Most of the day goes by quickly. I’m reading dark mythos Izfael stashed away, Tess is fixing up the secret quarters—old habit, I guess—and Renesta has been carefully leaving dark slithers in the weak spots of the Seal. It’s starting to look like a design come together, but I dare not interrupt her deep concentration. Not wanting to miss the night’s sparring session, I discreetly ask Tess to keep an eye while I take a break.

  Rolling the stone chambers open and shut as quietly as possible, I head to my main quarters to strap myself with dagger and sword before meeting with the rest of the crew.

  “Not going to grab dinner leftovers, Hale?” Jurs asks, still a dab of sauce on his mouth.

  “I’m good,” I say, patting his back, noticing another golden vein developing on the corner of his eye. My worry for him still stands. He hasn’t complained about the tug of Arkitus in months—which is incredible—but I worry about the cost. Nothing comes for free, I’m learning.

  “Did everyone get the same announcement today?” I ask.

  “Call to Arms.” Layla cracks her knuckles. “Can’t fucking wait.”

  “’Course you can’t. You’re a brick house again. Can’t get any wind spells by you now.” Misty flicks a ball of swirling air her way, which she catches between her fingers and reduces to a speck.

  “I heard lineage might show up,” Rogo adds.

  “And donors.” Misty raises her eyebrows.

  “They’re going to mark us for the war-tier for sure,” Rogo says. “Hell, if we do good enough, maybe they’ll throw us merits to skip ranks. Would love to lop off some Lacor heads.”

  “You all know what this means, right?” I say, scanning everyone. “No more individual sparring sessions. Everything is team exercises now. And Tutor Carlyle will have to be our focus.”

  “He’s nuts,” Jurso says.

  “Aren’t they all, in some way?” I counter.

  “What about our plan to challenge for merits and weapons?” Layla asks.

  “In war we’re going to have to pivot quickly on our feet. We have new information, but we also have six months to train. Even though we still have much to learn, we’re all at least proficient in combat, so let’s add a leg to our requirements for earning Izfael’s items. Three battle rank activities a week logged for each. It’s a prerequisite to being approved.”

  “Fair enough, Captain. We’re not exhausted already or anything.” Jurso purses his lips.

  “Are you kidding?” Misty pushes him. “We’re going to blow the whole top off this sanctum. Me and you. Shorties unite!”

  “Ugh.” Jurs presses his hand to his chest and pumps a pulse of bliss into it. “Have to take a hit to match your energy.”

  I fight not to react. “Alright, everyone. I have to stop at the Sivus library, then we’re on our way to the arena.”

  “That’s right, bitches. Getting my revenge on all of you tonight.” Layla slaps her shield.

  “I’d like to see you try, Scar.” Rogo grips his axe. “I graduated to ister spice today. To put it plainly, you’re screwed.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. If a Proctor moved him up a dosage in spice, that means he’s managing it well. Maybe he can help Jurso control his bliss. I mean, different substances, but same issue—addiction.

  “Alright, let’s go.” I grab the mythos I left on the table and shove it into Jurso’s chest.

  “Another Elden creationist tome? Boo.” Jurso slaps it right back on my chest as we exit our quarters.

  The pledges wave us away, and one asks to follow, which I allow.

  “Hale, c’mon. What’s the point of studying this stuff? There’s one in the entire sanctum, hidden somewhere under Head Magus’ control. That’s it. We have no practical knowledge except for the ridiculous stages they create during challenges. Not one of us shows attunement for it, and we have no idea how to even test it. Just story after story in these things.” He taps the mythos.

  “When we first got here, you loved uncovering the meanings beneath folklore,” I counter.

  “Yeah, before I realized it’s all just misdirection. They’re hiding the magic from us and that’s that. They don’t want us to uncover the secrets.”

  “You give up too easy,” I say, dragging Jurso to the library while the others head to the arena. “We’ll be right there. Go get started.”

  Heading to the anti-magi corner, I swear there are cobwebs forming on the top shelves. “How’s Prominent training going?”

  “Are you kidding? Me and this other guy, Cecil, run the class. Our bliss advancement has been revered,” Jurs says, pulsing another heartbeat of bliss over his chest.

  “Hey, cool it with that,” I say as lightly as I can.

  “Not all of us have a dragon spirit to take all our problems away, Hale.”

  “It’s not all butterflies and rainbows, my friend.”

  “Uh oh. Trouble in paradise again?” Jurs touches the tip of each tome down a row. “The hell am I even looking for.”

  “I have an idea.” I gloss over Jurso’s question and pull out a tome. “I’ve been suffering sparring classes with Tutor Branice, to no avail. Spellglass is still just a pretty sword that distracts opponents at best. Then it hit me. The reflective nature of the blade probably has nothing to do with throwing my warring dark into it. We’ve let every one of the marked try it—your bliss does nothing, Misty’s elements, Rogo’s strength, Lay’s. But now I’m thinking…”

  “A branch of anti-mage is needed to activate it. Counter conjuring.” Jurso nods. “That’s a good theory. You want to test it with Lay, don’t you?”

