The sun filtered through the narrow window of Sorin’s room, casting golden streaks across the simple wooden floor. He sat at his small desk, one hand lazily breaking apart pieces of dried jerky while the other offered them to Vestian. The familiar’s sharp beak snapped greedily at the treats, his feathers flaring proudly as he devoured his meal.

  “Slow down,” Sorin chuckled, grinning as he leaned back in his chair. “You’ll make yourself sick, and then I’ll have to clean up the mess. Not exactly how I want to spend my morning.”

  Vestian squawked indignantly, fluffing his wings and hopping onto the edge of the desk. His golden eyes fixed Sorin with a look that practically screamed “More.”

  Sorin tossed another scrap toward the familiar, who snatched it mid-air with a triumphant cry before settling back into preening. Sorin let his thoughts drift as he reached for the crisp, neatly folded shirt waiting on his bed. The events of the previous night replayed in his mind—a vivid blend of Celeste’s teasing smiles, her laughter, and the way she had drawn him into her orbit with the ease of a predator claiming its prey. Gods, he thought to himself, a sly smile tugging at his lips. It had been a night to remember, one that banished the sting of their unceremonious expulsion from the ball.

  “Not bad for a kid from nowhere,” Sorin muttered to himself as he tugged the shirt over his head. He could still hear the echoes of Aldric’s stern voice banishing him from the ball and Zane’s quiet disapproval of his relationship with Celeste, but they were little more than distant whispers now. The brawl that had erupted—Aric’s scheming, his lackeys' sneers—felt insignificant. Sorin’s pride remained intact, if not bolstered, and the sharp memory of Celeste’s mouthed invitation was more than enough to keep him in good spirits.

  “Today’s going to be a good day,” he declared to no one in particular as he pulled on his boots and began lacing them up. Vestian gave a squawk of approval as if in agreement.

  Sorin rose, retrieved his coat from the spacial ring upon his finger, shaking out the fabric of his jacket before shrugging it over his shoulders. As he fastened the clasps along his chest, his fingers brushed against the hilt of one of his swords, and for the first time that morning, his focus sharpened. Noon, he reminded himself. The single-elimination duels began today, and there was no room for error. It wasn’t a team battle anymore—there would be no Diego to cover his blind spots, no Torrid to mow down opponents like a battering ram. This was a test of individual strength, wit, and endurance.

  His jaw set, determination replacing the carefree ease he’d carried since waking. “One fight at a time,” he murmured, his voice quiet but firm. “Victory is the only option; they’ll know who I am by the end of this.”

  Vestian fluttered over to his shoulder, letting out a series of short, encouraging clicks as if to echo his confidence.

  Sorin smirked. “I know, buddy. We’ve got this.”

  He grabbed his blades, securing them across his back, and glanced toward the sliver of sky visible through the window. The academy was waking—he could hear the distant clang of training swords, the sharp commands of instructors, and the murmurs of students preparing for the day. Sorin then stepped out of his room, adjusting the straps of his blades as the door creaked shut behind him. The moment he turned down the corridor, he was greeted by a familiar, smug voice.

  “Well, well,” Tytus drawled, leaning lazily against the wall with his arms crossed. His ever-present grin spread across his face like he’d been waiting all morning for this. “If it isn’t the man of the hour. I was starting to think you’d moved into the City Overlord’s castle permanently.”

  Sorin smirked, brushing past him as Vestian fluttered out from the room and landed neatly on his shoulder. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, you don’t?” Tytus pushed off the wall, falling into step beside him. “You were gone all night, Sorin. All. Night. And considering the brawl that got us booted from the ball, I highly doubt you were busy debating philosophy with Aldric.”

  Sorin rolled his eyes, though the small smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. “You’re worse than a gossiping noblewoman.”

  “Me? I’m just observant,” Tytus shot back, waggling his eyebrows. “You didn’t return until dawn. Must’ve been a very memorable night.”

  “Careful, Tytus, or I’ll let Vestian claw your face off.”

