Cyril drew a syringe full of black blood from Belch’s wrist. Back in Cyril’s tower—the very one Belch first had the Soulgem implanted inside her stomach—the mage wrapped her wrist in a bandage, closing off where he took the blood, careful not to touch it himself, acting like it was toxic to the touch.

“Still black,” Cyril said, looking at Aidan. Cyril sat in his large stool designed for his half-swole size while Aidan stood straight beside the bed, looking critically at the syringe Cyril held.

Meanwhile, Belch sat tired, growing nauseous whenever they took her blood. This was the first time Aidan came to this procedure directly, so Belch did her best to stay attentive to the situation.

“It’s been an entire week, Cyril,” Aidan said, continuing to grow more annoyed by the testing than even Belch was. He wore his formal attire, a gold collared vest over his neck and a dark, slick vest with silver-sleeved arms. Though he had his sword sheathed near his left leg, a diamond-shaped Soulgem fitted into the base of the crossguard. “And you can’t tell me anything of value has come out of this blood?”

“Lord Aidan,” Cyril sighed. “I can tell you that her blood is donor friendly, O-negative. But, when we tested it among the injured, it didn’t appear to have any actual healing properties.”

“It didn’t kill anyone either?” Aidan asked. “Not like how it killed Lorn?”

Cyril shook his head.

Belch yawned from the bed, her hand gripping the cloth around her wrist. This had been a change from the physical testing she endured earlier and a far more boring one too. They made her sit and donate blood for hours, getting an hour's rest before each draw. She barely had time to read anymore.

I never thought I would want to read more than I do now. Belch thought.

“So, I suppose that means the power is dependent on her,” Aidan said.

“What do you mean?” Cyril asked.

“She must have chosen to kill Lorn,” Aidan said. Belch eyed him as if he discovered something. It pertained to her, so she might as well listen, even if the information cycled through her head. “It explains why her blood acts differently without her present to the testing. She doesn’t have a motive to heal them, so why would her blood?”

“I see,” Cyril said. He snapped his fingers. “That explains why the blood killed Lorn. The knife wound must have upset her, enough so that her blood killed Lorn over it.”

“And that’s why her blood healed her hand,” Aidan said. He snatched her hand aggressively, eying her pale white skin where the knife had pierced a week prior. “Not even a scar anymore. So I can draw two conclusions, correct me if I get something wrong or inaccurate. She either commands her blood to act, or her blood acts as its own entity. Same with her body, her blood has the incentive to both heal the host and protect it.”

His grasp… Belch felt sick being held by him. Again, every time she either thought about the Dormoor lord or, let alone, interacted with him, something within her pulled her back, warning her about Aidan.

“What’s wrong, Vessel?” Aidan asked. “You look cold.”

“I’m fine…” Belch—not Vessel—said. That name, that damn name he called her, upset her deeply. She wouldn’t protest since that wouldn’t get her anywhere. Not that she could.

The lord grunted, lowering his brows as if he caught something slip from Belch’s expression. He eyed her carefully. “Oh, I get it. You must be worried. You got attacked twice in only a matter of days. I’m sure most in your position would be wary going forward.

“While we can’t point to Lorn’s motives or reasonings for why he would do such a thing, we are investigating. And, if you’re interested, the man who attempted to rob you in the alleyway—as well as his wife—were properly, publically stoned. They are with us no more, good riddance.”

The girl too? Belch stopped herself from asking.

“Justice in Dormoor is hard served,” Aidan glowered. “Anyone who risks me or my property shall face the full brunt of my power. Vessel, you’re safe so long as you are mine.”

Aidan retreated his hand, bringing it back to his side, planting it on the hilt of his sword. The pink light of his sword’s Soulgem sparked briefly when his hand connected but flickered off a half-second later.

Even now, when his touch was off of her, Belch felt something swell up inside of her. Discomfort and anxiety, but unlike the feeling poking at her from deep inside, her very own mind told her that she didn’t like Aidan.

The more she thought without the reminders of her past, and the more freedom she had to feel, the more she recognized how tired she was of belonging to anybody.

“We are getting nowhere,” the Dormoor lord said after a second. “Our testing will get a little more aggressive from here on out.”

