Grits swung a flurry of blows at Lilieth, who was parrying every single strike. Her arms felt numb—but she could still keep going. The half-highlander, perhaps having noticed that she was getting used to it, sped up his strikes, swinging at angles more difficult to intercept. It was a subtle increase in speed, but it was just enough to push her without getting overwhelmed.

  It had already been a few days since the wyvern attack. Most of Lilieth’s injuries had healed, and she jumped straight back into training. Employing her perfect memory, Spearman had the young mage memorize various different sword arts, each one a unique style with different specializations. She had trained exclusively with a wooden shortsword before, but now, she was switched over to a longsword to learn styles that benefited more from the longer reach.

  A wider-arced swing came at Lilieth, and she jumped over the blade, landing behind Grits. She swung in return, but the half-highlander was quick to twist his body, narrowly dodging the strike. Another flurry of attacks was thrown at Lilieth. With balance off and timing misread, it took one strike to knock her blade out of her hands.

  “Enough,” Spearman said listlessly. “It’s zankaluze’s victory.”

  “I still have no idea what that word means, Master,” Grits said, sheathing his wooden sword.

  “I’m calling you a tall piece of shit. Take a short break. I’m off to get coffee.” The Basandran man stood up and walked deep into the forest. If experience was any mentor, Lilieth could reliably expect him to be back before she knew it. How did he always get to his house so quickly? Was he a Lunemage opening a portal back home? Or perhaps a Martialmage who could increase his own speed?

  “I’m jealous of how quickly you learn, Lilieth.” There was a wide toothy grin on Grits’ face. “In only a few days, you’ve already learned—what—seven different sword arts?”

  “I’m just relying on my memory,” Lilieth said. “It’s nothing special.”

  “Don’t say that. It’s impressive! Wouldn’t you agree, Sibeiya?”

  To the side, Sibeiya was leaning against a tree, watching them train. She never did so prior, but now, she was showing up whenever Lilieth trained with Grits and Albus. For some reason, the two of them were still banned from sparring with each other, not to engage with one another outside of a formal duel. They already told Spearman that they wouldn’t be doing the duels anymore, but he didn’t budge.

  “The rules were clear. The agreement holds until the end of the Relic Festival. You can twiddle your thumbs while you wait, but you will wait.”

  Those were his exact words. So, unable to even spar against each other, Sibeiya was relegated to being an observer in every other training session.

  “Her movements suck,” Sibeiya answered Grits. “She needs more speed.”

  “Are you just going to be complaining?” Lilieth said. “Do you not have something better to do with your time?”

  The desert girl shrugged but didn’t leave.

  “At this rate, you’ll master the sword before the month is even over,” Grits continued, scratching the back of his head. “Then, you’ll move on to spear training, axe training, dagger training ...”

  Lilieth froze. Was that her training plan?

  “Why is he making me learn so many combat styles and weapons?” There was a shudder in Lilieth’s voice. “Did he make you go through the same thing?”

  “Oh, no. He teaches whatever training style he believes fits his students best. For me, it’s longswords and battle-axes. For Sibeiya over there, it’s spears, swords, and knuckledusters—well, hand-to-hand combat, really. For Albus, it was—”

  “Dual swords!” the white-haired man suddenly appeared behind them, causing Lilieth to jump. “Also dual tonfas and dual daggers. Basically, anything that can be dual wielded, he trained me in it. I feel I can fight at my best when I have a weapon in both hands, you feel me?”

  “You need to stop doing that, Albus!” Grits said, sounding frustrated. It looked like he was frightened, too. “How long have you been here?”

  Albus smiled. “The entire time.”

  “He just showed up,” Sibeiya said as she approached the group. “Saw him.”

  “Well, that’s no fun! Why’d you tell them?”

  “Quiet down, old man.”

  “Tch. Young people nowadays ...”

  “Come on, you two. Be nice,” Grits said, smiling warmly.

