“Sean,” Sebastian said, stepping down, “in accordance with our arrangement. The first delivery.”

  “First?” Rob echoed, eyes lighting up.

  I caught his look and couldn’t help but smirk.

  Sebastian’s gaze stayed on me. “I assume you have the symbol of authentication.”

  I hesitated.

  “The ring,” Sebastian added. “I trust it remains in your possession.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said, recovering. I slipped it from my finger and held it up. “Here.”

  I dropped the ring into his palm, and he pressed it against a small block of dark, stained wood, turned it once, then nodded to himself.

  “All in order,” he said, handing it back.

  Amelia had already moved closer to the wagon. She looked over the crates, the seals, the markings, then turned slowly toward me.

  “Sean,” she whispered, “do you want to explain how you arranged this…”

  “Best gift ever?” Rob offered.

  Sebastian spoke before I could. “According to Roy, a courteous young noble visited his shop to arrange this.” He adjusted his grip on the ledger, eyes flicking briefly to the wagon. “He claimed it was in support of the Aspirants of Brookfield.”

  Then he looked at me. Not accusing. Not curious. Just measuring.

  “I assume this benefactor is known to you.”

  Rob laughed outright. “Yeah. Sure. Sean’s swimming in noble friends.”

  I smiled, felt the lie settle into place, and nodded once. “We struck a deal. Nothing more. And he also wanted it kept himself nameless and the deal quiet.”

  Sebastian considered me briefly and nodded. “That aligns with Roy’s account.” He indicated the wagon. “There’s no need to justify yourself to the courier.”

  I felt a flicker of relief before Sebastian’s expression turned stern.

  “Sean,” he said, stepping closer and lowering his voice. “A word.”

  I nodded and followed him aside ignoring the strange looks the others shot me.

  Sebastian’s gaze passed over them, cool and deliberate. One by one, attention slid away from us and toward the crates. Lids were tested. Low voices followed as hands traced markings on the crates and eyes tried to sneak peeks through gaps.

  Even Calum edged closer, drawn in despite himself. Celeste joined him, both of them bent over the items, their words lost in the scrape of wood and steel.

  No one was listening anymore.

  “Disturbing news reached me at the gate,” Sebastian said, guiding me away from the others. “I was informed upon my departure that certain records were destroyed last night.”

  I kept my face still. “Destroyed. Which records.”

  “Those pertaining to your exchange involving the red catalyst.” He exhaled softly. “Roy has my confidence, as he always has. It is the company he now keeps that concerns me.”

  “The ones he traded the red catalyst with?” I asked.

  Sebastian’s mouth tightened. “Indeed.”

  He studied me in silence, eyes steady, like he was weighing the gaps rather than the words. I didn’t fill them.

  “I assume you have at least some notion of who received that commission?”

  “I don’t.”

  That gave him pause. “They are… well known,” he said carefully. “Prominent within the district.”

  “I don’t know much about the city,” I said.

  He took a long look at me studying my face.

  “So,” he said after a moment, “you entered by way of the gate.”

  I nodded.

  Sebastian considered that, then inclined his head. “In that case, allow me a word of counsel.” His tone stayed even, almost mild. “Avoid entanglement with them. They are not aligned with the city’s present hierarchy, and association with them has a way of narrowing one’s future.”

  I huffed softly. “Duly noted.”

  A faint look of approval crossed his face. “Good.” He glanced back toward the wagon. “As this concludes our business for the day, I will have the attendants relocate the crates to a secure location. After that, I shall take my leave.”

  The way he said it made it clear the warning wasn’t finished.

  “Thanks.”

  He gave me a look I couldn’t quite place, then turned back toward the wagon. The unease lingered after him, like cold air slipping in through an open door.

  Doyle motioned for the attendants to move the crates. They set to work at once, bracing themselves as they dragged the crates inside. Runed gloves bit into the wood, the scrape of timber against stone echoing as each crate crossed the threshold.

  By the time the last one was hauled in, we were already gathering in the training hall.

  “Alright, kid,” one of the attendants said, tapping the nearest crate with his knuckles. “This one here. These are the weapons Roy marked as suitable.”

  “Suitable for what,” Calum asked.

  The attendant didn’t answer. He didn’t even look up.

  Neither did I.

