The next week went by in a blur. Unlike the first day, Damian wasn’t made to sit through Katarina’s classes every morning, but he chose to tag along more often than not—because it wasn’t like he could spend every waking moment practicing with a sword. Well, he probably could, and Kurakin would probably prefer that, but he didn’t really want to. Regardless of whether he went to her morning classes, he always joined her for her music and dance lessons at Kat’s request, as she had decided she preferred Damian as a partner over Grigori.

  A schedule began to solidify quickly: one day he would practice sword work in the morning before meeting with Kurakin to show his progress, get corrections, and learn new drills, followed by lunch with the Princess, dancing, and then time spent journaling, researching the gods in the castle’s library, or going on a run. The next day he’d sit in on the Princess’s lessons, do sword work with Kurakin, share lunch with her, practice dance with her, and spend his evening practicing his sword work. It was essentially the same things getting done; he just liked the variability in his routine.

  Mikhail checked in on Damian on the third day, and Damian kept expecting to hear the same sharp tone that had come out when he’d admonished the Princess, demanding to know who exactly Damian thought he was. But he was nothing but polite and bubbly, just as he had been before. It was slightly disturbing, expecting such an unassuming and frankly polite man to turn and snap his head off. Damian made a point of avoiding him when possible.

  The King followed up on his promise to speak with Damian on the fourth day, but it wasn’t nearly as interesting as Damian had expected. Mostly, he just thanked Damian again for speaking up on Kat’s behalf and asked how his training was going. Damian thought it was going well, and the King said Kurakin seemed to agree—though Kurakin hadn’t given Damian any indication of that. Sometimes Damian had a hard time getting a read on the King; he seemed extremely busy and distracted, even for a king. Or maybe that was just a symptom of being a [King], with all the responsibilities.

  In any event, the King had told Damian he wanted to speak with him after his [Priest] located some texts, and Damian had of course agreed. That was supposed to be today, which meant he was going to be missing dance practice with Kat. He wasn’t looking forward to telling her that. She didn’t exactly take well to not getting her way.

  As he did every morning when he attended Kat’s class, he waited outside the lounge for her to arrive, standing by the door next to the team of [Maids] who would be pampering her. Their classes were actually [Maid], which Damian learned was an extremely adaptable class. They had [Parlor Maids] and [Chamber Maids], and one of them even claimed to be a [Snack Maid], which had made Damian do a double take. He’d asked the [Snack Maid]—Lilia—why she’d taken such a niche class, and she explained it made her useful and irreplaceable.

  It was certainly a unique angle, and Lilia was more than willing to brag about her skills, such as [Crumb Free Delight], [A Perfect Bite], and [Free Snack]. Super specific, but in this case much wanted by Kat. Lilia explained she was confident she could always find work with a [Lord] or [Lady] who liked snacking and wanted to do it more without expanding their waistline or ruining their clothes. It made sense, but it still baffled Damian that she’d built her entire class and life around such a niche role.

  Today, Lilia slipped Damian a caramel wrapped in wax paper with a wink as he stepped into line with them. Kat arrived only a few minutes later, and everyone bowed to her, including Damian. Though his bow was slightly less deep than the rest. As she passed, she called out, “Come, Damian.”

  She’d grown more prone to using that specific phrase once she realized it got on Damian’s nerves. He was ignoring it and hoping she’d stop, but so far—no luck. As Kat settled into her seat, Damian stepped next to her and cleared his throat to get her attention.

  “I wanted to let you know I won’t be able to attend dance practice today. Your father asked to speak with me.”

  Damian caught the tiniest flicker of annoyance cross her face before she covered it with a smile. “Thanks for letting me know. You can make it up at the ball tonight.”

  The ball tonight. Damian had completely forgotten about the ball tonight. It was being held to give the suitors, whom Kat had been entertaining off and on for over a week now, a chance to see her in a more open social setting, and also to mix among themselves. Apparently, events like these were how nobles came to know each other, form friendships, and set up future politics.

  Nodding his understanding, Damian stepped away again as classes started. As usual, he tried to follow along but was mostly lost. He did, however, take the time to practice his own writing, and on occasion one of the tutors would come over to give him pointers. Never at the sacrifice of their time and attention for Kat, but there were three of them and one of her, after all.

  In no time at all, it was time for fencing and animals, and Damian thanked the tutors before leaving with Kat. Today, Kurakin was waiting for him when they arrived, which was slightly unusual. Normally he arrived a bit after Damian, giving him time to practice what they’d worked on last. Kat gave Damian a look that read as “good luck” before abandoning him for Severin. Which was fair enough—Damian would’ve preferred the wolf to Kurakin’s brooding presence too.

  Damian nodded at Kurakin. “Sir Kurakin.”