  Vestian let out a sharp squawk, almost as if in agreement, though Sorin gave the bird a quick pat to settle him. Tytus merely laughed, falling in step with him as they made their way toward the dining hall.

  —

  The Warbringer Academy dining hall was alive with energy. Long wooden tables stretched across the vast space, the air filled with the sounds of students chatting, clattering trays, and the occasional burst of laughter. Light streamed in through high windows, catching the steam rising from fresh plates of food.

  Sorin spotted the rest of his friends immediately. Jackson sat slouched at the table, picking at his breakfast, while Diego carved through his food methodically, his brow furrowed as though analyzing something far more important than eggs and toast. Torrid, of course, was busy demolishing an entire platter, grunting contentedly as he shoveled food into his mouth.

  “Morning, lads,” Tytus announced as they reached the table, dropping heavily onto a bench. Sorin sat down beside him, setting Vestian down on the edge of the table where the familiar promptly began pecking at crumbs.

  Jackson perked up the moment he saw Sorin. “You’re alive! I thought for sure Celeste had skinned you alive and left your corpse hanging outside the castle as a warning.”

  Tytus grinned wickedly. “Oh no, Jackson. I think our friend here had a much warmer evening than that.”

  Sorin shot him a sharp look, but Jackson, wide-eyed, looked between the two with a faked look of dawning realization. “What? No, Sorin would never!”

  “Don’t strain yourself thinking, Jackson,” Sorin interrupted smoothly, reaching for a slice of bread. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

  The table erupted with laughter, even Diego offering a small, amused smirk as he stabbed a piece of fruit with his fork. Torrid, still chewing, rumbled a vague, “Sorin win big prize.”

  “Enough about that,” Sorin said, steering the conversation back on track. “We’ve got duels to focus on today. I hope you all got enough rest.”

  Tytus stretched dramatically, grinning. “Rest? Please. I’m practically vibrating with excitement. Think of it—a grand audience, all those lovely ladies watching. I’ll win my fights and their hearts.”

  “Of course, you will,” Diego said dryly, not looking up from his plate. “Just try not to spend more time showing off than winning.”

  Tytus clutched his chest, feigning offense. “Diego, you wound me.”

  Diego ignored him entirely. “I don’t care who I’m up against, as long as they’re strong. I’d rather not waste my time on someone who doesn’t challenge me.”

  “Torrid want fight,” Torrid rumbled, his voice as blunt as ever. “Big fights. Many fights. Crush everyone.”

  Sorin smirked into his breakfast. “Sounds about right.”

  Jackson, however, looked far less enthusiastic. He picked at his food nervously, glancing between his friends. “So, uh… does anyone know if you can resign from the duels? Like, you know, sit them out?”

  The entire table froze for a beat before bursting into a chorus of groans and laughter. Tytus nearly choked on his drink, Diego sighed with the disappointment of a man who’d heard something idiotic, and Torrid let out a booming, derisive laugh.

  “Resign?!” Tytus wheezed. “You’re joking, right? Jackson, this is the Ranking Tournament. You can’t just quit!”

  “Jackson weak,” Torrid said bluntly, pointing a massive finger at him. “No quitting.”

  Jackson’s face reddened. “I’m just saying! What if someone… I don’t know, gets sick? Or loses a limb? That’s a good reason to stop fighting, isn’t it?”

  “You’re unbelievable,” Diego muttered, shaking his head. “You’ve made it this far, Jackson. Try to act like you belong here.”

  Sorin grinned, tearing a piece of bread in half. “Come on, Jackson. I’ll carry you out myself if you faint, but you’re fighting.”

  Jackson groaned, slumping over his plate in defeat. “I hate all of you.”

  As the laughter died down, Sorin glanced up, a question gnawing at the back of his mind. “By the way,” he said, his tone curious, “where are these duels actually happening? I assumed the City Overlord’s castle.”

  The table went silent. Tytus turned his head so slowly it was almost comical, his eyes narrowing as he gave Sorin a look that could only be described as “Are you serious?”

