—Amelia Rax Cleef—

  Amelia moved through the narrow streets as though the port city itself parted for her.

  The cobblestones were slick and uneven beneath hurried feet, yet she walked with measured grace. Her long silver hair was braided neatly down her back, the strands bound tight and clean. It was in stark contrast to the chaos around her as the city had housed ten times as many residents as usual. Slender feathers of white steel had been woven delicately through the braid, catching the light when she passed beneath open balconies or between hanging lanterns. The armor she wore was simple and well-fitted leather. It was practical and unadorned, but it only made her presence more striking. She did not need ornaments to command attention.

  Beside her trudged a short, broad man with a bristling red beard and a nose that seemed to have been broken at least once in his life. His expression carried the permanent scowl of someone who had seen too many things go wrong and had no patience left for surprises.

  The city no longer resembled the confident port Amelia had known.

  Refugees clogged the streets, dragging crates, bundles of clothing, and whatever heirlooms they had thought worth saving.

  It wasn’t the presence of new sounds that unsettled her, but the absence of the old ones.

  The harbor had always been alive with a constant chorus of wood straining against rope, hulls knocking gently against docks, sails snapping in the salt wind.

  Now there was nothing.

  Because the ships were gone.

  Every vessel capable of bearing sail had been sent out across the sea on missions deemed too important to delay.

  And with them, most of the city’s strongest remaining fighters.

  Amelia suppressed a sigh.

  There truly were no handsome men left in this city.

  “Damn orcs will have us completely cut off within the hour,” the red-bearded man muttered, spitting to one side as they passed a cluster of trembling villagers.

  “It shouldn’t matter,” Amelia replied evenly. “Elric and the others will return by ship. The docks remain open.”

  A few refugees looked up as the pair approached. Recognition dawned, and they bowed quickly with hurried gestures of respect.

  “Don’t leave your junk blocking this street!” the man barked suddenly, voice booming across the stone. “We’ll need these alleys clear to move reinforcements once the siege begins!”

  “Y-yes, Lord Commander!” a dirt-streaked man stammered, bowing again before turning to shout at his family to move the crates.

  When they had passed out of earshot, Amelia cast him a sideways glance.

  “You’re crankier than usual,” she said lightly. “Nervous, Darryl?”

  He huffed. “It’s Lord Commander,” he corrected sharply. Then, more quietly, “And yes. We should all be nervous. This is unprecedented in the history of EverGreen.”

  They crossed an intersection just as a column of fresh-faced soldiers marched toward the walls. Their armor gleamed, barely scuffed. Their movements were tight with discipline but untested by real blood.

  “You really think a horde of orcs can crack a city that’s stood for generations?” Amelia asked. “We may not have needed to defend it often, but it is still a fortress.”

  “There are too many of them,” he replied, not looking at her. “It’s obvious now. They’ve been holding back in prior cycles. Building numbers and preparing for this.”

  Amelia shrugged. “Fewer recruits on the mainland means fewer for them as well. The scales balance.”

  “Bah.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Quantity means nothing. Quality wins. You know that.”

  She inclined her head slightly, but said nothing more.

  They turned into a wider courtyard near the inner keep, where noise rolled outward in waves of shouts, metal striking metal, and boots grinding against stone. The space had been converted into a training ground, racks of weapons lining the edges and trainees sparring in tight circles.

  As Amelia and the Lord Commander entered, the nearest recruits parted instinctively. Several snapped into salute. The Lord Commander waved them off impatiently.

  At the center of the courtyard, two figures squared off while the others formed a rough ring around them.

  The Lord Commander leaned closer to Amelia, voice lowered. “I’ve stood this post through more cycles than I care to count,” he murmured. “I have never seen it this bad.”

  “We lost most of the inner warp groups,” Amelia said quietly.

  “Not just that,” he replied, jaw tightening. “They never enter EverGreen this early. These warpers are under-leveled.”

  Amelia felt irritation flicker beneath her composed exterior. The old commander’s gloom clung like a heavy fog.

  “The inners we still have are among the most elite,” she said coolly. “The best families. The best training.”

  He chuckled under his breath.

  “Interesting,” he said, rubbing at his beard thoughtfully. “Now it makes sense.”

  “What does?” She asked, narrowing her eyes.

  He looked toward the distant smoke beyond the walls. “The orcs,” he said slowly. “They’re smarter than I gave them credit for.”

  Amelia was about to press him further when a booming voice cut across the courtyard.

