I turned to the cat.“A detour,” I echoed, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. “Right. Just a little scenic route that happens to include interdimensional tyrants and cosmic jewelry. Standard Tuesday in Eldoria, I guess.”

  My legs felt like over-boiled noodles as we made our way back towards the faint orange glow of our campfire. The forest, which had seemed merely ancient and imposing minutes before, now felt thin, like a veil stretched over something far older and more incomprehensible. Every shadow seemed to stretch a little too long, every rustle of leaves sounded like a whispered secret I wasn’t meant to hear.

  Bartholomew trotted beside me, his usual deliberate pace now brisk with a nervous energy I’d never seen from him. “Do not make light of this, Mistress Paige. The implications are staggering. For generations, the Orders of the Veil have operated under the assumption that the Shadow Lord was a terrestrial anomaly—a being of immense power born from the darkest recesses of Eldoria’s own magical strata. A cancer, to be sure, but one grown from our own flesh.”“And now?” I prompted, kicking a root that had the audacity to try and trip me.“Now,” he said, his voice dropping to a near hiss, “we must consider the possibility that he is not the cancer, but merely the symptom. A focal point for a malignancy that originates elsewhere.” He shuddered, a full-body ripple that went through his silver fur. “This explains his resilience, his seemingly inexhaustible supply of power. He is not merely drawing upon the magic of this world; he is siphoning it from another.”“Great. So we’re not just fighting a Dark Lord, we’re fighting his sugar daddy from another dimension, too. That’s just… fantastic.” Sarcasm was my only shield, and I was holding it up like it was made of solid steel. Inside, I was pretty sure it was closer to wet cardboard. The images from the vision were still seared onto the back of my eyelids: the woman’s desperate, ethereal face; the cold, calculating geometry of the amulet.

  We broke through the last line of trees into our small clearing. The scene was almost painfully normal. Ser Kaelen was hunkered by the fire, a whetstone in one hand and my thoroughly unimpressive, rust-pocked short sword in the other. The scrape of stone on steel was a steady, rhythmic sound, a counterpoint to the frantic thumping of my own heart. He hadn’t noticed our return yet; his brow furrowed in concentration as he worked a particularly stubborn patch of corrosion near the hilt. The sickly light of the valley danced across the sharp planes of his face and glinted off the polished silver gryphon on his pauldron.

  He must have felt our presence because he looked up, and his work stilled. His gaze went from me to Bartholomew and back again. A warrior’s intuition is a hell of a thing; he knew instantly that something was wrong.“What is it?” he asked, his voice low and steady. He set the sword and whetstone down carefully. “Your face is ashen, Paige. Are you wounded?”

  I opened my mouth, but only a dry croak came out. Bartholomew, bless his furry, pretentious hide, stepped forward.“The Mistress is unharmed, Ser Kaelen. Physically, at the very least. However, we have made a discovery of profound and dire consequence.”I finally found my voice. “Darth Shadow is siphoning power from other worlds.”

  Kaelen was on his feet in an instant, his hand instinctively going to the pommel of his own blade. “The shimmer showed you something? But the Warden said it was just restless magic.”“And so I believed!” the cat retorted, his tail lashing. “An error in judgment I shall not soon repeat. Mistress Paige’s… unique connection to the ambient magic of this world seems to have awakened something.”

  I took a deep breath, forcing myself to meet Kaelen’s intense gray eyes. “There was a woman. An echo, or a spirit, or something. She showed me things. She told me the Shadow Lord has a power source that isn’t from Eldoria. And he’s using an amulet as a… a conduit. To pull the power through.”

  The clearing was silent for a long moment, the only sounds the crackle of the fire and the distant hoot of an owl. Kaelen’s expression was hard to read. It wasn’t disbelief, but a sort of grim, weary acceptance, as if I’d just confirmed his deepest, unspoken fears.“An amulet,” he said, the words heavy. He ran a hand over his short-cropped dark hair. “All the legends, all the histories, they speak of his armor, his blade, his fortress. But an amulet… that is new. It is a target. A tangible weakness.” He looked at me, and for the first time, I felt like he wasn’t seeing a lost girl from another world, but an unexpected asset. “You did well, Paige.”