  I kept my attention on the crate as the lid was eased open, the smell of oiled steel drifting up. I felt a smile tug at the corner of my mouth and kept it there.

  The attendant moved on to the next crate. “These are for training. Blunted edges. Proper balance.” He paused, then added, “Elixirs are in there as well.”

  “Elixirs,” Amelia echoed, already stepping closer, curiosity cutting through her caution.

  The attendant finally glanced up. “Stabilised. Measured doses.”

  That earned him her full attention. “Reagents. Powders. Stabilised,” he added, lifting a wrapped bundle out and setting it aside.

  Amelia drew in a sharp breath.

  He moved to the next crate. “This one’s for actual combat. Armour pieces. Amulets. Mixed types, as requested.” He paused, then added, “Low to mid-grade. Roy’s works marked with elder runes.”

  “Elder runes?” Calum asked, surprise slipping through. He glanced at Celeste, who was studying the weapons just as closely.

  Calum’s eyes flicked to me for a heartbeat, then away again. His jaw set.

  One of the attendants cleared his throat. “That’s everything accounted for.” He gave Doyle a brief nod. “Then… We’ll take our leave.”

  The attendants left, excusing themselves quietly as they filed out.

  I stayed where I was and let the others look.

  “Sean,” Doyle said, stepping up beside me, his voice lower now. “How’d it go this morning.”

  I ran my thumb along the edge of a crate, felt the grain under my skin, then looked back at him.

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  “Interesting,” I said with a grin.

  “Then he agreed to it?”

  I nodded. Then, I passed the folded paperwork. The list Kent had written was dense, cramped with notes and conditions. Doyle scanned it once. Then again. His eyes widened.

  “Even if Jerald already agreed to this,” he said quietly. “He’s not going to be pleased with the cost.”

  I shrugged. “Think of it as insurance.”

  I placed the rune pouch in his palm. The weight of the four catalysts shifted as they settled. Doyle’s fingers closed around it protectively.

  “That it is,” he said, a grin breaking through despite himself.

  “So,” I asked, “shall we.”

  He nodded.

  I cleared my throat. Everyone’s attention snapped to me.

  “Alright,” I said, raising my voice just enough. “Here’s how this works. Each of you picks a weapon from that crate.”

  “Choose carefully,” added Doyle.

  Rob frowned. “What. We only get one.”

  “Not exactly,” Doyle said. “These are for fitting. Handles polished. Blades treated. Balanced properly for you. The ones you’ll take into the Trials.”

  Rob’s expression eased. “Oh.”

  “You’ll still have access to others for training,” I added. “Test them. Break them if you have to.”

  Doyle glanced at me.

  I nodded. “Once you’ve decided, the Trial weapons get sent out. Cleaned and oiled. Properly.”

  Amelia folded her arms, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’ve thought this through.”

  “I had to,” I said.

  Silence hung for a beat. Then I stepped aside and gestured toward the crate.

  “Go on,” I said. “Have at it.”

  No one moved at first.

  The open crate sat between us, waiting.

  Then Rob stepped forward. His fingers brushed the edge of the wood, and something in the room shifted as choice became real.

  He grinned and climbed up onto the crate, leaning in without hesitation. The wood creaked under his weight as he peered inside, a low whistle slipping out before he could stop it.

  The crate was packed like a small library of steel. Rows of weapons lay secured in fitted grooves, each wrapped and braced so nothing touched that shouldn’t. Everything was measured. Placed with care.

  Rob’s eyes flicked from one to the next. With a wordless nod from Calum, he loosened the side panels. They folded down into built-in stands, lifting the weapons into the light.

  Swords. Daggers. Maces. Axes. Long blades and glaives lined the rack. The steel didn’t shine the way new metal should. It looked denser. Duller. Like stone that had learned how to cut. Each blade bore a single rune, carved clean and deep.

  “What are those runes?” I asked, turning to Doyle. “They’re not in my book.”

  Doyle leaned closer, squinting, tracing the shape with his eyes rather than his fingers. His brow creased.

  “They’re all the same,” he said. “Enduring rune.”

  Calum let out a slow breath. “You serious?”

  Rob blinked. “Alright. That sounds impressive. What does it actually do?”

  Doyle straightened. “It means the edge holds. No sharpening. No chipping. No cracking under normal use.” He paused, then added, “And under not so normal use.”