  Lilieth remembered when the wyverns attacked and Grits seemed like a different person entirely. The way he tore through those beasts, screaming like a madman, and relishing every second—it was a far cry from the gentle person he usually was.

  It didn’t feel to her like some kind of battle high. It felt like pure, unfiltered rage coming from him ... towards the wyverns?

  “I’ve been meaning to ask, Sir Grits,” Lilieth started. “Do you hate wyverns?”

  For just a fraction of a moment, the gentle smile on his face wavered. Even Sibeiya tensed up, and Albus looked both surprised and amused for whatever reason. After a pause, Grits spoke.

  “Are you asking because of how I acted during the attack?”

  The young mage nodded.

  “I guess I never did tell you the reason I’m training under Master Spearman.” He took a deep breath. “There’s someone I want to kill.”

  Lilieth felt herself flinch.

  “It happened a long time ago, but I can still remember it as if it happened yesterday,” Grits continued. “Have you ever heard of ‘Deathberry’?”

  “I haven’t.”

  “You know that the color of a wyvern’s hide determines how powerful it is, right? Red wyverns are the weakest, followed by green wyverns, then blue, purple, yellow, and finally white. But, every so often, a herd of black wyverns appear and cause untold destruction.”

  Lilieth shivered. “Blackbeasts ...”

  The world was teeming with spellbeasts—creatures capable of using magic. Due to overexposure to mana, however, some spellbeasts end up mutating, their skin turning pitch black and their eyes a glowing red. They were known as Blackbeasts, and though they were rare, a sighting was almost always accompanied by disaster.

  “There’s a certain urban legend that made the rounds a few years back,” the tale went on. “Like all wyverns, black ones traveled in packs. Sightings were extremely rare, of course, since very few who ever saw black wyverns could live to tell the tale. But those who did all mentioned seeing the same thing: a child with blue hair accompanying the flock.”

  “A child with blue hair?” Sibeiya asked.

  “Strange, right? I’d never have believed it if I didn’t see it for myself.”

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  “So, you mean ...”

  Grits nodded. “Back when I worked as an adventurer, the city I was staying in was attacked by a flock of black wyverns. That’s when I saw him—The Deathberry.” He clenched his fists. “He appeared amidst the chaos, murdered my entire party in front of me, then left. And all the wyverns followed him as if he was their master. He had to be controlling those wyverns somehow.”

  “What about that lady who attacked us?” Sibeiya said. “She could control wyverns.”

  “Red wyverns. To control a Blackbeast is another thing entirely.”

  Lilieth found herself caressing her chest. When she closed her eyes, she could still feel that blade ripping through her. “So, you’re training in order to one day find and kill Deathberry?”

  “That’s right. Not exactly the most noble of reasons, I know.”

  Had it been the Lilieth of the past, she’d have agreed. But she didn’t have any right to judge the nobility of his cause now with how similar their goals were.

  “Who cares how noble your reasons are?” Sibeiya said, arms crossed. “That Deathberry guy sounds like he deserves it, yeah? Let him have what’s coming to him.”

  Lilieth glanced at Sibeiya out of the corner of her eye. She said it so easily. No hesitation, no second-guessing—there was something about that certainty that compelled the young mage.

  Though she’d never admit it to Sibeiya, Lilieth hoped she could be like that someday.

  “Doesn’t seem clean. No nobility in revenge,” Grits said. “At least, not to me.”

  “Isn’t that good enough?” the desert girl replied. “Better than swinging around a sword and pretending to be some champion of justice or whatever.”

  Albus hummed in agreement. “Revenge isn’t clean and pretty, but it is honest.”

  Grits sighed. “Alright then, what about you two? I’m training to hunt down an urban legend, and Sibeiya is training to, uh ... what was it again?”

  “Get stronger,” Sibeiya answered. “Just that.”

  “Just that?”

  “Just that.” She shrugged. “Don’t really see the need for some other, grander reason. No excuse for being weak.”

