After everything that had happened, I should’ve slept like the dead.

Instead, my rest was fitful, filled with constant tossing and turning along with uneasy dreams. I kept seeing Kerra along with flashes of some dark figure that seemed to haunt the recesses of my mind, stealing from shadow to shadow. I woke up well before sunrise and decided that if I wasn’t going to get any sleep, I might as well do something productive. I headed down to the first floor and hit the bathhouse, which was blessedly empty at this hour, save for a single bleary eye attendant who gave me a pair of towels and waved me in.

I’d learned in Ironmoor that bathhouses in this world were a privilege that only those with some serious money to spend could afford. Most people washed once or twice a month and did it in a freezing cold river or, at best, a tepid lake. Because bathhouses were so rare, they ended up being coed and the people around here were not at all shy about mixing it up with their whole ass hanging out, regardless of gender. Not that it bothered me a whole helluva lot. The Marine Corps was a sausage fest and I’d already been scarred for life. At least here there was an equally good chance of getting an eyeful of something worth looking at.

Still, bumping into Kerra would’ve been awkward. Enjoyable but awkward. Plus, after a long and shitty night of restless sleep, I appreciated the quiet.

There were several large hot spring pools, which burbled with sulphureous smelling water that melted away all of the tension in my muscles. There was also a cold, freshwater pool and several steam rooms. I hadn’t bathed properly since leaving Ironmoor in my rearview mirror, and it felt like heaven to scrub away the layers of dirt and grime that had accumulated in the weeks since. I took an experimental sniff under my arm and I didn’t want to throw up in my mouth, which was a good sign.

When you can smell your own stink, that’s when you know you have a problem.

After drying off and gearing up, I hit the attendant’s mess hall, grabbed a quick meal that consisted of runny oats and blackened sausage, then headed over to the training yard. It was an hour before sunrise, and I wanted to get some warmup exercises in before Kerra started running me through the wringer—and I was a thousand percent positive she was going to try and run me through the wringer.

That was always the way these things worked.

In Boot Camp, the first real day of training was called Black Friday, and for good reason. It was black and bleak and goddamned miserable. I could still remember Drill Instructor Screw Y’All screaming in my face, two inches from my nose, spit flying. It was a day filled with flipped racks, endless pushups, and mass chaos. The process was specifically designed to break down fresh recruits, shotgun style. The sheer chaos simulated the stress of a battlefield, teaching future Marines how to think under extreme conditions and maddening pressure.

I’d experienced an even shittier version of Black Friday when I battled my way through the Recon Indoctrination Program or RIP. The acronym was well earned. Every elite unit had its own version. Both the Seals and the Green Berets had Hell Week and though I’d never experienced either, I was sure they left you wanting to die.

This would be no different, but I would survive whatever Kerra had planned. Some of the meanest sons a bitches in the world had tried to break me more than once, and none of them had ever succeeded because I was either too stupid or too stubborn to let ’em.

When I got down to the training yard, the sky was still clouded with the slate gray of predawn. I expected things to be quiet and still, the world hitting the snooze on the alarm one more time before the day began in earnest.

I was dead wrong.

The training yards was already buzzing with activity. Younger children, clad in simple white tunics, rotated between drilling various hand-to-hand techniques and performing some brutal looking calisthenics. Weighted pushups, muscle ups, tiger bends, handstands, diamond impossible dips, balancing planche pushups, and rope climbs. They even had people hanging from suspicion rings, performing the iron cross. I’d seen some damn brutal training routines and even I had to admit it was impressive. All the more so because this just looked like a normal day, nothing out of the ordinary at all.

Meanwhile, groups of older Vigil recruits, these decked out in heavy armor, sparred with all manner of live weapons, some of which I didn’t even have names for.

Overseeing it all was Kerra, wearing simple training armor instead of the enchanted stuff she’d been sporting while out on assignment. She was talking with a stocky sparkplug of a man who was nearly as broad across the shoulders as Kerra was tall. He looked like a human cube, loaded down with more muscle than any human could ever possibly need. He had the Sigil of Justice branded against his forehead. His crimson eyes caught mine and he nodded, just a dip of the chin, before nudging Kerra and pointing her my way like an attack dog.

“I’m surprised to see you up this early,” she said as she crossed the courtyard, recruits reflexively moving out of her way. “You seem like the kind of man who enjoys drinking late and waking up even later.”

“You ain’t wrong on either account,” I replied, “but I’m also a Marine. Training at times that should be against the Geneva convention just comes with the territory. Now, unless you want to chitchat a little more, I came here to work. Could be I’m misremembering, but don’t I have about fifteen years’ worth of experience to catch up on? We’re not going to do that standing here, flappin’ our lips.”

She grunted but the barest hint of a smile flashed across her lips. “We’ll see if you feel the same way after the warmup.”

First, came a grueling physical conditioning circuit course presided over by both Kerra and the human cube, Niels—the guy the Custodians had originally wanted to oversee my training. Despite looking like he ate goddamned iron ingots for breakfast and shit out horseshoes and nails, he wasn’t at all the hardass I was expecting him to be. Instead, he was gregarious, loud, and had a helluva sense of humor. I was sure the big bastard could fold me into a human pretzel without breaking a sweat, but I was equally sure that he would laugh good-naturedly while doing it.

As the sun rose along the eastern horizon and traced its way toward its zenith, I sweat until I felt like there wasn’t a drop of moisture left in my body. It was a barrage of painful exercises, many of which I’d never heard of and a few of which seemed humanly impossible. Kerra, however, assured me that they weren’t. Just a matter of training, perseverance, and raw determination. She would wave over one of the recruits—sometimes a kid no older than eleven or twelve—and smirked in smug satisfaction as said recruit would demonstrate the exercise without so much as breathing hard.