“Aggressive?” Cyril asked. He quickly frowned. “Oh, my lord, is that a good idea? We don’t want to harm your—”

“It’s the only course of action we have, Cyril,” Aidan said. He eyed Belch, showing a hint of anger, always stern with his facial expression. However, his face wasn’t any more intimidating than an angry Corden had been, yet for one reason or another, Belch feared Aidan far more than she did her old beast tamer. “Did our order arrive?”

“From Dork?” Cyril scratched his head. “Indeed, I believe it has.”

“Good,” Aidan said. “Come, let’s get our afternoon started.”

Aidan led both Belch and Cyril to a training facility near his palace. A large white room with dark tinted windows on the wavy foam walls. After asking Cyril a question about the walls, Cyril explained the foam was there to “soundproof” the room, whatever that meant.

Inside, three men—all appearing to be Belch’s age—lined up, bowing their heads down as Lord Aidan entered the room. Their shapes and figures were familiar to Belch. But it wasn’t until they all lifted their heads that Belch finally noticed.

Six green eyes looked at her: beasts, the three of them.

“Oh, right,” Aidan stretched his arms. “I suppose it wasn’t that long since I first received you. Surely you recognize these individuals.”

Belch nodded. “Their beast names are Fists, Crack, and Dancer.”

“Hello, Belch,” Fists said. He had been one of the more muscular men at the beast camps, though his size didn’t aid him too well against Belch’s fighting style. His chin dropped like an ax chopping down on firewood, and veins formed off his neck to highlight how buff he truly was.

The three beasts wore their typical clothes at the camps, a plain black shirt and trousers around their legs.

“It’s been a while,” Crack added. His name came from a quirk he had, his voice cracking into a high-pitch at almost every other sentence. Despite his voice, he was a decent fighter, giving Belch some trouble occasionally, though rarely. He did well to open a fight with a plan but failed to develop anything at a moment’s notice.

Dancer smirked—one of the rare blonds among the beasts in Dork. Most Dorkish people had either black or brown, but Dancer was unique, both in color and skill set. Though not as strong as Fists, he wasn’t far off, and he still had a good physique when it came to evasiveness. Dancer was the hardest to fight among the three of them. Hell, even the entire camp in her final days there.

He'd the cleanest look of the male beasts as well, with no hair on the face obstructing his white skin.

They called him Dancer for what he did with his feet, moving almost as well as Belch could, but always a few steps too slow to consistently catch up with her, however. But where he lacked in speed, he caused trouble with his strength.

It didn’t matter how little Belch was faster if his punches could knock her out on impact.

All of them have cool names, Belch thought. And I am stuck with Belch…

“Beasts,” Aidan said. “You will address me as ‘Lord’ from now on. You serve me, only me. I will train the four of you to the best of my ability. There’s one thing your camp has never taught you that you’ll need to first grasp before I can use you to your full potential. Any guess as to what that is?”

Dancer raised his fist.

“You,” Aidan pointed.

“Thank you, my Lord, if I were to take a guess, that would be the weapon around your waist. Is that right?”

Aidan grabbed the hilt of his sword. “That is correct. None of you have ever held one before. And for some at your age, it would be too late to make anything of you. But, your prior training in hand-to-hand combat will transfer over, even if it’s a minor advantage.

“But,” Aidan said, walking back and forth, inspecting the men and admiring their forms. “The day we train is not today. We have other concerns to deal with right now.” His head snapped to Belch, who stood opposed to the beasts. “Your old friend here has a power unlike any other. But her power needs to be shown and tested before I may utilize it. And it’s up to you three to draw it out.”

“A power?” Fists asked, rubbing the scruffy mustache he had been growing for a year or two now. “Belch?”

“Her name is Vessel,” Aidan said firmly. “Any slips of your tongues again, and you’ll be punished. Forget your old names, they’re subject to change soon. Anyways, yes. A power. My Vessel here has black blood flowing through her veins, granted to her by a Soulgem we implanted inside her. And it’s up to you three to help me figure out what her blood does.”

The three beasts looked confused. They don’t even know what a Soulgem is, Belch thought. I didn’t know what it was until they put that large one inside me.

“So,” Aidan said. “You will take her on, one on one to start. I want to test your abilities as well as her blood. They told me she was the best Dork had to offer at the time. Well, it’s time to see if that claim was true.” Aidan spoke with fury in his eyes and a glare that intimidated the three new beasts to Dormoor, but his voice remained lukewarm.

They nodded simultaneously. Being a few weeks out of Dork, she had forgotten how formal they were to any with authority. Dancer, in particular, smiled simply by being addressed.