  “Once I find something that shows I’m not wasting my time,” I say.

  “You give her that blade for free, all hell will break loose in the quarters.”

  “She almost died for it, Jurs.”

  “Still.”

  “Yeah, she’s not getting it for free.” I chuckle. “Going to have her reflect a spell, keep her in awe, then make her give up her first earned Izfael treasure for it. If she even wants it.”

  “Diabolical.”

  “Will only make us stronger. Besides, I can’t lead the charge with only my chained dagger. I need to be proficient with a sword too. Or spear. Something.”

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Why not two chained daggers, like Rhorus Con-val of old mythos?” Jurs says. “Man was an absolute legend.”

  Tingles run through my chest. Thinking of myself soaring through the air with two chain daggers, or in the midst of a battlefield warding off battalions with two enchanted weapons… it’s an exciting thought.

  “And don’t worry, I’ll keep you alive when you wind up stabbing yourself from some ostentatious move you fuck up.” Jurs laughs.

  “Gee, thanks.”

  We check out a few tomes by pressing our hands against the alt-magic wall and head toward the arena. There are a few sections in the mythos I’ve chosen about blades that have the anti-magi effects built into them. That would mean I don’t need the Barristan lineage to activate it. Maybe I would just need to know the movements. Jurso and I debate about it the whole way. Honestly, Tesstalia would be the best to test it with, but I need her to keep eyes on Ren.

  We walk into the Sivus arena and the three other circles are already cleared out, making way for the newly confident Layla Barristan taking on all the followers. The mages all want a crack at her apparently after her mid-year trials spread like wildfire. It’s a good opportunity for me to test my theory, honestly. I can study her stances in action now, comparing it against these diagrams in the anti-mage mythos.

  Jurso and I point to the same movements on the page—arrows showing the direction in which to swing the blade. To block fire, the direction is counterintuitive to the stances.

  The energy in the arena is hot tonight. It must be the Call to Arms announcement. Everyone’s intense, not only those watching Layla but the ones lining up to defeat the best.

  She stomps out two spells in quick succession, then dashes forward to grab the mage by her flamboyant robes. As she’s about to headbutt her into another tier, the mage throws her hands up in surrender.

  “What would the donors say?” Layla asks, dropping the mage to the floor—sand kicking up everywhere. “We’re going to war.” She spits on the sand beside her. “Act like it.”

  The cadets erupt as another mage is humbled.

  I’m not sure if I’m proud or worried. This place has changed everyone. Tempered bloods turned into tampered egos. Layla’s confidence slingshot in a day… Jurso’s been slowly descending into addiction, Rogo is oddly more astute, and Misty grew into her zealousness like a shot of liquor. If only I had my dragon here to coach us all into the next league.

  “We are House Sivus!” Laya shouts after throwing the next swordsman over the ledge. “We have to win the Call to Arms… we have to replace the lost presence of Drydon and Izfael. Lord Karloth depends on us!” She spreads her arms. “So who’s next?”

  Jurso pushes away from me to help the fallen warrior. I know it’s not out of the goodness of his heart though. One cure for the wounded is a hit for him. It makes me grit my teeth, but thankfully Misty pulls my attention when she steps on the ledge with two high-quality daggers drawn.

  “What’s the count from last month, Lay, ten-to-one?” Misty smirks at her, giving back a little bit of Layla’s haughtiness.

  It’s true, she bested Layla the last ten times straight before her own sort of awakening. I have a feeling that’s not how this one’s going to go though.

  “Bring it, Windy.” Layla cracks her neck.

  The other cadets bet transferable merits, but I don’t want my marked to partake. There’s no use in skipping ranks unless it’s warranted. Betting definitely doesn’t constitute any skill, only chance.

  “Misty! Misty!”

  “See the crowd? They love me.” Misty spreads her daggers to point to either side, then leisurely lets herself fall into the sandy arena.

  “Nah, I just made myself the villain tonight.” Layla cracks her neck again. “C’mon then.”

  Misty flexes her arms, sending a beat of visible wind through the edges of her blades, distorting the light, taunting her tower of an opponent.

  I narrow my eyes as she rushes Layla. She spins using her elemental high magic, letting the winds carry her, and when she leaps, Layla prepares for flower stance.

  As she raises her shield and takes a deep breath, Layla stomps out the budding tornado, but Misty’s prepared, finding a windy step to back flip out of. With two lightning-fast swings, two more tornadoes swerve to Layla’s opposite sides.

  Layla drops her shield and loosens her arms, folding them in perfect stance to deflect the first tornado.

  Boom!

  It dissipates without a hitch before she stomps again to deflect the other. The old fight arts are a spectacle, as is the complete obliteration of magic before my eyes. She is impressive. Then again, this is the longest an opponent has stood against her since.

  Misty uses the split second she has to dash head-on, twirling under Layla’s sword slash and cutting against her shin guard. It would’ve been a sure slice if not for a quick jerk of the knee.