  “Alright then. Just that. So? What are your reasons?” Grits looked at Albus and Lilieth.

  Albus spoke first, running a hand through his white hair. “For me, I believe fighting is an art form. A beautiful skill to be learned and appreciated. To that end, Guillem is a genuine master of his craft.”

  “An art form, huh?” Grits scratched his chin. “A few years ago, I’d have rolled my eyes, but after learning so many sword forms, I guess I can see it. What about you, Lilieth? Master Spearman never told me what your reasons were.”

  “I ...” Lilieth looked away. “It’s not an important reason.”

  “As if,” Sibeiya said. “You only went to Master Spearman after you heard that Kastrionis guy’s speech. It’s for sure connected to that, yeah? Is it about Zusa? You came from there, after all.”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  The desert girl frowned and furrowed her brows. “What do you mean it’s ... argh, fine. Whatever. Have it your way.”

  She crossed her arms and looked away, clicking her tongue. Lilieth almost did the same thing. She had no reason to tell anyone here about what happened to her though.

  She wasn’t here to make friends.

  “Now, now, you two. Play nice. You were getting along so well recently.”

  “As if! Says who?!”

  “I’d prefer if you didn’t make such tasteless jokes, Sir Grits.”

  “Yeah, Grits. How dare you?”

  “Why am I suddenly the bad guy? And why is Albus joining in?”

  “What are you all, a circus?” Spearman’s voice grabbed their attention. He was already sitting back on the tree stump, a mug of coffee in hand. “Half expecting a rainbow to show up with the mood here. Ridiculous.”

  “You’re back, Master,” Grits said. “What’s next on training?”

  Spearman took a long sip then stood up. “Fun is next.”

  “Oh Gods,” Grits whispered. Even Sibeiya tensed.

  “You three, weapons at the ready. We’ll play a little game. You all try to land a hit on me within one minute.” Spearman pointed at Lilieth. “Neskatxo, you stand over there.”

  Lilieth frowned. “And do what?”

  “Watch. Memorize. That’s what you do best, is it not?”

  “Why am I not allowed to participate?”

  “Like I said before, the two of us will not spar against each other.”

  “Why not?”

  “None of your business. Now, shoo.”

  Lilieth wanted to complain further but chose to follow his orders, standing next to a tree at the edge of the clearing. The three other students began to take stances with their respective weapons: a longsword for Grits, a spear for Sibeiya, and two swords for Albus. Spearman, on the other hand, didn’t have anything except for his mug of coffee.

  “The Relic Festival is fast approaching,” the Basandran started. “And all of you are set to graduate from my class. Before then, I’d like to see how far you’ve all come. The timer starts now.”

  Sibeiya moved in first, lunging with her spear. Her master stepped to the side smoothly, eyes closed, and extended a foot to trip Sibeiya. The desert girl rolled across the ground.

  Grits strode in next, accompanied by Albus. The two flanked Spearman, showering him with a torrent of attacks from all sides with their three blades in an attempt to corner the Basandran. Yet, Spearman moved gracefully, dodging every strike without even spilling a single drop of his coffee. He slapped away Grits’ wrist, and the half-highlander’s blade ended up catching against Albus’ own. With a single kick from Spearman, Albus and Grits went flying through the air with a frightening crack.

  Sibeiya lunged again from behind, hoping to catch Spearman off guard. The man turned, grabbing her arm and throwing her at the two men who were trying to stand back up.

  “Sibeiya, too slow! Grits, too predictable! Albus, take this seriously!”

  “I am though?!”

  All three students rushed their master, completely surrounding him and throwing attack after attack. Lilieth watched, in awe of their sheer speed, skill, and coordination ... and strangely, she felt an urge to jump in and join the fight. Her body shivered with excitement, remembering the heat it would feel whenever she traded blows with someone and wishing she could feel it in that moment.