  The [Knight] tossed a side-sword at Damian, which he managed to catch by the handle without stabbing himself. “Let’s spar.”

  They hadn’t ever actually sparred before, just run drills and practiced attacks, blocks, and movement. In fact, Damian had only gotten a crash course in deflection and disengaging yesterday. Which, considering his stature, were quite important skills. As Kurakin had said, any blade you could dodge or deflect was better than a block.

  Settling into a ready stance, Damian led with his right foot and turned his body to present the smallest possible target to Kurakin. Kurakin’s own stance was much more relaxed, almost as though he was goading Damian with the gulf between them in strength and power. Without a word, Kurakin started advancing, and Damian began to backstep to maintain the distance.

  “You never said the goal of the spar,” Damian said quickly as he moved.

  Kurakin growled like an animal. “Strike me. Don’t be struck.”

  Simple enough. Knowing he was at a distinct disadvantage, Damian primed his [Instant Reaction] skill and muttered [Aspect of the Chosen] under his breath, asking for something that would give him a physical edge. He’d been offered half a dozen skills from it before, most of them Konrad’s drug-related skills, none of which would be helpful right now.

  >Temporary Skill [Lesser Strength] Granted!

  Damian felt his muscles flex with new strength as the power of the skill settled over him. Well, that was nearly a best-case scenario. He could certainly play this to his advantage. He hadn’t realized Konrad had [Lesser Strength]—or maybe Finn had gotten it? The only skill he knew for sure Finn had gained was [Blade of the Chosen]. [Aspect Of The Chosen] seemed willing to pull from either of them.

  Still, Kurakin’s advice echoed through his head: never assume you have an advantage.

  Refusing to be the first to engage, they spent nearly sixty seconds pacing around the edge of the courtyard. Kurakin was trying to catch him tripping on himself or messing up his footwork, but Damian hadn’t spent a week practicing walking for nothing. Eventually, Kurakin must’ve decided he passed whatever criteria he was judging by, because he lunged into an attack. Damian swatted the longsword aside before it buried itself in his stomach, not bothering to activate [Instant Reaction], and even considered going for a counterattack for a moment.

  It was a feint, and when Damian stepped backward he saw Kurakin twitch to the side, where he would’ve shoulder-checked Damian if he’d followed through. Good choice to back off. The [Knight] swung into another attack, and Damian leaned out of the way, the blade slicing nearer than was comfortable to his head. Their swords were genuinely sharp, and Damian had been cut before. One of the [Sparring Trainers] watching had the [Revert Training Damage] skill in the event of a major misstep, but for anything less than lethal they had healing potions on hand. Didn’t make it hurt any less before the wound stitched up.

  Kurakin pressed the attack, forcing Damian to backstep and deflect, and Damian made his first mistake when he deflected Kurakin’s strike on his left side upward by drawing his blade down. It allowed the [Knight] to slash at his right side from overhead without an easy defense. With a grimace, Damian activated [Instant Reaction] and maneuvered his blade into a deflection that set it ringing with the force of the blow. At least with his temporary [Lesser Strength], his arms weren’t going numb.

  But the [Knight] was relentless, pressing forward and not giving Damian a single second to recover or breathe. His first curveball came when Kurakin barked his first skill of the spar: “[Strike Again]!”

  Damian nearly missed the attack that came identically to the first just moments later, forced into a block that almost shoved his own sword sharp-side-first into the palm of his free hand. At the last second he twisted it and braced the flat with his palm, jamming his elbow hard enough to make him wince. Kurakin pushed him back another three steps before using his second skill.

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  “[Flurry of Blows].”

  Damian’s jaw clenched as he navigated his sword through a dizzying series of movements, forced to block a dozen attacks that came almost immediately after one another. It felt like drawing his blade through the air to meet the gray blur of Kurakin’s assault. A flower of silvery steel bloomed around him as he turned the razor-sharp petals away—and he threw himself backward to avoid the last strike before it bit deep into his thigh without his sword there to stop it.

  Refusing to stop his relentless assault, Kurakin practically jumped after him, growling as he swung in a wide sweep it would be impossible to dodge or deflect with Damian’s stance not yet set. “[Heavy Swing].”

  “[Flicker Dodge],” Damian muttered, blinking out of existence and reappearing on the other side of the sword, having repositioned by about a single large step. He’d once seen a duelist in a tavern use the skill to flicker halfway across the room, but they were certainly a higher level than he was.

  In the instant after he repositioned, he noticed Kurakin’s eyes go wide as the man followed through with his swing, unable to change course so suddenly. Damian lunged in with his sword aimed for the [Knight’s] armpit. Right before it made contact, Kurakin suddenly spun, his sword somehow interposing itself between him and Damian’s blade as if it had teleported there. Damian’s sword swung wide as it was swatted aside, and Kurakin’s gauntleted hand clamped down on Damian’s shoulder, trying to force him to his knees.