  The simple praise hit me harder than any of the magic had. It made this real. I wasn’t just a spectator anymore. I sank down onto a log near the fire, suddenly exhausted. “Yeah, well, I’d prefer my magic exposure to be limited to card tricks and Disney movies, but here we are.” I rubbed my temples, trying to ward off the migraine I could feel brewing. “If I’m going to have my brain hijacked by ancient magical voicemails, I think I need to understand what’s actually happening. Bartholomew, you said magic here isn’t like… ordering a pizza. You said it’s a request.”

  Bartholomew sat primly, tucking his paws beneath him. “A salient and timely inquiry, Mistress. Indeed. Novices and brutish warlocks imagine magic to be an act of will, of bending reality to their desires through sheer force. They are fools. They burn brightly and quickly, but they eventually extinguish themselves, for the universe does not appreciate being manhandled.”

  Kaelen picked up my sword again, but this time he began polishing the blade with an oilcloth, his movements slow and deliberate as he listened.“True magic,” Bartholomew continued, his voice taking on the sonorous tone of a lecturer, “is not a demand. It is a conversation. A negotiation. You do not command the flame to appear; you ask the air for its heat, the wood for its light, and your own energy as the spark of introduction. You are making a polite, yet firm, request of the fundamental forces of existence.”“So my comms degree might actually be useful for something other than arguing with trolls on the internet?” I quipped, though the idea was actually taking root. A conversation. That made a strange kind of sense.“Precisely,” he purred, looking pleased. “The spell I taught you is a simple request for light. It is weak because your plea is timid. You speak the words, but you do not truly engage in the conversation. You must feel the potential for light that already exists in the space around you, coax it, persuade it to coalesce for you. To strengthen a spell is not to shout louder, but to argue your case more eloquently.”

  I stared at my hands. Could I do that? Could I persuade reality?“Try,” Bartholomew urged gently. “Do not focus on the grand vision you just witnessed. That was a connection made for you by a power far beyond your current comprehension. Focus on the small. The immediate. The log beside you. It holds the memory of sunlight from a thousand summer days. Ask it to share a little of that warmth with your hand.”

  I felt Kaelen’s eyes on me, but his gaze wasn’t judgmental. It was patient. Curious. It gave me a sliver of confidence.

  Closing my eyes, I rested my palm on the rough bark of the log. It was cool, slightly damp. Okay, Paige. Negotiation time. Hello, log. Nice grain you’ve got there. Listen, I know it’s nighttime and all, but my hands are a little cold. You’ve got years of sunshine packed away in there. How about you lend me a tiny bit? Just a flicker. I focused, trying to feel what Bartholomew had described—not forcing it, but extending a feeler, a question.

  At first, nothing. Then, a faint tingling under my palm. It wasn’t heat, not exactly. It was more like the idea of heat. A phantom warmth that seemed to rise from the wood’s core. It wasn’t much, but it was there. My eyes flew open.“I felt something,” I whispered, amazed.“A promising start,” Bartholomew conceded. “The first whisper in a lifelong dialogue.”

  Kaelen stopped his polishing. He held up my sword. The firelight played across a blade that was no longer rusted and dull, but clean and sharp, its edge gleaming with deadly potential. He had taken something bordering on useless and, through patient work and skill, made it a weapon again.“Discipline,” Kaelen said, his voice quiet but clear. “Whether it is steel or magic, strength comes from discipline and understanding the nature of your tool.” He offered the hilt to me.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  I took it. He had rewrapped the grip with braided leather cord that felt solid and real in my hand, a welcome contrast to the ephemeral warmth I’d just coaxed from the log. My own weapon. My own burgeoning power. The path ahead was terrifying, shadowed by a lord of impossible power and his extradimensional patron, but we had a target. The amulet.

  And I, apparently, was learning how to talk a good game.