With my enhancements in Brawn, Verve, and Finesse I could keep up, but only just barely. Which is when she really put the screws to me. She produced a pair of silver bracelets that were nearly identical to the Suppression Manacles she’d used to detain me. When I inspected them, I realized they weren’t nearly identical… they were completely identical. The only difference was they didn’t have a chain connecting the cuffs. If I put them on, however, they would drain my Arcana Pool, gut my Stamina Reserves, and slash five points from Verve, Brawn, and Finesse.

Not to mention, they would hurt like a son of a bitch.

To my mind, I’d been a remarkably good sport about wearing them before, but I wasn’t going to do it again. This time, I crossed my arms and flatly refused.

To my surprise, her smug smirk only grew wider. She slipped a pair on herself, completely unphased, and proceeded to do everything she was asking me and more. She was showboating, and honestly the whole thing was both slightly intimidating and arousing.

Lots of confusing emotions.

“Having superhuman strength and agility means nothing if you don’t have complete mastery over your body,” she explained, while climbing up a rope using only her arms. “You don’t know our ways, but none of the unmarked recruits you see here have superhuman abilities.” Once she got to the top of the rope, she used her body weight to launch herself through the air, performing a corkscrewing backflip, then landed in a crouch like a bonafide superhero.

“Though all of our recruits are the scions of Vigils past,” she said, standing and brushing off her hands, “not all scions end up as Vigils. Some inherit only a half-portion of the gifting. Increased physical abilities or inborn magickal talents. Such are the Steelborn and Sorcerers. But there is no way of telling, which will be which. At six or seven summers, those chosen by Raguel receive the crimson touch.” She tapped at the corner of one eye. “Our eyes change. Some children—bastards, in particular—don’t even know they are called of Raguel.”

There was something jaded and hard in her words, though I wasn’t sure what it meant.

“When they receive the touch,” she continued after a beat, “they are collected by Arbitrators and sent here, where they begin their training in earnest. Aside from the crimson touch, however, they are no different than other men and women.” She stretched a handout, gesturing toward the other trainees. “None of these initiates have your enhanced powers or your abilities. The Vigilant are more than just their powers. They are the weapon, our abilities only augment and enhance what is already best within us.”

“Wait, so none of these kids can do magic?” I asked.

“A few of the older ones,” she replied, “but they know only basic cantrips, commonly taught to the magi. The True Gift awakens in most prospective Vigils at sixteen or seventeen summers. Until then, they are called the unawakened. Still, they train. Learning politics, mathematics, intrigue, strategy, weapons, literature. Even the art of magic. And, of course, they hone both body and mind in preparation for the Ascension.”

“Is that when you get a brand?” I asked.

She nodded.

“What happens?” I pushed.

“No one knows,” she replied with a nonchalant shrug. “Candidates pass through the grand archways at the top of the tower and disappear. No one remembers what happens within. Some don’t pass whatever challenges lie beyond and never return. Those that do, come back marked. Sealed by Raguel with the Ward that most closely reflects their personality and calling. Valor in my case”—she touched her own brand—“Justice in yours. Now, if you’re done catching your breath, perhaps we should get back to your training?”

“Pfft, I was waiting on you,” I said, shooting her a wink. “Let’s see if you can keep up.” As much as I hated doing it, I clicked the suppression bracelets in place and took off at a sprint toward the agility course. Did I like wearing them? No. But I’d never been one to turn down a challenge, especially a difficult one.

***

The next several hours were best measured not in time, but in buckets of sweat. And holy shit did I sweat. By the time I was done, every muscle burned and ached, including muscles that I wasn’t even aware I had. Kerra had done every exercise right beside me, never pushing me to do something that she couldn’t do herself. She glistened with sweat as well but didn’t seem nearly as beat as I was. At noon, we took a short break and ate a quick meal in the shade of the grand tower of the Citadel.

Once we finished up the scant meal, Kerra ushered me away from the exercise yard and over to the weapons field, where Niels was waiting for us with a huge smile on his face. He was so goddamned plucky it was sickening, but I couldn’t be mad at him. He was just too likable.

“I’m the Citadel’s resident weapons master,” he said. “If it has a blade, a blunt face, or can be fired at range, I can kill you with it.” Delivered from anyone else, I would’ve taken it as cocky. Coming from him, with his giant cheery smile, it was just a statement of the facts. “It will be my job to teach about these weapons. Not just how to use them, which is crucial of course, but when to use them and why. There are thousands of different types of Mortka out there, some of which no one has ever laid eyes upon. Selecting the right weapon for the job can be the difference between life and death.”

“But before he can do that,” Kerra said, “we need to get a baseline assessment of your abilities and skills. As we say, the Vigil is the weapon, everything else is only an extension of that core truth. We need to figure out what kind of weapon you are before we can begin to properly hone you.”

“So, for this next lesson,” Niels said, “you and the Justiciar will spar while I observe.” He deactivated the suppression bracelets hugging my wrists and slipped them into a pouch at his side. Instantly, relief flooded through my body. My Stamina and Arcana gauge appeared, creeping back toward full, while preternatural strength surged along my limbs. “Prepare yourself for battle, honored Inkarnate.”

“I’ve been waiting for this since the Twisted Pig,” Kerra said as she thrust out a hand. A hefty silver warhammer appeared, blazing with golden runes.

I cracked my neck, rolled my shoulders to release some of the tension, then summoned my mace. “I’ll try not to hurt you,” I said with an easy smile.

“Trust me, that isn’t going to be an issue.” A malicious gleam burned in her eyes. Silvery smoke swirled around her, whisking away the training garments she’d been wearing before. In their place was her heavy silver plate mail.