  “Sorin,” Jackson said with exaggerated calm, “are you… a little touched in the head?”

  Diego set his fork down with a deadpan expression. “Do you actually live in this city?”

  “What?” Sorin blinked, genuinely confused. “I’ve only been here several months! Why would I—?”

  “You’ve never heard of the colosseum?” Tytus interrupted, exasperated. “It’s only the most famous landmark north of the city. Where do you think all the big fights happen? In someone’s backyard?”

  Jackson leaned forward with an eager grin, eyes lighting up as if he’d been waiting for this moment. “You really don’t know about the colosseum, Sorin? Or, better yet, about all the entertainment that happens around here? I swear, you live like a hermit.”

  Sorin smirked slightly, spreading his hands in a show of defeat. “Apparently so. Enlighten me, Jackson.”

  “Oh, I’ll enlighten you, all right.” Jackson sat up straighter, launching into full storyteller mode. “The colosseum isn’t just for tournaments like the Ranking Duels—it’s the heart of the city’s entertainment. We’re talking gladiator matches, beast fights, and sparring exhibitions from some of the strongest warriors in the city. And I mean beasts. Not just big wolves or lions—no, they bring in monsters. Ogres, chimera, wyverns—whatever they can find to thrill the crowd. People lose their minds for it.”

  Torrid grunted approvingly, as if Jackson’s description only added to his enthusiasm. “Monsters good fight. Big fights. Torrid like.”

  Jackson continued, undeterred. “It’s not all blood and bashing heads, though. They also host plays, musicians, and even magic shows. You get the followers of Mysterium or Caligo who put on these insane illusions that make the arena look like a battlefield, a storm, or even a celestial realm. The crowd loves it—especially the nobles. They spend fortunes just to get front-row seats.”

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Sorin listened, his expression somewhere between amused and mildly impressed. “Sounds like the place never stops.”

  “Exactly!” Jackson spread his arms dramatically. “It’s the beating heart of Cestead. Even the mortals without Gods flock there. Games, bets, food—it’s everything in one place. Of course, the duels today will pack the place. Everyone’s looking for their next hero to cheer for or place a wager on.”

  Sorin smiled a bit sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. “Well… the more you know.”

  Tytus rolled his eyes with a grin. “You’re hopeless, Sorin. How do you survive in a city without paying attention to anything?”

  “I’ve been busy training,” Sorin shot back defensively, though his tone was light. The others laughed, but it was the good-natured kind.

  Diego stood first, brushing his hands off and grabbing his tray. “Enough sitting around. We should all prepare. The academy will be moving as a group soon.”

  “Diego’s right,” Tytus agreed, stretching his arms before standing. “I can’t disappoint my future admirers by showing up looking half-asleep.”

  Torrid slammed his fist on the table with finality. “Torrid eat. Now Torrid fight.” He rose to his full, towering height and began lumbering toward the exit.

  Jackson groaned dramatically as he stood. “Fine, fine. But when we’re all in that colosseum and I inevitably have to fight some giant, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Sorin chuckled, watching them leave one by one. As the noise of the dining hall buzzed around him, he stood and adjusted his blades across his back. The others were right—preparation was key. Still, something tugged at him. The day’s duels were critical, and he couldn’t shake the thought that a little extra advice wouldn’t hurt. There was only one person he wanted to see before the academy departed: Zane Warbringer.

  —

  The halls of Warbringer Academy were unusually busy, considering that not all students were participation in the duels. However, it appeared all students wanted to look presentable as if they were about to fight in the duels. Students rushed past, tightening armor straps and carrying weapons. Faculty members strode purposefully between wings, their faces set in expressions of hurried focus. Despite the chaos, Sorin moved quickly, taking the familiar path toward the administration wing where Zane’s office was located.

  As he approached, however, he noticed something odd. The energy of the academy didn’t seem to extend to this part of the building. The rows of secretary desks and faculty offices were eerily quiet, their occupants absent. A few papers sat scattered on desks as though abandoned mid-task. Sorin frowned, his footsteps echoing faintly against the polished stone floor. Everyone must be out preparing, Sorin thought.