  With his new strength, Damian resisted the knee-buckling weight the [Knight] pressed down on him and grabbed at his arm, leaning back and pulling with all his weight while hooking a foot behind Kurakin’s ankle. To Damian’s surprise, it worked, and Kurakin toppled over with a crash. For a moment he was too stunned to react, but then he quickly brought his sword around to point it at Kurakin. The [Knight] caught the blade in his gauntlet, and in a movement almost too fast for Damian to follow, his longsword was at Damian’s neck.

  Damian froze, feeling a trickle of warm blood run down his neck. A moment later, Kurakin pulled his blade away, and Damian offered him a hand up. Kurakin took it, and Damian hauled—relishing how much lighter the armored [Knight] felt.

  “Quickly, try your skills again,” Kurakin commanded. “You can feel how long they’re on cooldown.”

  Doing as he was told, Damian cycled through [Flicker Dodge], [Instant Reaction], and [Aspect of the Chosen]. As it turned out, the first two felt like they’d be reusable in just a few minutes, but [Aspect of the Chosen] felt out of reach for at least the rest of the day. The specifics were hard to nail down, but he could feel it like a growing tenseness. While he figured that out, Kurakin furrowed his brow at him.

  “What?” Damian asked.

  “You’ve been holding out on me. Those were two good combat skills—and a togglable strength skill? Had I known, I would’ve trained you to best use them.”

  Even from a young age, Damian had been taught, by experience more than anything else, that most people liked to keep their skills private. That way, nobody could know exactly what you could do. Even the Bekham [Baker] had kept his skills close to the chest. Damian shrugged at his mentor. “I don’t share my skills with anyone.”

  “Not just anyone is teaching you swordplay, boy,” Kurakin countered, and Damian blushed. “What’s that strength skill?”

  “Just [Lesser Strength],” Damian half-lied.

  Kurakin gave him an intense stare.

  “Okay—it’s a skill that gave me [Lesser Strength] temporarily,” Damian relented.

  The [Knight] was silent for a moment before grunting. “Why not just have [Lesser Strength], then? There must be more to the skill.”

  Being questioned about his skills made Damian pointedly uncomfortable, but he could understand Kurakin’s interest. “It can give me many skills from a pool I’m still exploring.”

  That earned a significantly more inquisitive grunt from Kurakin. “That’s a powerful skill. How long do the temporary skills last? What’s the cooldown?”

  “Er, I don’t know how long they last,” Damian admitted. “Usually one use. I can’t tell how long [Lesser Strength] will last. My skill is done for the day, though.”

  “Hrm. It’s a good skill. But you should never learn to rely on skills that have a cooldown. As you level, the cooldowns will reduce until they don’t have one. [Heavy Swing] has an effective cooldown of thirty seconds for me. It makes it a versatile tool in my swordplay.”

  Damian nodded in understanding. Kurakin grunted again, stepping back and dropping into a ready stance. “We go again—this time, no skills from either of us.”

  Needless to say, Damian got thrashed for the rest of training. His skills didn’t come off cooldown fast enough to use every spar, and Kurakin didn’t always do him the favor of refraining from using his own in return. [Lesser Strength] lasted most of the session, though, and after it faded Damian deeply missed the advantage it had provided. By the time they were done, his clothes were cut in multiple places, and he was covered in bruises he sent away with a sip of a healing potion. He always felt bad ruining the fancy clothes, but Kurakin insisted he practice in what he might actually be made to fight in, which was why he trained in armor.

  Meeting the [Tailor] was high on Damian’s wish list, but if he was handling this much damage for multiple people, Damian understood why he was high level.

  By now Damian was quite good with his manners, but even he rushed through lunch, not wanting to be late for the King. Kat rolled her eyes at him as he stuffed his face with rolls and extremely tender beef roast. As soon as he was done, he stood and bowed to Kat, who shooed him away, and he made his way to the library. Damian had never been in a library before arriving in Raya; he hadn’t even known what the word meant, but he’d been going regularly for the last week to do research.

  Damian liked it very much. He hadn’t read much, but he always liked how personal books felt—like he was sharing a secret with someone who could be a thousand miles away or long dead. The mage lights and musty smell made for a gentle atmosphere Damian hadn’t experienced anywhere else. It made sense to him that this many books existed, considering how the world kept getting bigger in every direction he went, but he hadn’t imagined you could gather so many in one spot. They covered every wall of the library, which was twice as large as his rooms and two stories tall!