“You,” Aidan pointed to Fists. “You take her on first.”

Fists stood up. “It’s been a while, B—Vessel.”

Belch nodded, agreeing. “I hope you’ve improved.”

For the first time in a long time, she found herself genuinely excited. The moment couldn’t hold her grin from breaking free.

Fists sighed. They shared a bow before entering their respective stances. Belch had her dominant right foot forward, with her left foot behind. Her body turned into combat rather than standing flat against her opponent. Fists barely had a stance even to describe. He positioned his feet far apart, and his shoulders arched down from his spine like a bear.

“Begin,” Aidan ordered.

Fists approached clumsily, trying to charge his way into a victory.

She pulled her body forward off of her right foot, driving inward to punch, connecting with Fists’ lower jaw, knocking him off of his feet to the ground. Fists hurried back to his feet, dashing—

“Enough,” Aidan said.

“But, these aren’t how fights work in—”

Aidan glared at Fists. “This isn’t Dork. If you can’t land the first hit, I can’t trust you to land a decisive one. Next!”

Fists retreated, walking sluggishly back to the wall. Being beaten so easily could harm anyone’s morale.

Crack stood up, exchanging a bow with Belch.

“Oh,” Aidan said. “The rules apply differently for you three. While you lose taking one strike, you won’t win without at least drawing blood.”

What!? Belch worried, rippling like a pebble dropped in a pond by the thought.

Crack frowned, nodding. “Alright, I’m going to win this time.”

Belch returned a nod of her own. Aidan ordered the match to begin, and Crack carefully approached. He understood a hit would lose him the duel, meaning he couldn’t play too aggressively at the start. One wrong move and he would lose to a simple counter.

He attacked with his legs, sweeping for her calves. She brushed it off by lifting her foot to defend herself. He swung under, Belch dodged backward, eying his other hand, which planned on countering her counter.

So that was his opening plan, Belch grinned, catching his idea easily. Then, I’ll just use the rules to my advantage.

Belch dashed in. Crack brought his wrists to block her attack, but Belch pushed past Crack and to the left. Meeting his eyes as she brushed to his side, he tried swinging his hand like a club to catch her shifting head. But with quick fluidity of her lower body, she raised her right leg, striking Crack’s knee with her own.

The blow sent him off balance, tripping him to land face-first to the floormat, grunting and whimpering as he reached and cradled his knee.

Her move recoiled back, however. An ungodly painful spike hit her knee, and she could feel the bruising already. But it won her the duel. That was all that mattered, right?

“Damn it!” Crack grunted. He climbed back to his feet. “That was dirty.”

Belch smiled. “You know there’s no such thing.”

Crack frowned, going back to the wall.

That left Dancer. Let’s see if you’ve improved since our last bout. He was in the number two spot the last few days when Belch was still in the camps. But, the weeks without the daily combat surely caught up with her. She only fought two fights since before today in Dormoor, so fear started to build up inside her. But anxiety could be bent to her will, molded into drive instead.

They started their duel. Dancer hopped forward, always trying to keep himself slightly airborne to slip and dodge her attacks. He had seen her success and attempted to replicate it. Yet, Dancer still had his own fighting style, adopting some of her strategies, all the while blending that with others.

He threw a heavy punch, but his arms' reach was long. Long enough that Belch couldn’t counter so easily. Especially when Dancer kept his distance at all times. She tried going inside, but an incoming jab thwarted any attempt at that. He pranced left and right, making excellent movement with his feet.

Belch mimicked, following his form. Dancer grinned, bouncing forward and in, always swinging barely in reach. That distance had been his sweet spot. He knew Belch would throw herself in given any opportunity, so he fought, looking to prevent it.

Predicting his next moves, Belch moved in. As she guessed, he punched with his right hand. Belch caught his fist like how she grabbed Lorn’s knife—straight into her left palm. With a swipe of her hand, Belch didn’t punch Dancer but slapped him, smacking his cheek with a satisfying, impactful sound.

Belch laughed—unable to help herself—and jumped back. She turned to Aidan. “Does that count?”

He nodded. “So all three of you lost. Perhaps she was the best out of the camp. Especially so, since even when she should be rusty, you all failed to land even a single hit. Pathetic, the all of you.”

The door creaked open behind Lord Aidan. He turned, looking to see who entered. Pedr entered, scratching at his growing brown beard.