  Still, he had come this far. Zane was likely elsewhere, coordinating or supervising the academy’s departure, but Sorin decided to check his office anyway. He stepped up to the large, ornate door bearing Zane Warbringer’s nameplate and knocked firmly.

  No answer.

  He waited, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, then knocked again—this time louder. Silence. Sorin sighed, shaking his head. Of course, he’s not here. He turned to leave, his hand already reaching for the strap of his sword, when a deep, low, rumbling sound came from inside the office.

  Sorin froze mid-step, his senses sharpening in an instant.

  What was that? He turned back toward the door, brow furrowed. For a moment, all he heard was silence again, but just as he leaned in, the rumbling returned—a low, guttural noise, like the distant growl of something massive and alive.

  He placed his hand carefully on the doorknob. Sorin hesitated, considering his options. Maybe I imagined it. But no—his instincts screamed otherwise.

  “Sir?” he called cautiously, his voice low as he knocked one last time. The rumble sounded again, louder this time, reverberating through the heavy wood of the door. Sorin’s pulse quickened as his grip tightened on the knob. Something was happening in Zane Warbringer’s office.

  He took a step back, readying himself. Whatever was inside—whether it was Zane, a threat, or something entirely unexpected—he was about to find out.

  Sorin hesitated for only a moment longer before gripping the handle and twisting. To his surprise, the door swung open with a soft creak, the lock undone. He stepped inside, cautious and curious, his instincts on high alert.

  The first thing that struck him was the overwhelming darkness. The room was thick with shadow, the heavy curtains pulled tightly shut, blocking out every trace of sunlight. It wasn’t expected—Zane Warbringer’s office was usually a place of calculated order, bathed in the steady light of day. Now, it felt suffocating, cloaked in something both physical and intangible.

  Sorin blinked once, activating his Eye of Discernment. The world around him shifted as his night vision sharpened, pulling shapes and details from the gloom. What he saw froze him in place.

  Zane Warbringer—unshakable, dependable, the man Sorin had come to see as a pillar of strength—was slumped over his desk. His broad frame, which usually stood so rigid and imposing, looked smaller somehow, hunched and heavy with exhaustion. His head rested against his folded arms, the once sharp, watchful eyes now closed as faint, guttural snores rattled through the air.

  The desk was a battlefield. Empty and half-empty bottles littered the surface; some toppled over to spill amber liquid into sticky puddles. A few rolled onto the floor, leaving glass trails that caught Sorin’s gaze. The air was thick with the acrid smell of strong alcohol—sour and stale, mingling with sweat and the faint scent of neglected leather. It was a smell Sorin knew, but one he hadn’t expected here. It clawed at the back of his throat, sharp and unrelenting.

  Sorin’s brow furrowed in disbelief. This can’t be right. Zane Warbringer was no common man. He was a legend. He was Magnus Warbringer’s brother—carved from the same indestructible stone, or so Sorin had believed. Magnus had been Sorin’s mentor, a man who’d exuded an unyielding strength even in death. And now, here was Zane—reduced to this. How could this have happened?

  The sharp contrast unsettled Sorin deeply. The man he had placed on a pedestal, who had taken up the mantle after Magnus, looked so… mortal.

  Swallowing his shock, Sorin stepped forward cautiously, his boots quiet against the stone floor. The stillness of the room felt unnatural, almost fragile as if one wrong move might shatter the image of the man before him completely. Vestian, perched on Sorin’s shoulder, was uncharacteristically silent, as though the familiar, too, could sense the unease.

  “Sir?” Sorin called softly, his voice barely above a whisper. Zane didn’t move. His shoulders rose and fell steadily, each breath accompanied by a faint rumbling snore. Sorin hesitated, then crept closer, his hand reaching out to touch the older man’s shoulder.

  Just as his fingers brushed the edge of Zane’s cloak, Vestian let out an earsplitting squawk.

  The sound shattered the quiet like a thunderclap.