  “Perfect specimens for reforging,” Amelia said, glancing at me as if filing the thought away.

  “Well,” I said, stepping back, “go on. Choose.”

  They spread out along the stands. Roy had listened. For those who didn’t favour a heavy swing, there were other options laid out with the same care. A few bows rested along one rack. Sceptres. Tall staffs. And, sitting apart from the rest, metal knuckles, claws and a strange thimble-like piece with a leaf-shaped blade extending from it. It looked more like a sharpened fingernail than a weapon.

  Rob went straight for the swords.

  He lifted one, then another, rolling the grips in his hands, feeling for balance. They were similar at a glance, but the differences were there if you looked closely. Tang length. Guard shape. Subtle shifts in weight. He tested a few before settling on a broad sword with a hand-and-a-half hilt and a blade just shy of thirty inches.

  Amelia lingered near the sceptres. Of the three, she chose the smallest. It was barely longer than her forearm, more like a heavy metallic wand than a symbol of authority.

  Celeste moved more slowly. She tested the bows in silence, checking the draw, the pull, the way the string settled. Finally, she nodded and set one aside. “This will do.”

  Calum hesitated the longest. He reached for a blade, paused, then tried again with his other hand. That didn’t sit right either. In the end, he chose the thimble blade, sliding it over his fingers and flexing his hand, unsure whether it was a tool or a threat.

  “What about you,” Rob asked, glancing back at me.

  I rested my hand against the sword at my side.

  Calum looked at me then. Not hostile. Not friendly either. Just searching.

  Doyle stepped closer and lowered his voice. “You sure you don’t want one. None of these for you.”

  I looked at them again. The way each of them held their choice. Careful. Curious. Wary.

  “I’m sure,” I said. Whatever’s left will end up as food anyway, I thought.

  The sword answered with a low hum at my side.

  Doyle lingered, then leaned in and lowered his voice. “This gift for the others. You’re including Calum?”

  I met his eyes and held them. Then I nodded.

  “Yes.”

  He waited, giving me the space to take it back.

  I didn’t.

  “During the ambush. He stepped in front of his sister,” I said. “He’s reckless. Loud. An idiot...” I paused. “But he didn’t move aside. If there’s a next time, he shouldn’t be unprepared.”

  Doyle studied me for a moment longer, then straightened.

  The decision stood.

  He glanced down at my blade. “And you’re satisfied with what you have?”

  I nodded. “More than.”

  The blade answered with a faint hum. Nothing else.

  Doyle clapped his hands once. “Alright, Aspirants. Hand the Trial weapons over. I’ll have them prepped.”

  Reluctantly, they passed them across. The weight shifted from eager hands to careful ones.

  “For now,” Doyle said, already turning away, “pick something else. Training gear. Use it until the others come back clean and fitted.”

  He didn’t wait for a response. He gathered the selected weapons, gave them one last look, and left the hall.

  That was all the encouragement Rob needed.

  He dove into the crate, scooping up swords and scabbards with reckless enthusiasm. One tucked under his arm. Two slung across his back. Another hooked at his belt. He hesitated, then strapped one more along his leg for good measure.

  Amelia stared at him. “You’re impossible.”

  Rob grinned, shifting the weight until something clattered. “Prepared.” “Rob,” I said, watching the pile grow, “can you even carry all of those.”

  “I’ll make it work,” he said cheerfully. “One here. One there. You can never have too many…”

  Amelia crossed her arms. “You’re being ridiculous.”

  Rob grinned, shifting the weight until something clattered to the floor.

  “Worth it,” he said.

  Celeste let out a small laugh before she caught herself. The sound cut off short, like she’d reeled it back in.

  Amelia arms still folded gave Rob a look that felt uncomfortably familiar. “You can have three.”

  Rob opened his mouth.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Three.”

  “Fine,” he said, deflating a little.

  He adjusted the load, settling two smaller blades across his back and fitting the larger one at his belt. It still looked excessive, just less absurd.

  “Alright,” I said. “Let’s get us suited.”

  The next few minutes blurred as we worked through the remaining crates. Gear passed from hand to hand. Each of us was issued a faded rune pouch, plainer than the tailor’s work but serviceable. A handful of healing elixirs followed. The siblings declined those without discussion. Energy potions were accepted with less hesitation.