  My throat dries when she grasps Misty’s arm. It’s like a red bear clawing an insect out of the sky. Layla swings her twice before releasing her into the air. Wham! Her back collides hard against the ledge—where she seems to stay for a long second before peeling to the floor. A cough and a smack against the sand psyches herself back up.

  “You throw like a bitch,” Misty says, and we all share a laugh, including Lay. She swipes one of her daggers from the floor and stands… only to falter back to one knee. “Good to have you back, Lay.” She winces, and holds up her dagger in surrender.

  The Sivus cadets clap.

  Jurso leaps over the ledge and drapes her arm over his shoulder in such a way that makes it seem like they’re more than friends. Maybe the rumors are true about them. Or my good man is just looking for his next bliss hit.

  I snap the tome shut and take the long way to meet them both around the far end of the circle. Slapping the ledge twice, I grab Layla’s attention. “Hey. Winner for the night faces me.”

  “Oooh!” the cadets shout.

  “Let’s see how far you can go, Lay.” I wink.

  “Dragonborn. Dragonborn!” they cheer tauntingly.

  All in good fun.

  As Layla barrels through her next opponents, I pull Jurso and Misty to the side arena circle and attempt to practice what I learned with Spellglass. Jurso heals her up so fluidly it’s like she never got rocked against the ledge at all.

  Asking Misty to send tiny wind spheres my way, I do my best to follow the diagram. Jurso’s my judge as he holds the tome open to the same spot. I know I won’t deflect it, but rather I’m looking for a feeling, some kind of sign that the blade is ready to work in my favor. Both Broggen and Layla describe their powers similarly—a connection to steel and elements. Whereas mine is all internal. The warring dark either pulses or pressurizes. My bonds are all pulled from within. Seems like if I’m to understand this third, foreign art, I’ll have to focus on something entirely different.

  Whoosh!

  Fshoo!

  Two wind spheres smack me in the face when Spellglass glides right through them. Nothing.

  “Don’t you have enough power, Hale?” Misty laughs. “You can’t be good at everything.”

  “You’re talking to the wrong man,” Jurso scoffs.

  “When I saw Broggen fight that night in the Sept chambers, I knew he’d been trained to the bone. You could taste it off his movements, his anger. There was no way he’d be bested down there. That’s what we need, up there.” I point to the ceiling. “We’re going to be fucking ready when the war-tier calls.”

  “Hell yeah, Captain. Hell yeah.” Misty holds up her fists, showcasing two uneven vortexes conjuring around them—whipping the sand into them.

  “Boeru, if you’re out there chasing your tail, know I’m going to bleed every night since I can’t rely on you.”

  I swing and swing through the wind, and swing again. Each sphere slapping me in the face feels like House Mother’s whip.

  “You’re not emulating flower stance at all, Hale,” Jurso calls, pointing at the tome. “You’ve got the motion of the blade down, but not the stance itself. Look, it says here in chapter two, anti-magi will only respond by sensation and correction of the original elements. I don’t really know what that means, but it sounds like you have to focus on the spell before you can perform the motion. Maybe that’s the trick.”

  “There’s the gods-damn kid I pulled from the pits,” I say, flipping the blade into ready stance. “C’mon, Misty, hit me again.”

  “Going to look like domestic abuse in a few more slaps.” She smirks.

  “Yeah, yeah. C’mon.” I take a deep breath and focus carefully on her movements—the way she draws energy from mere swings of her arm. It’s all twists and turns, while flower stance is careful drooping blocks. They’re nearly opposite. So that’s the correction part of the text, but the sensation is what I’m lacking. I feel nothing when the wind comes my way, only the threatened warring dark flowing around my arms.

  I exhale it all away, hoping to sense the wind before it comes. I’ve been focusing on tracing it like a projectile. That’s all wrong, isn’t it?

  The next one comes, and I try to understand the elements flying my way, how it’s different from the metal of an arrow, or the steel of a dagger. At its source, the conjuring is beyond the senses… just like the warring dark.

  I may not be attuned to anything without the dark coating it, but this blade is.

  Concentrating hard around the grip of the sword, I feel a slight weight shift when the first one comes, but it soars too fast and I flip out of the way.

  “Oh, we’re playing dodgy now?” Misty laughs maniacally. “Okay then!”

  Another sphere comes curving in my direction. My arms grow hot, but I ignore the dark.

  The blade… focus on the blade.

  Shhhh!

  A wild, blizzard-like sensation plagues both ears before the wind comes. Is this it?

  I quickly get into stance, ready to swing the blade in the prescribed motion.

  Shhhh!

  The sound twists, guiding my movements. And whoosh!

  I cut the conjuring in half, sending the two sides spinning completely horizontal—one blowing the pages of Jurso’s tome.

  “Holy!”

  “Whoa!” Jurso jumps.

  “Yeah, Dragonborn! That sword ain’t just pretty after all!”