  Zane shot up from his slumped position, his eyes snapping open in a wild daze. His instincts, sharpened by years of combat, took over. Without even thinking, he lashed out with a roar, his massive arm swinging through the air in a devastating strike. The force of the blow carved through the space before him, displacing the air itself. A wave of pressure blasted outward like a physical shockwave, slamming into Sorin before he could fully react.

  “Gods above!” Sorin swore as the force caught him square in the chest, sending him stumbling backward. He hit the wall hard; the wind knocked from his lungs. Vestian squawked in alarm, taking flight to avoid the chaos, his wings beating frantically as he darted to a high shelf for safety.

  Zane’s massive fist hovered in the air for a heartbeat longer before he blinked blearily, his movements slowing as the room came into focus. His chest heaved, his expression shifting from primal fury to confusion and finally to recognition as his eyes landed on Sorin.

  “Sorin?” Zane rumbled, his voice hoarse and groggy. His brows knit together as he scanned the disarray of his office, the bottles, the puddles of spilled alcohol—like a man seeing his surroundings for the first time. He ran a heavy hand down his face, scrubbing at his beard as if trying to chase away lingering remnants of a dream.

  Sorin coughed, pushing himself off the wall with a grimace. “Good morning, Sir,” he said, his voice thick with wry humor as he steadied himself. “You almost turned me into a stain on your office wall.”

  Zane winced, pinching the bridge of his nose as he muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse. “Damn it… Sorin. What are you doing here?”

  Sorin straightened, brushing dust off his uniform, though his expression was a mix of concern and disbelief. “I came for advice before the duels. I wasn’t expecting… this.” He gestured vaguely at the room—the bottles, the smells, the man slumped over a desk like he’d fought a war he hadn’t won.

  Zane’s shoulders sagged, his earlier aggression replaced by a weary heaviness. For a long moment, he said nothing, just staring blankly at the mess in front of him. Sorin stayed quiet, unsure whether to press or step back.

  Finally, Zane let out a deep, shuddering sigh, his voice low and rough. “It’s been a long night, boy. Longer than you know.”

  Sorin frowned, his chest tightening. The man before him—the dependable force of the academy—looked more like a shadow of himself. What happened to you, Zane?

  Sorin stepped forward, the concern evident in his voice despite the lingering tension from Zane’s outburst. “Sir? I don’t mean to intrude,” he questioned softly, his tone careful but firm. “The whole Academy is preparing for the next stage of the Ranking Tournament, and you’ll be needed. Is something wrong? Can I help?”

  Zane still slumped in his chair, rubbed his face again as though trying to scrub away both the exhaustion and the humiliation. “No, boy,” he muttered gruffly. “You can’t help with this.” He looked at Sorin then, his eyes bloodshot but sharp. “And I’m sorry you had to see me like this. This isn’t your burden to carry.”

  Sorin didn’t move. “It’s not about burden, Sir,” he replied, his voice steady. “You know my secrets. You’ve helped me since the moment I arrived in Cestead. I owe you more than I can repay. If something’s wrong, you can tell me. I can hear you out if nothing else.”

  For a long moment, Zane stared at him, the weight of unspoken thoughts pressing down on the room. The lines of age and stress carved deep into his face seemed more prominent now, and Sorin realized just how much the man carried on his shoulders. Finally, Zane let out a long sigh, the sound filled with a weariness Sorin had never heard before.

  “You’re right,” Zane said, his voice quiet and rough. “You’ve earned that much. But I’ll tell you now, Sorin—there’s nothing you can do. Not for this.” He leaned back in his chair, staring up at the darkened ceiling. “I developed a… fondness for drink after Magnus disappeared,” he admitted, the words sounding heavier than they should have. “It dulled the edge, I suppose. The pain. The uncertainty. I told myself it was just temporary, that I could put it down when I needed to.”

  Sorin frowned, his chest tightening. He had always imagined Zane as a man of unshakable resolve, just like Magnus had been. To hear this now—to see the truth laid bare—was sobering in ways he hadn’t expected.