  Then came the bracers. One for each forearm. Too light to stop a blade, too thin to matter for defence, but heavy with what was etched into them.

  I helped Rob strap them on, leather creaking as we tightened the buckles. I rapped a knuckle against the markings. “Any idea what these do.”

  He flexed his arm, testing the weight. “Minor runes,” he said, uncertain. “This one feels like strength.”

  He picked up a sword in that hand. The blade rose easier than it should have. He blinked, then nodded. “Yeah. That’s it.”

  He switched hands and swung again. The cut came faster, cleaner, almost catching him off guard.

  “And this one’s speed,” he said.

  I watched him reset his stance, slower this time, adjusting to the difference.

  “That’s probably why people don’t like the older runes,” he said. “The effect’s local. I don’t feel the strength carry over to the other arm, same with the speed.”

  Amelia stepped in to confirm it with a nod.

  Rob rolled his shoulders, already compensating. “Still,” he said, gripping the sword again, “I can work with this.”

  Minor or not, I felt it the moment I secured my own. My grip tightened without effort. Nothing dramatic. No rush. Just a quiet edge, like my body had remembered how to move a little better than before.

  Ten percent, maybe.

  I glanced at Amelia as Rob finished tightening the bracers. She flexed her hands, then rolled her wrist, feeling the difference.

  “Well?” Rob asked. “Think they’ll help your casting.”

  Amelia didn’t answer right away. She lifted her arm, palm open, and murmured a single word. A loose stone shuddered, dragged across the floor, then rose a handspan into the air. Her jaw tightened as she held it there. A second later she let it drop. The stone hit the floor with a dull crack.

  “No,” she said, flexing her fingers. “The strength’s too local. It doesn’t ease the drain.”

  I frowned. “Then they’re pointless.”

  She shook her head and tightened the strap again. “They won’t let me cast more. But they let me spend less energy.”

  She picked up the same stone, this time with her hand, and hurled it. It struck a practice target and split the stitching with a sharp thud.

  “That,” she said, “cost me nothing.” She exhaled slowly. “Recovery will be faster. And when I’m tired, control matters more than power.”

  She looked down at the bracer once more, thoughtful.

  “I’ll keep them.”

  She moved away from us, eyes scanning the open crates. Then she stopped.

  “These,” she said, reaching in.

  She lifted a small tray of dull amulets and rings, each set with old runes. Not decorative. Purpose-built.

  Her fingers hovered over the tray, then settled on one piece. She lifted it, turning it so the light caught the faint lines worked into the metal.

  “Focusing runes,” she murmured. “Contract work.” She tapped the edge with a nail. “They reduce energy cost, but only briefly. Not permanent like the strength runes.”

  She slipped the amulet on and closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, her breath came a little steadier.

  “Short window,” she said. “But enough to matter.”

  “Can you wear a few and trigger them one at a time?” I asked.

  She laughed. “I wish.” She shook her head. “You activate one, you activate them all. With no extra effect.”

  She set the remaining pieces back into the tray. The siblings closed in at once, curiosity drawing them closer as they studied the dull ornaments.

  “That’s why the expensive stuff costs what it does,” Amelia said, without looking up. “You can’t stack lesser runes and expect them to behave like the real thing.”

  She looked up at me then, eyes focused, intent. “But these will still help.”

  The fittings continued. Identical gambesons were laced tight, boots stiff at the ankle, then gloves, armbands, and thin iron leg guards without markings. The difference was clear. Roy’s work carried intent. The rest was merely functional.

  Helms came last, each lined with a shock-absorbing rune etched inside the rim. Clean work. Roy’s again.

  Calum shifted under the weight and pulled a face. “This’ll help,” he said. “A bit. But I’m not wearing it outside the Trials.”

  Celeste answered with a small nod, already loosening her gloves, eyes down and focused.

  A long yawn drifted in from outside the hall.

  Brent appeared in the doorway, hair rumpled, shirt half-laced, looking like sleep had barely let go of him. He scrubbed a hand down his face, then stopped short.

  “Well,” he said slowly, eyes moving over the armour, the weapons, the bracers. “That’s new… You lot ready for training,” he asked, voice rough, “or did I miss a war?”