  Now I just had to learn how to back it up. With more than a party trick involving lukewarm firewood.“Right,” I said, trying to sound breezy and competent. I gave the sword a tentative swing. It was heavier than it looked, the weight pulling at my unaccustomed shoulder muscles. “You have no idea how to use that do you?” Kaelen half smiled, clearly trying not to laugh.“Sure, I do. I saw Lord of the Rings. Once.”I offered, my confidence falling off violently as I spoke.” Bartholomew stopped grooming his whiskers to stare at me, “Okay, fine, so I fell asleep half an hour in. That movie is sooo looong.”“Would you like me to teach you some things?”“Please do. Anything would be superior to her drunken flailing.” Bartholomew chimed in before I could respond.

  Ser Kaelen stood and pulled a standard arming sword from his saddle, which rested over a nearby log. It was shorter than his greatsword, which he had laid aside, with a one-handed grip.“Okay, great. I guess it’s level-up time. Are we doing a training montage, or do you just whack me with a stick until I learn to block?”

  Kaelen’s lips quirked, a rare crack in his stoic facade. “Something in between.” He drew his own sword, which seemed a natural extension of his arm. It hummed almost silently as it cut through the air. Mine sounded more like a shovel cleaving a particularly stubborn clod of dirt. “We begin with the basics. Stance. Grip. Balance.”

  From his perch on a mossy boulder, a fluffy, grey loaf of condescension, Bartholomew let out a delicate yawn.“Oh, bliss. The rudimentary ballet of pointy objects. Do try not to impale yourself on the scenery, madam. It would be a frightfully pedestrian way to expire.”“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Furball,” I muttered, trying to mirror Kaelen’s posture. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent, body angled. It felt less like a warrior’s stance and more like I was about to attempt a very ambitious snowboard trick and fail spectacularly.“Your shoulders are tense,” Kaelen corrected, his voice calm. He tapped my shoulder lightly with the flat of his blade. The cold steel was a startling shock against the worn leather. “Relax. Breathe. The power does not come from your arms. It comes from your core, from the ground up.”

  “My shifts in the Medieval Times gift shop did not prepare me for this,” I grumbled, trying to loosen my death grip on the hilt. “Our core model was leveraging the wallets of drunken nerds.”He didn’t understand the reference, of course, but he understood the tension. “Forget your old world. Here, your body is your first and most important asset. Its primary purpose is to stay alive.” He raised his sword. “Now. I will attack slowly. Your only goal is to block. Do not try to strike back. Just defend.”

  He moved with a liquid grace that was both beautiful and deeply intimidating. His blade drifted towards me, seemingly in slow motion, yet I still felt a surge of panic. I jerked my sword up, a clumsy, two-handed heave, and managed to intercept his. The clang of steel on steel was louder and more jarring than I’d expected, a raw, tooth-rattling vibration that shot up my arms.“Adequate,” Kaelen said, though his expression suggested it was the bare minimum, “But clumsy.” He withdrew and came at me again, this time from the other side.

  I blocked again. And again. My movements were clunky, all sharp, panicked angles against his smooth, flowing arcs. I was using brute strength, throwing my entire body into each block, and my muscles were already starting to scream in protest.“One observes,” Bartholomew piped up, grooming a paw with meticulous disinterest, “the distinctive martial grace of a flailing carp. Truly, a spectacle of uncoordinated desperation.”“Shut up, Bartholomew!” I gritted out, stumbling back as Kaelen’s next strike came a little faster, forcing me to parry with a clumsy lurch that nearly sent me sprawling.“He is not wrong,” Kaelen said, not unkindly. “You fight the sword. You fight my blade. You are trying to overpower steel with muscle. You will lose every time.” He stepped back, lowering his weapon. “You are thinking too much.”“I’m thinking about not getting a new, sword-shaped piercing!” I shot back, panting. My hair was sticking to my forehead, and I could feel a blister forming on my thumb.“When you warmed the log,” he said, his gaze intent, “did you think about the principles of combustion? Or did you simply… ask?”I blinked. “I mean… I mostly just whined at it until it got embarrassed and gave me what I wanted.”A flicker of something—amusement? exasperation?—crossed his face. “You reached for a feeling, an intent. You connected with it. A sword is no different. It is not just a sharpened bar of metal. It is a conduit. Feel its balance. Feel how it wants to move. Let it guide you as much as you guide it.”My brow furrowed. “Are you telling me to commune with my sword? Should I ask it about its day? Find out its hopes and dreams?”“The maiden’s wit is as sharp as her bladework is dull,” Bartholomew declared to the night sky. “A tragic imbalance.”Kaelen ignored him. “A craftsman knows his tools as well as he knows himself. Your blade is just that, a tool. Try again. Do not think. Just feel.”