“Excuse me,” Pedr said on his approach. “I was told she went over here with you. I was just wondering if I’m going to be tutoring her this afternoon.”

“It appears not, Pedr,” Aidan said. “Vessel is currently conducting some tests for us. However, it’s good that you are here. I’ll allow you a full day’s pay to observe the tests with me.”

Pedr nodded. “For a full day’s pay? I’ll do anything.”

“Good,” Aidan said. He pointed at both Fists and Crack. “Now, watch as Belch takes on two attackers at once. You worked with them before. Who do you place your money on?”

“I can’t say, sir,” Pedr said. “I don’t think she ever faced two men at once.”

“Well,” Aidan said, approaching. He glared at the three of them. “We are going to find out. Position yourselves.”

They did, forming the letter “v” as both Fists and Crack approached her from a wide-angle. They looked intimidated, but Belch didn’t know if it was Aidan or her frightening them. Dancer watched from behind them with a smile. Perhaps he found victory in sitting this duel out, considering Aidan was ordering the fights from the easiest challenge to the hardest.

Dancer was always competitive, throwing tantrums here and there when things didn’t go his way.

“Begin!” Aidan commanded.

They charged, no teamwork from either of them. Fists had no desire to stand back and plot, while that seemed to be precisely the thing Crack was doing. Belch smiled, brushing past Fists to head straight for Crack. Crack froze, his plan foiled by Belch targeting him first. She figured he would come in while she engaged with Fists, so, might as well hit him before he could execute his plan.

Crack lifted his wrists, defending his head. Belch aimed lower, punching his gut, eliminating him from the fight first. He fell to the sting of pain in his stomach, looking up in embarrassment.

Behind her, she already heard rumbling. Fists charged at her, face red with anger for how she avoided him. She grinned, feinting a punch, crouching down at the last moment. Belch swung her leg as he arrived, spinning as she swiped Fists’ legs from under him, sending him flying across the matted floor.

Aidan grimaced. “Useless, the two of you…” he said. “Well, I guess that means they were right about you. You are the best they had to offer. So be it. Your next opponent will be me.”

“You?” Belch asked. Her heart sunk a little lower.

“That’s right,” Aidan said, cracking the muscles on his fists, rolling his shoulders to amp himself up. “Now, I don’t want you holding back. Because I won’t.”

Belch grinned deviously to Cyril’s horror. A moment in when she could stand up for herself? She thought that before, she passed that mark for the last time, that she couldn’t ascend to a higher level than where she had been before. She climbed the ladder that was the beast hierarchy, and now she could do it again? Against a man who is considered the strongest warrior in the country?

The door burst open from behind him. Aidan sighed, looking behind himself to find Kiba rushing in with a loss of breath, hands on his knees as he bent forward, exhausted.

“Am I in time?” Kiba asked, head lifting up. “I heard Vessel was fighting. Is it still going on?”

“Damnation, Kiba!” Cyril groaned. “You’re interrupting Lord Aidan!”

“Huh?” Kiba asked, walking with high steps up to Cyril and Pedr. Kiba turned to his right, first glancing at Aidan before turning to Pedr. “Why do you look so sheepish?”

Sheepish? Belch wondered. What does that even mean? He doesn’t look like a sheep at all…

Pedr looked unwell, if anything, almost sick. No, he was worried. For Belch? Why? She was unstoppable.

“Lord Aidan is going to spar with Vessel,” Cyril explained. “He is aiming to draw blood from her.”

“He’s what?” Pedr raised his voice. Aidan turned to view him critically. The slightest smile formed on the Dormoor Lord’s lips for a brief second.

“It’s a part of the testing process,” Aidan said. “Don’t worry; I’m not putting her in any real danger. In fact, with her blood, if anything, I’m the one in trouble here.”

Pedr tensed but nodded.

“Oh, man!” Kiba laughed. He grabbed Cyril’s shoulder. “This is just too good, don’t you think, old friend?”

“I’m not your friend,” Cyril said, waving Kiba’s hand off of his shoulder.

“Well, at least I got the old part right,” Kiba giggled before retreating a little to the left.

“Ignore them,” Aidan said. “Are you ready?”

Belch nodded.

“Begin,” Aidan said.

He approached without a stance. Weak in both form and posture. Belch crept up slowly, wondering if the Dormoor Lord planned something. If he did, his face didn’t give it away; cold and hard as a rock.