  Spearman dodged every single swing that came his way, even taking the time to drink his coffee in the middle of it all. Every now and then, he would throw a jab with his free arm towards one of the three, hitting their torsos or arms. Each blow was accompanied by a powerful sound. Still, not one dropped their weapon.

  Lilieth thought she knew what strength looked like. She followed heroes around for over two years, and she’s seen what they were capable of.

  Yet, somehow, Guillem Spearman made combat look effortless on a level she didn’t know was possible.

  “Time’s up.”

  There was a flash, and the three students were blown back by Spearman’s lightning-fast kicks. They skidded across the ground, kicking up dirt in their wake. Their groaning layered as they unsteadily stood back up, as if using all their remaining willpower to stay on their feet—with the exception of Albus, who remained face-down.

  “Subpar,” Spearman scoffed, “but good enough for the festival. Albus, take things seriously.”

  “Again, why am I being called out?” Albus replied, his voice muffled against the soil.

  Spearman finished the last of his coffee before turning to Lilieth. “If you want to achieve your goals, neskatxo, you better hope you learn to fight better than these three.”

  Lilieth gave a slow nod, realizing how daunting of a task that was. “So, was that the lesson you wanted to give me today?”

  Spearman stared at her, brows furrowed. “What lesson? I just wanted to let off steam.”

  Behind him, both Grits and Sibeiya fell back to the ground.

  Lyanne stared up at the moons lighting the night sky. She sat on a large boulder somewhere deep in the mountains near Artemest. There was a time in the past when staring up at the gradient sky calmed her down, but with how her life was as of late, it was hard to feel relief about anything.

  She heard footsteps approaching, and a hooded figure emerged from the forest that surrounded her.

  “You assured me that it would be no problem,” the figure spoke, their voice warbled by some strange magic device. “Yet the girl lives still. Care to explain?”

  “I think I’m the one owed an explanation, dearie,” Lyanne spat back. “You said you could distract Valery Kastrionis. It was barely a few minutes before he showed up. What gives?”

  “A few minutes should have been enough,” they replied. “Your target is a little girl.”

  “She had bodyguards.”

  “You forget that with the Relic Festival so close at hand, the city is teeming with fighters of all kinds? Did you think that sending a small flock of red wyverns would have been sufficient? You take Artemest too lightly, Flockmother. Besides, you ask too much of me. When the city is in danger, it never takes long for Valery Kastrionis to act.”

  Lyanne clicked her tongue. “So? What now? Come to take back your money?”

  “Hardly. It’s too soon to call it quits. You have one more chance, Flockmother, and I suggest you don’t hold back this time. Send your entire flock.”

  The Flockmother glared at the figure. “I lost most of my reds in that one attack. You think I’m willing to lose more?”

  “Do you wish to receive the rest of the payment?” The figure asked. “If so, then do as I command—your entire flock. I shall do my best to distract Valery Kastrionis for longer this time but only under those conditions.”

  Lyanne stared at the hooded figure, at that empty darkness where their eyes should be. It was a tough sell. Raising a flock was difficult, especially if you weren’t a Familiarmage. Yet, Lyanne had fallen on hard times, and the money her employer was offering was nothing short of generational wealth. She only needed to do this one job, and she’d be set for life.

  She sighed. “Fine. I’ll send all my babies.”

  The figure nodded. “Very good. In fact, I’ll make things easier for you. I’ll set it up so that even doing your job won’t be so daunting. Surely you won’t have any reason to complain?”

  “I’ll start complaining if you keep boring me with your drivel. Are you done? I’m sure you’re astute enough to realize, but I am not in a good mood.”

  “As you wish. So long as you do your job, all is well.” The figure raised a finger and pointed it at Lyanne. “This time, make sure you kill Cynthia Kastrionis, no matter the cost.”

  Lyanne scoffed. She would have rather not been involved in political turmoil. But she had no qualms about what she’d been paid to do. It had been a long time since she’d had to care about her own self-image.

  High above, a wyvern cried out—a mournful sound that did not belong to any peaceful night.