  “Let’s get the first match started!”

  The murmur of the trainees shifted instantly. Those sparring at the edges broke apart, wiping sweat from their brows, and drifted toward the center. The loose ring tightened and anticipation rippled through the crowd.

  “Come,” the old commander muttered, already turning away. “We don’t have time to—”

  Amelia lifted a hand.

  “No,” she said lightly. “Let’s stay.”

  He glanced at her, incredulous.

  She tilted her head, silver braid sliding over one shoulder, eyes scanning the gathered fighters with open appraisal.

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  “I want to see if there are any handsome men here.”

  —

  The commander only shook his head and folded his arms across his broad chest, though Amelia could see the faint tightening at the corner of his mouth. He enjoyed a good fight as much as anyone, perhaps more, but pride demanded he pretend otherwise.

  Amelia allowed herself a small smile.

  The first pair stepped into the circle.

  One of them she recognized immediately—Andross, one of the younger men from her own warp group. Dark hair, sharp green eyes, posture stiff. She had never cared for him. Too reliant on his pedigree.

  Word had traveled quickly through the keep after Elric chose his expedition party. Andross had expected to be among them. Expected it, as if the world itself ought to align with his family name. That two of the chosen had been fifth worlders had only deepened the insult.

  Tony Baha. The cheerful older man with the easy grin.

  Not to mention the overly serious woman with the legs carved from granite. Was it Tanya? Amelia was terrible with names. Especially female ones.

  Andross had taken it personally.

  Amelia’s gaze shifted to his opponent, and her smile deepened.

  The blond fifth worlder.

  Lanky, loose-limbed, with a fighter’s restlessness in his stance. She had seen him move before. A stealth fighter.

  Yes, she thought. This would be interesting.

  With a subtle flicker of thought, she activated [Inspect].

  [Level 14].

  [Level 14].

  Both of them.

  Her expression cooled slightly.

  Darryl is right. Too low.

  Training alone was a slow road to strength. Without real combat, without risk, advancement crawled. And now the orcs encircled the city, cutting off the very danger that might have forged these boys into higher levels.

  The bald trainer stepped forward, raised his hand, and brought it down sharply.

  “Fight!”

  Amelia leaned forward just slightly, interest sharpening.

  Andross moved first.

  Lightning flared faintly around his limbs as he launched into a clean, disciplined combination with each motion precise and each transition efficient. His lightning style favored speed and chaining momentum, building pressure until the opponent drowned under it.

  But the fifth worlder did not drown.

  He slid sideways, each strike missing him by a hair’s breadth. They were clean, fractional adjustments, as if he were stepping between raindrops.

  “How did he—” the old commander muttered beside her.

  Amelia narrowed her eyes, then grinned.

  “It’s a form of ghost stepping,” she said softly.

  “Ah.”

  The blond boy wasn’t holding the skill fully active. He was flickering it—engaging and disengaging in razor-thin intervals, just enough to blur his positioning without committing the mana cost of a full activation. The effect was subtle, almost invisible unless one knew what to look for.

  It was creative, efficient, and extremely annoying.

  Andross accelerated, lightning crackling brighter as he tried to overwhelm the shifting target. His combinations lengthened and grew more aggressive. Yet the more he pressed, the more elusive the fifth worlder became, slipping out of reach at the final instant.

  “The lad hasn’t thrown a single attack,” the commander observed.

  “He doesn’t need to,” Amelia replied. “He’s making Andross think every strike is about to land. Keeps him chasing as if the next one will end the fight.”

  They watched as Andross kept increasing the intensity all the while becoming more desperate.

  “He’s getting tired,” Amelia said.

  The commander gave a low chuckle. “Then the second half won’t be pleasant.”

  As if summoned by the prediction, the rhythm broke.

  The blond boy moved first this time.

  Shadows flickered around him as he stepped inside Andross’s guard. Punches snapped out with feints and real ones. The real ones landed with sharp precision. At first, body shots. And then, a clean shot to the jaw.

  Andross stumbled.

  Now the fifth worlder pressed forward. He was no longer evasive but predatory. Shadowed strikes came from awkward angles, and Andross blocked two or three, but then missed the fourth.

  Amelia’s smile faded slightly.

  There was something in the blond boy’s eyes now. Not just confidence.

  Resentment.

  The kind that festered quietly beneath slights. The kind that wanted to prove something, not just win.