Belch decided to attack first, calculating from her duels in the past against those without proper footwork. She dashed. As soon as she saw the slightest glimpse of Aidan’s arms moving, she slid down, anchoring her hand to stop her pushing momentum, kicking for the chest.

Aidan slapped her leg away, barely missing the grab that would have spelled trouble for her.

She rolled back to her feet as Aidan slowly walked over to her. He stared dauntingly, rubbing his fingers inside of his palms.

“You have much to learn about the world, young Vessel,” Aidan said. “Such as experience. You lack it. But that’s what I offer. With my guidance, you will become unstoppable.”

Belch moved in, figuring Aidan was trying to drive her into the foam wall. She aimed a punch toward his chest, but he swiped that away effortlessly. Again, she threw a fist, but this time Aidan caught it. Her fingers jammed into his palm, the lord’s grip squeezed a squeal out of Belch as his hand constricted hers, tightening up painfully.

“Now,” Aidan said, winding his fist back. “Give me some of your blood!”

Belch tried ducking, but the fist homed directly into her face, right above the nose. She saw stars before the ceiling lights, followed by her feet above her head. She crashed into the ground. Now Belch was whimpering on the floor. She looked up, a blurred vision of Aidan above her. His fist and face connected to strands of her blood.

She reached under her nose, realizing that her nose was leaking a puddle of blood flooding her hands.

“The hell,” Aidan said. His hand was actively pulling to his face from the strands.

This is your chance, something called to her. Somewhere deep inside, she heard a voice. A voice that didn’t belong to her but to somebody else. Kill him! Kill him now! They can’t blame you if he pulls a stunt like this! Kill him!

“Stop this, Vessel!” Aidan commanded. The blood seemed to pull from both ends, strong enough that no matter how hard Aidan pushed his fist away, it didn’t budge.

She realized right then what her blood was doing. It wanted to bring the higher source of blood over and to Aidan’s face so it could strangle him like it had Lorn.

“I’m trying!” Belch lied. She pointed to the blood. “Stop it! Blood! Stop it!”

Her acting seemed convincing, at least to her. Aidan drew a short breath.

“Lord Aidan!” Cyril panicked first. He brought over a scalpel, trying to sever the strands. However, the blood was thick and seemingly impenetrable, as the scalpel failed to get even a millimeter inside. The blood tightened together, ignoring Cyril’s interference, bringing Aidan closer to a suffocating death.

“Enough of this!” Aidan grunted. He reached around his waist, pulling out his Soulsmithed sword. The blade started to burst into a bizarre rage of sparks as the sword began to violently shock bolts of electricity. Pink mist rose from the Soulgem inside the hilt, trailing around as he moved his sword.

If he approaches you, run, the voice said.

But Aidan didn’t move toward her. He instead aimed his sword at Pedr.

Pedr lifted his hands up to surrender. But Aidan kept pushing at him with the tip of his sword, driving him back. Lord Aidan’s left hand now an inch away from his face, drawing him closer and closer to the same fate as Lorn. The blood from his hand was already boarding over, the tiny strands turning to a singular large one. Aidan’s sword pinned Pedr to the wall.

“If you don’t stop your blood,” Aidan said. He hardly looked worried. He looked to be accepting of his fate, even if Belch couldn’t stop her blood from acting. “Then I’ll kill this swole!”

Push on! Don’t blow this opportunity, you stupid human! The voice, it yelled from within, faint.

Aidan sighed before pushing his sword slightly forward—

“NO!” Belch shouted, a few tears slipped from her eyes. Her blood on Aidan’s face shook like a wave. A moment later—as if the blood hesitated—it turned from an adhesive substance into a plain water-like liquid, dripping to the floor and freeing Aidan.

“Interesting,” Aidan said. His sword stopped its sparking as he pulled away from Pedr. The Soulgem in the hilt still glowed with a blurry mist still coming from the Gem. He sheathed the blade, seeming utterly unphased by the fact he faced death by the very power he had given her.

Pedr collapsed to the floor, digging his hands into his face. Belch had ordered his blood to stop, despite the voices telling her to let him die.

Aidan frowned, looking at Belch. “So, either you control your blood, or it has a mind of its own,” he said. The Dormoor Lord approached her, grabbing her shoulder with a tight, forceful grip. “Either way, one of you wants me dead, it seems.”