  He came at me again, faster this time. The sunlight glinted off his blade as it sliced towards my ribs. Panic flared, and my old, clumsy habits took over. I swung my sword like a baseball bat, a desperate, lunging block that was all arm strength and fear.

  He didn’t even bother to meet my blade. With a deft twist of his wrist, he deflected my sword downwards, used the momentum to hook his own blade around mine, and with a simple, effortless tug, wrenched it from my grasp. It flew from my hands and landed in the dirt with a soft thump. I stood there, empty-handed and gasping, my heart hammering against my ribs.

  Silence descended, broken only by the crackle of the fire. I stared at my sword lying in the dirt, then at Kaelen’s impassive face. The humiliation was a hot flush that crept up my neck.

  And then, Bartholomew began the feline equivalent of a slow clap. A single, sarcastic paw tapping against his perch.“Bravo,” the cat intoned. “A masterful demonstration of disarmament via incompetence. The Shadow Lord’s forces will surely tremble. They might trip over her discarded weapon in their haste to conquer the land.”

  That was it. The frustration, the aching muscles, the sheer absurdity of my life, all of it boiled over. It wasn’t just Kaelen’s impossible skill or Bartholomew’s soul-flaying commentary. It was the feeling of being utterly, hopelessly useless. I’d talked a good game, and in five minutes, I’d been reduced to a disarmed fool.“Fine,” I snapped, snatching the sword from the ground. Dirt clung to the newly sharpened steel. “Fine. No thinking. You want feeling? I’m feeling pretty pissed off right now. Let’s use that.”

  I fell back into the stance, but this time it was different. I let the anger settle in my gut, a hot, solid knot. I channeled it down my legs, into the earth. I let it flow up my spine, into my shoulders, and down my arms. I wasn’t trying to build a wall against Kaelen’s attack anymore. I was just… there. A conduit, like he said. A very angry, very sarcastic conduit.“Again.” Kaelen raised his sword.

  He moved, and this time, I didn’t see his attack as a threat. I saw it as a line, a path of energy moving through the space between us. I didn’t think about where to put my sword. My body just responded. I moved my feet, turning with his blow instead of meeting it head-on. My blade came up, not to crash against his, but to meet it, to guide it.

  The sound was different. Not a jarring clang, but a singing shiiiing of steel sliding against steel. His blade slid past me, its force deflected. The maneuver left him slightly off-balance for a fraction of a second. It was a tiny opening, a momentary weakness.

  And my body knew what to do.

  Before my brain could catch up and start overthinking, my sword was moving. It wasn’t a wild swing. It was a short, sharp, economical thrust, aimed not to kill but to score a point. The tip of my blade stopped barely an inch from the silver gryphon etched on his breastplate.

  The world held its breath.

  Kaelen froze, his eyes wide with genuine surprise. He looked down at the point of my sword, then back up at my face.

  I stood there, chest heaving, the anger draining away to be replaced by a thrumming, electric shock of pure adrenaline. “How was that?” I gasped.

  He slowly lowered his sword. A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, transforming his severe features into something handsome and unguarded. “That,” he said, his voice laced with approval, “is a start.”

  Bartholomew, for the first time all night, was completely silent. He simply sat on his rock, tail twitching, watching me with eyes that gleamed like emeralds in the firelight, as if he were seeing something new. As if, just maybe, the flailing carp was starting to learn how to swim.“Again.” Ser Kaelen said, moving back into a defensive posture.