed with him on that point,” he continued, pointing at Dan. “But come on.” He gestured down toward his torn slacks and faded tunic. “There must be dozens of people out there ten times more qualified than me.”

  Dan stopped in front of a pie stand and hooked his thumbs under his belt. The owner shuffled over, seeing a potential sale or five in the enormous young man, but Dan smiled and waved her off.

  “Dozens? Probably hundreds in Iori alone.”

  Grant’s shoulders sagged, and he paused. Why had that remark hurt? He watched the meat pies forlornly as the vendor gave them a long frown, her eyes flitting between Grant and Dan.

  “But we don’t want someone who knows everything about the business. My dad sees potential in people, and he has always sung high praises of you. Says I would have gotten in twice as many fights without you around, even though you’re the reason for half the fights I was in.” He scrunched his brow, tapping a finger on the crease in his chin. “You know, I’m surprised he hasn’t brought up the idea of hiring you himself yet.”

  Grant opened his mouth to reply, but Dan wasn’t finished.

  “And don’t you dare think this is some charity offering,” he said, jabbing a thick finger into Grant’s chest. “I want you at the forge because you’re a hard worker, and you’re actually good with people. Those are skills more valuable than any Inherited Class. Even Old Man Fletcher adores you. You may be too dumb to see it, but none of your predecessors lasted even three months at the inn.”

  Grant held back a scoff. Mr. Fletcher despised him. And Dan probably wouldn’t even be his friend if their fathers hadn’t served in the Fifth Campaign together. Whatever he had to say about the job at the forge, the idea of taking a position he never earned made Grant’s stomach twist. It was the way nobles got their cushy jobs.

  “Fine, can I at least think about—”

  The half-hour bell interrupted him, and his eyes shot up to the town square clock. “Oh fuck, I’m out of time!” He started shuffling away, nearly crashed into a stall owner, and shouted over his shoulder. “I’ll see you later!”

  He could hear Dan shout something in response, but he couldn’t catch what it was over the noise.