  Zane continued, his voice taking on a quieter, almost reflective tone. “When you arrived, Sorin, with news of Wuthum’s curse and a possible way to… bring Magnus back, it gave me hope—more hope than I’d had in years. I started to believe, even if only a little, that I could fix what had been broken. And for a while, I got better.”

  He paused then, his jaw tightening as though the following words were hard to speak. “But I got a piece of bad news last night. After speaking with the City Overlord.” He gestured vaguely at the bottles scattered across his desk as though they were a consequence of that conversation. “I’d been working with the Church of Morsus here in the city, trying to recruit a High Archon to fulfill Wuthum’s request and fix the curse. You know how rare someone of that Rank is, especially when searching for a specific High Archon with a specialty in breaking curses. But there isn’t a single follower of Morsus in the city who’s reached that level, and only a handful of those have reached the Rank of High Archon.”

  Sorin stayed silent, listening intently, his mind turning over the implications. Zane’s voice grew heavier, the frustration beginning to creep in. “The church said they’d pass the request along to others outside the city, but the cost…” He shook his head. “It would be astronomical. Enough to bankrupt the Academy.”

  Sorin’s eyes widened slightly. Bankrupt the Academy? The very idea seemed absurd, impossible—but Zane wasn’t one to exaggerate.

  “I had one other avenue,” Zane continued, his voice tinged with bitterness. “The City Overlord. I went to him to ask for help—connections, resources, anything. If anyone would have connections to a High Archon of Morsus outside the city, it was him. Or so I thought.” Zane’s lips pressed into a hard line, and he ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “But that was a dead end, too. He doesn’t have the connections. And as for lending me the money?” He let out a humorless laugh. “He wouldn’t do it. Said it was too large a sum, too much of a risk for a personal loan. Didn’t even hear why I needed the money. I swear we grow more and more apart as friends these days. I think he is disappointed in me for my lack of ambition and progress since Magnus departed.”

  “What about the banks?” Sorin asked though he had a sinking feeling that he already knew the answer.

  Zane glanced at him, his expression grim. “The Church of Avaron runs the banks in the Dark Pantheon. The God of Greed. They wouldn’t lend to me, not for something with no return on investment. I don’t have the collateral to pay off the debt either personally.”

  Sorin absorbed the words, his thoughts racing. The Warbringer Family was full of men who never gave up and always found a way forward. And yet, here Zane was, trapped in a problem that no sheer force of will could solve. Magnus’s memory loomed large over them both, and Sorin felt the weight of it pressing on his shoulders now, too.

  Zane exhaled, his gaze distant. “So there it is, boy—the truth of it. You can’t help, and I’ll figure out how to carry on. I always do.” He looked back at Sorin then, his expression hardening slightly as though trying to reclaim some of his former authority. “Now go on. Get out of here. You’ve got a tournament to win.”

  But Sorin didn’t move. He couldn’t shake the image of Zane—this broken version of the man he had admired—and he couldn’t ignore the gnawing desire to do something, anything. Zane might have given up for now, but Sorin wouldn’t. Not yet.

  “I understand, Sir,” Sorin said quietly, his voice steady. “But you’re wrong. I can help. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but I’ll find a way.”

  Zane studied him for a long moment, his bloodshot eyes softening slightly. “You’ve got Magnus’s fire in you,” he muttered. “I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a curse.”

  Sorin straightened, forcing a small, determined smile. “I’ll make it a good thing, Sir.”

  Zane shook his head with a faint grunt, but Sorin didn’t miss the flicker of something—maybe pride—in the older man’s gaze. “Get out of here, boy. Go prove yourself.”

  Sorin nodded and turned to leave, Vestian fluttering silently back to his shoulder. As he stepped into the hallway, the staleness of the office gave way to the fresh air of the academy, but the weight of Zane’s words lingered.

  Zane’s hurting. And I’ll find a way to help him. Sorin’s fists clenched, his mind already racing with thoughts and possibilities. But first, he had duels to win.