  But he didn’t have long to wonder at the books before the King arrived. Damian bowed low, and the King scoffed at him. “Please stand, Damian. It’s just the two of us, after all.”

  Doing as he was bid, Damian saw the King was in slightly more casual clothes than usual; a simple, well-fitted tunic and breeches, with the only truly kingly pieces being his one-shoulder cape and silver crown. He was also carrying a small book bound in simple, undyed leather. Many of the books in the library had fancy covers, made out of leather or materials Damian didn’t recognize, in bright colors and sometimes with gold lettering.

  “You wanted to speak about your daughter?” Damian said, not exactly sure what Morozov had in mind.

  His face brightened and then dimmed in rapid succession before he sighed, pulling out a chair at the table in the center of the room and taking a seat. Damian quickly sat around the corner of the table from him. “My personal [Priest], Luka, has been traveling around the Kingdom and covertly inquiring among his contemporaries about [Chosen Ones] and history. We’ve uncovered a few texts that hinted and cast long shadows, but this... this one is more clear. May I show you?”

  Damian nodded, and the King opened the book. Within moments, Damian realized it was properly old. The pages were yellowed and slightly brittle, and the King handled them with an especially gentle hand. He passed a bunch of pages that looked like verses and stories, then lineages and genealogies, before finally settling on a passage beneath a piece of art depicting a woman with a spear and an angry expression. Scanning through the text, Damian picked out the words one by one, and the picture they painted made him nauseous.

  “Do you need me to read it to you?” the King asked, and Damian appreciated the lack of judgment in his tone.

  “No, your majesty,” Damian whispered. “Though I may be slow.”

  The King chuckled. “You know, under your shy exterior, there is the tiniest spot of pride.”

  Damian blushed but remained quiet as he kept reading.

  “Essentially, this book paints [Chosen] as victims of a class forcing them to forsake divinity—acting as an extension of primordial evil,” the King summarized. “Tell me, Damian, have you ever heard of a curse class or skill?”

  “No, your majesty.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. Bekham seemed like a good place with good people,” Morozov said, setting Damian’s heart aflutter at the reminder of home. “It’s a class that cannot be denied and is usually assigned to a person after they commit a grave sin. I’ve seen [Cowards] and [Slavers] and... worse. This book claims the [Chosen One] class is a cursed class—that it’s an extension of the primordial unmaker reaching through the Great Game. But obviously... it isn’t. Katarina doesn’t have a curse class.”

  “Er... hold on,” Damian said, still stuck on something the King had said a moment before. “What’s the primordial evil?”

  The King paused, blinking at Damian before barking a laugh. “I forgot you didn’t grow up particularly religious. Well, most churches believe the gods exist to govern and guard our world, yes? Thus, it stands to reason there is something they are governing and guarding against. Some think it’s the opposite of the Great Game; others claim there must be evil counterparts to the gods. There exist ancient—truly ancient—texts that reference gods who are no longer worshiped, which suggests there used to be more gods until...”

  “Something killed them,” Damian finished the thought. One of his hands balled into a fist at the idea of a god dying. If a god could be killed by something, then they could die. It meant his quest wasn’t impossible. He just needed to find what had slain the old gods.

  “In any case,” the King continued, “this text goes on and on about how the [Chosen One] is the greatest curse of all the curse classes, sort of an evil reflection of a [Saint]. But it mentions something that confirms a suspicion I’ve had for some time now.”

  Damian looked up from the text to the King, then right back down when the man pointed.

  “It says here the [Chosen One] ‘cloaks themselves from the all-seeing eye of divinity in a fell [Aura],’ which implies that—”

  “An [Aura] can block whatever the gods are using to sense the [Chosen Ones],” Damian finished for him.

  The King nodded. “Indeed. I can’t explain it to you, I’m afraid. It’s like explaining sight to a blind man. But I can feel the influence of other auras around me, and I’ve always felt something in holy places—like the fringes of an [Aura] so vast and distant it’s hard to even feel what it is.”

  After thinking about it for a moment, Damian crossed his arms in front of his chest and frowned. “Sounds like it makes [Sense Divinity] redundant.”

  “Hah!” Morozov laughed. “Hardly. Your skill seems significantly more tuned in than my [Aura]. And I suspect it would cut through trickery and concealment better than an aura.”

  That did actually make Damian feel a bit better.

  “In any case, I’ve been confining my daughter to the keep because here my [Aura] is strongest, and the stones here are host to ancient spellwork made to turn prying eyes. It seems my hunch was accurate,” the King said, stroking his beard. “What do you make of all this?”

  “I think... I need an [Aura].” Damian paused, his eyes flicking back to the woman on the page with a spear and murder in her eyes. Then he hastily added, “Your majesty.”