  “Yield, Andross,” he said, breath steady, a faint grin tugging at his mouth.

  There was nothing merciful in the offer.

  The word was delivered politely, but anyone watching could see it for what it was.

  Salt pressed into an open wound.

  Amelia followed his gaze for a split second. He looked toward an older blond man at the edge of the circle who gave him faint shake of his head.

  The warning went ignored, as the fifth worlder advanced.

  Andross wiped blood and sweat from his eyes, green gaze burning with fury.

  “I will never yield to fifth world filth,” he spat, red flecking the dust between them.

  A hush fell over the circle.

  The blond boy’s smile thinned.

  “Then I’ll make you.”

  “That’s enough!” the bald trainer barked, striding forward, heat practically radiating from him.

  “He hasn’t yielded,” the blond boy replied evenly. “Those are the rules.”

  The old commander beside Amelia exhaled sharply through his nose.

  “What a fool,” he muttered.

  Amelia pressed her lips together and gave a small, knowing shake of her head.

  “That’s men for you,” she murmured dryly.

  “Back up! This fight is over!” the bald trainer barked, his voice cracking across the courtyard like a whip.

  The blond fifth worlder hesitated only a heartbeat before stepping back, tension still coiled in his shoulders. He began to turn away—

  “This isn’t over, filth,” Andross spat through split lips. “I know about your second world wench, you’d both do well to remember your place.”

  The threat hung in the air.

  The blond boy pivoted instantly, fury flashing across his face as he surged forward again.

  But the big trainer moved first.

  The bald man crossed the distance in two brutal strides, seized the boy mid-lunge, and slammed him into the stone with bone-jarring force. The impact echoed through the courtyard, dust leaping from the ground.

  “Damn fool,” the old lord commander muttered beside Amelia. “Should you—?”

  He glanced at her.

  She gave the faintest shake of her head.

  “I’m already on thin ice,” she said quietly. “I can’t afford another powerful family coming after me.”

  Below them, the trainer loomed over the fallen boy, chest heaving.

  “I tried patience,” he snarled, voice thick with anger. “And you refused to learn your place.”

  He stepped back, jaw tightening.

  “Now,” he said, “The stick.”

  His boot came down.

  The first kick was heavy enough to lift the boy’s body off the ground. The second drew a strangled cry. Gasps rippled through the circle. Some trainees nodded grimly, as though discipline were being properly administered. Others looked away, unwilling to watch.

  The kicks did not soften.

  The blond boy’s cries turned ragged. Blood streaked the pale stone.

  Amelia’s gaze shifted briefly to Andross. The dark-haired youth watched with something dangerously close to satisfaction glinting in his green eyes.

  Her stomach tightened.

  This had gone too far.

  She exhaled slowly and stepped forward despite herself.

  No one else was moving.

  The trainer lifted his foot again—

  —and a violent rush of air tore across the courtyard.

  A thunderous whoosh split the space between one heartbeat and the next. Dust spiraled upward in a sudden gust, cloaks snapping, trainees stumbling as the air pressure shifted unnaturally.

  Silence followed.

  Every head turned.

  Through the settling haze, a shape emerged.

  Tall and broad.

  As the smoke thinned, the figure resolved into a man unlike any in the courtyard.

  Heavy boots planted in the stone. Camo trousers dusted from travel. A long spiderweave coat stirred in the wind like a banner of war. Long, unruly blond hair spilled around a bold bandana of red, white, and blue with stars and stripes wrapped across his brow and, most strangely, across his eyes.

  He carried an enormous, jagged black blade resting casually against one shoulder.

  With his other hand, he held the trainer’s raised arm.

  The bald man who moments ago had commanded the courtyard with absolute authority stared up at him as though confronted by something not entirely mortal.

  Amelia’s breath caught.

  She triggered [Inspect].

  [Level: ?]

  Her pulse quickened.

  Higher than her?

  On the ground, the blond fifth worlder blinked up through blood and dust. Relief flooded his face so intensely that it bordered on disbelief.

  “W-what took you so long?” he rasped.

  The large man’s mouth curved into a wicked grin.

  “Couldn’t think of a badass one-liner,” he said casually.

  Amelia could not believe her eyes.

  Her heart was hammering.

  Power radiated from him in uneven waves, no more contained than a storm on the horizon.

  “He’s beautiful,” she breathed under her breath, eyes fixed on the blindfolded stranger who had just silenced an entire courtyard with nothing more than his presence.